Nothing much is happening. A woman is reading. Another is sitting at home. Someone is standing quietly in a room, lost in thought. There are no dramatic gestures, no obvious stories unfolding. Just small, private moments that might otherwise pass unnoticed.

And yet, something is happening. 

I am interested in that space between what we can see and what we cannot. These women have no faces, so there is no fixed expression to tell us how they feel. Their stories remain deliberately incomplete. What we see instead are fragments: a posture, a gesture, the fall of fabric, a room, a book held open in the hands.

Clothing has always interested me for this reason. It can change how we feel in our own skin. It can protect us, reveal us, hide us, or allow us to become someone slightly different for a while. The way it sits on the body can say something long before we find the words for it.

The women reading are perhaps the clearest expression of this idea. Reading is such an ordinary act, but it creates a private world that nobody else can enter. You can sit beside someone with a book and have no idea where their thoughts have taken them.

I don't want to decide what is happening inside these women.Perhaps she is happy. Perhaps she is tired. Perhaps she is thinking about yesterday, tomorrow, or absolutely nothing at all.

The same painting can feel different depending on the person looking at it, and even depending on the day they meet it. That is something I value deeply. I want the paintings to leave room for recognition rather than instruction.

This collection is being shown alongside the release of Notes To Self, my first artist's book. The two came together naturally, both concerned with the quieter parts of life: the things we notice, remember, think about, and rarely say out loud.

But these paintings ask for less.

Nothing much is happening.

And yet, perhaps, this is where much of life actually happens.