Silence isn’t where I begin – it’s what emerges. My work moves between chaos and calm, between noise and stillness. The early layers are untethered, restless, full of energy. Then comes the quiet, not by erasing but by layering, washing out, obscuring.
What’s left is a kind of stillness – but not an empty one.
My silence isn’t passive – it’s charged, deliberate.
It has presence.
The silence of Iceland, the silence of West Wales, the silence in my studio all carries its own weight, its own rhythm.
I start my paintings in a kind of storm of energy. The first marks are wild, raw, unanchored. The surface is restless, unpredictable. Then comes the slow shift, the pulling back, the layering, the refining.
Sometimes I add weight, sometimes I strip everything down. The energy of the beginning never fully disappears. It lingers beneath the surface.
Silence, after all, is never truly silent. It holds everything that came before.
I think about that when I paint.
The power of what isn’t said.
The weight of restraint.