My artistic practice is a collaboration between my intention and the material itself, a synthesis of the unexpected and the curated.
 
The material always comes first. I begin by understanding what it is and where it came from. A particular clay, used for ‘It Falls’ (2025) originated in a quarry outside Barcelona and reached me via the north of England. Knowing this connected it to the key themes of Trace — its story, its journey, its memory. I asked myself what histories it might hold, what parts of the past it might reveal, and how it feels now, here in my London studio, after all that travel. Is it going to listen to me? When my intervention with it is complete, will it sustain itself on its next journey — and is that journey part of the work? At this moment, I don’t know.
 
My process begins with rituals of understanding. I study the origins of the material, feel it, warm it gently, and allow it to respond instinctively to my hands. There’s a conversation that takes place — I tell it my intentions but listen closely to what it tells me back. When I first encountered this dark volcanic clay, it felt angry. It was tough, it devoured plastic, it refused the potter’s wheel. It scratched my skin and pushed against my control. But over time it calmed, and eventually, it trusted me — though always with limits. That fragile understanding between us became part of the work.
 
The inspiration for 'It Falls' came during a long, torrential spell of rain in Córdoba, Andalusia. From a small apartment, I watched the ancient rooftops of the city and began to think about roof tiles — those quiet, patient protectors that sit side by side for centuries, sheltering us from the elements. Their connectedness struck me: each tile working tirelessly as part of a community, shaped by human hands from the earth itself, fired, and set in place. Their strength lies in numbers; their fragility, in isolation. As the rain continued hour after hour, I found myself reflecting on their quiet endurance. That sense of collective resilience — and the vulnerability that follows when one piece falls — became the emotional core of this work.
 
Clay, too, carries this duality: strength and fragility, endurance and decay. It’s a raw material, heavy with the history of the planet and the cosmos. In It Falls, I felt no need for decoration. My role was simply to listen, to understand its potential and its limits. At first, the clay seemed tired, almost groggy with its high grog content, reluctant to be shaped. It didn’t want to be thrown on the wheel, so I adapted, finding ways for it to respond to my touch instead. Slowly, it grew into the forms you see today.
 
Memory is embedded in every surface of the work. My memories of those Córdoba rooftops form the DNA of the piece, and my own physical presence is locked within it — my spit, my sweat, my skin. My handprints are visible; the making is not disguised. The memory of my time with that clay is visually evident and buried deep within, inseparable from the material itself.
 
The work is spiritual, poetic, and political — though political first. The idea of community, of working and fighting together, is a political act. It’s not what our governments encourage. Disconnection and compliance are easier to control. But to stand together, to find unity, to converse — that’s resistance. And yet, we live in a paradox where social media connects us endlessly, while in reality we remain divided. The work sits in that tension.
 
My influences are artists who blur the lines between presence and absence, matter and meaning: Joseph Beuys, Richard Serra, Wim Wenders, Rachel Whiteread, Gregor Schneider, and Wolfgang Tillmans. Like them, I want to create something that speaks quietly but persistently — that asks people to look again at the simple things around them. A cardboard box. A roof tile. The unseen beauty, the perfection, the imperfection.
 
I hope viewers value these things, and in doing so, value themselves — their space, their time, their right to be.If It Falls had a scent, it would be the rain on a dusty road. Its sound would be collective laughter. Its texture: grit.This work is part of a continued exploration — creating pieces that connect, that exist together as pairs or triptychs, becoming greater than the sum of their parts. Each one a quiet act of listening, of remembering, of falling and holding, side by side.

London, July 2025.