Studio

There was a time when the only surfaces that mattered were walls I shouldn’t touch. Underpasses, tube stations, railway sidings at three in the morning — spaces that belonged to no one, or perhaps to everyone, depending on how you looked at it. The city was the studio. Noise, urgency, adrenaline. You worked fast, you worked in the dark, and the scale of everything around you was part of the work itself.

I hadn't planned what came next.

At a certain point, the urgency shifted inwards. The line slowed. The marks became more conscious, more mine — less about occupying space and more about understanding it. And, almost without realising it, the city too faded away.

I now live on the shore of a lake, where the morning light is almost unreasonably peaceful, and on certain days the only sound is that of the water.

I wouldn't have believed it if you'd told me.

The study is where these two lives coexist. It's a small space, and it is entirely mine – no one enters it the way I do, bringing what I bring.

On the surface, it might seem like a room with tools, paper, and unfinished work. But it contains much more. It holds the muscle memory of walls painted at night, the smell of ink drying slowly in silence, a decade of decisions about what a line can mean. Every object in here has a story that I don't need to explain to anyone, because usually I am alone – and that's precisely the point.

Solitude here is not an absence. It is the condition that makes work possible.

In this slideshow, there are some fragments of that space — details, process shots and sparse images, the kind of images that explain nothing but perhaps let you in in your own way.