I work in clay because it's grounding. It has weight, texture, resistance—and it remembers every touch. That honesty is something I respect. I’m drawn to the natural world for the same reason. It doesn’t pretend. It just is.

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I have ASD, and I experience the world with a kind of intensity that doesn’t fade with time. It means I notice the things others walk past—tiny shifts in pattern, the way shadows move, the sound of stillness. People often assume that those of us with ASD don’t feel deeply or express emotion well. I’d argue it’s the opposite. Emotion runs loudly in me - art gives me a way to express it, speaking in ways beyond words. I notice and feel everything - like the spiral logic of a snail shell, the delicate network of fungi threading through soil—these are the moments that hold my attention. They’re small, but they have presence. That’s what I truly appreciate: a quiet intensity, something that lingers in the mind like a half-remembered dream or a mind boggling piece of science.

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The aesthetic I capture I do relies on timing. The clay has to be just right - and I only have a short window — too wet and it won’t hold detail, too dry and it shatters. I only get one shot at the surface work before it sets for good. Everything’s done freehand, in the moment. No tracing, no second chances. It takes patience, commitment, and total focus.

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Euphotic came from a fascination with the zone where light still reaches—just below the surface, where life is visible but a little distorted, soft around the edges. It’s where clarity meets mystery. That space feels familiar to me: sensing the world intensely, but always slightly out of sync with it. The pieces in Euphotic are glazed like wet stones and rainbows, like underwater leaves—echoes of what light touches, then leaves behind. It’s not about realism. It’s about what light feelslike. Sometimes it’s playful. Sometimes it’s gentle. Sometimes it’s gone before you even realise it was there. That’s the kind of beauty I try to hold onto.

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There’s a strong urge in the ceramic world to perfect, to smooth out. I’d rather follow the organic curves of the perfectly imperfect natural world. I want my work to feel alive, like it’s still changing, still becoming. Because that’s what I’m doing too.

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I hope when you see my work you something, feel something. A giggle. A flicker of joy. An appreciation of colour. A love of form. Even just a moment to pause.

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This work is built in quiet moments—a rare and precious thing these days.

 

And maybe that’s why it matters.

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