If there’s anything I’d hope for, it’s a familiarity, I guess: an emotional pull. But it’s hard to say, because one thing I enjoy most about how people engage with my work is how differently they’re affected by it. Sometimes it’s an unease; sometimes it’s an intuitive reflection of themselves that invites them to spend time with the piece. For others, it’s a trippy sort of feeling that leaves them confused or inquisitive about why I paint the way I do. The tension is as valuable to me as a warm reception. It takes me back to the process and the desire to capture the obscurity in some experiences.

I didn’t realise it at the time, but studying architecture was quite an unnatural way for me to think about creating. It was very much based in logic and structure, and that took the heart and the feel out of creating for me. But I was really lucky in my final year of my master's to have a couple of tutors, Dan Wilkinson & Ifi Liangi, who are also artists and have an affinity for whimsical, playful and often impractical design. They encouraged us to build our own projects through heavy research into something dear to us and pretty much gave us free rein. This was the year I started studying ancient Guyanese cultural art, working with embroidery on canvas and thinking abstractly about how the past informs the present. I painted & embroidered my final drawings that year.

What I still take from that year is a deep respect for the research behind every design, how meaning can emerge from the careful extraction of details, and the way entire worlds can be built at the intersection of cultural memory, mythology, and the present. It taught me that painting isn’t just about composition - it’s about constructing lived, layered experiences that feel both personal and shared.

I didn’t go to art school, so I can’t speak on that experience, but I learned a lot about symbolism in form.

It is an undoing, I guess - of clarity, sureness, of it being real.

It's probably that meme of the guy digging for gold and turning back right before he finds it. It feels like the lack of trust that addiction feeds on.

The difference is subtle to me on opening nights because I’m usually too caught up in conversation to observe. PVs, no matter the location, are filled with people who love art as much as you do and just want to chat. It takes a lot of pressure off for me and makes the night more about the art community, which I like.

For the rest of the exhibition, institutional spaces feel more formal and, obviously, grander. There’s distance to the work; sometimes it doesn’t feel like mine, but there’s still a lot of pride in seeing my work there. In smaller spaces, everything feels a bit more approachable, a bit less fragile. Neither is better; they just invite different kinds of attention.

It's probably Zitany Neil, an incredible Congolese musician I’ve been obsessed with for years. He makes the most vibrant, energetic soukous — to me, it feels like the origin of music. I owe countless great studio sessions to his EP, Marcory Gasoil. It’s my absolute favourite music to paint to. I even had a surgeon play it while putting me to sleep once.

If we collaborated, I imagine a stop-motion animation with a soundscape created by him. Though we’re from completely different cultures, I think our worlds would mesh beautifully.

Honestly? Do you. Every day, as fully as you can.

Representation matters for the viewer, but carrying that label of ‘representing’ a community can become counterproductive for an artist. To represent often means to generalise, and that comes with limitations. It implies one collective identity, but in reality we’re all shaped by difference.

As artists, it’s usually that difference in how we think and see that gives the work meaning in the first place, and likely why people mess with it. If you’re always trying to represent others, it becomes harder to represent yourself.

If you’re ever in a position where your work is seen as ‘representative,’ it’s usually because it’s already touching people in a genuine way. I’d say keep your focus there—on honesty and making the work as true to you as possible.

How can this glorify God? How can I be His servant and do His Word justice despite my own agendas? The Bible says that we should use whatever gifts we have received to serve others as stewards of His grace. And though it’s so easy for me to be lured by popular culture, my main goal is to gain His favour rather than favour from others. I hope my work on this earth makes Him proud.

That I’ve shown at? Saatchi Gallery. In general, I love so many for different reasons. The Whitney Museum is so beautiful and has an incredible collection. Cob Gallery is also so cool. I loved their old space in Camden, and I adore their curation. Studio/Chapple has the best opening nights; the whole community comes out, and Louis, the owner, will often DJ.

A little retro wooden block game from Vinted; I'm going to paint over it soon. I spend ages searching for quirky little found objects to paint on.

The Holy Bible.

City of God — outstanding cinematography. Apocalypto is my guilty pleasure; I couldn't tell you why, but I think it's one of the best movies ever made.

New York.