The Art Behind the Words (Because Words Were Never Really My Thing)
Listening to the Light
Awake After the Rain - 19.75 x 15.23 in
Medium: Painted digitally
I had always painted as a child, for as long as I can remember. It was such an important pastime for me that family and friends saw something special in it—even then. I think I was drawn to it because of my nature as a young boy. I was unusually shy and withdrawn. I’d spend hours on my own, making.
There could be many reasons for this, including my parents’ decision to move to France shortly after I was born. They both spoke English at home, but I attended French schools until I was eight. As an educator now, I understand the challenges children face when they begin school speaking a second or third language. The long-term benefits of bilingualism are enormous, but early on, there are often delays in communication.
Still, that quiet, observant nature became my strength. I spent hours—years—looking deeply, recording and analyzing. That deep visual sensitivity became my superpower.
For many years, I struggled with the written word. And to add insult to injury, the lack of self-confidence this created in me meant that it wasn’t until my mid-forties that I began, tentatively, to write. If I’m honest, I don’t think I have a natural affinity for words and probably never will. But I’ve grown to love writing—as a companion to painting. For me, painting will always come first. It’s how I communicate what I feel and experience at the deepest level.
I first discovered the St Ives School of Painting in Cornwall during my teens. We had previously lived in France and Singapore, and my family had recently returned to England. My grandfather Leonard invited me to join him and my grandmother Pearl on a week-long painting course. My grandparents had been going there for years and were friends with the then head of the school, Roy Ray.
Roy and his wife ran a B&B and rented out rooms—we stayed with them during the course. It was a dream come true. The schedule included two guided sessions each day—morning and afternoon. We’d start the week sketching en plein air, then return to the studio to develop ideas through monoprinting and painting on canvas, interspersed with life drawing from a model.
All this required fuel: full English breakfasts, pasties or fish and chips for lunch, and the occasional visit to one of the many local pubs–strictly for artistic inspiration, of course. Needless to say, I was in heaven.
My grandmother Pearl had suffered from polio in her youth and walked with crutches, so my grandfather pushed her around in a wheelchair. If you’ve ever been to St Ives, you’ll know that the cobbled hills and steep lanes were never designed for wheelchairs. And Pearl wasn’t exactly a featherweight (she’d have laughed at that). The sheer strength it took to push her up and down those streets was nothing short of heroic–though I don’t recall grandad being offered a knighthood. Instead, he was awarded a long, healthy life. I think that might be one of the reasons my grandfather stayed so fit right to the end.
Those memories stayed with me. They laid the foundation for everything that came later in my creative life.
But it would take me over three decades to arrive at a place where my work was no longer about observation, accuracy, or technical control. Don’t get me wrong—I’m grateful for my classical training. Without it, I don’t think I could have approached abstraction with any real authenticity.
I remember visiting the Academy of Fine Arts in Prague during my student years. The academy, perched on a hill like a 19th-century time capsule, had a fiercely traditional program. Year one: drawing. Year two: painting. Year three: sculpture. Only in the final year were students given space to experiment with abstraction. But their work—rooted in deep, technical mastery—was exquisite. That memory stayed with me, even though I wouldn’t let go of realism myself until much later.
It was during my years as Head of Art in London that abstraction—and those early memories of St Ives—resurfaced. I’d begun a part-time master’s at Wimbledon School of Art and took the opportunity to review my own practice. Around that time, our daughter Anaïs was born, and I found myself captivated by her scribbles. We’d draw together, sometimes on the same piece of paper. Her mark-making was spontaneous, free of thought. I compared it to the Buddhist ink paintings I had once admired—where monks, in a meditative state, would express a single gesture with total presence. Those childlike lines, so pure and unfiltered, became a quiet revelation.
Fast forward to our move to Mexico. With two kids and a dog in tow, we arrived with very little. All our possessions remained in storage in England. The only creative tool I brought was my iPad Pro.
I remember hearing a story around that time about someone who bought their grandfather a brand-new iPad. He was full of gratitude, said thank you with genuine warmth—only to be found later that day happily chopping an onion on it. I often think of that story as a reminder that tools only reveal their magic when we meet them with intention—and for me, that intention had quietly shifted.
The freedom of the digital medium changed everything. I could make changes, add layers, and undo mistakes without the usual painter’s remorse. Something about that looseness helped me move beyond fear—especially my old fear of colour. Years of sculpting in restrained, careful tones gave way to bold experimentation. Colour returned, and with it, a sense of joyful surrender.
It started with playful doodles, testing brushes, and tools. But something surprising happened: I began enjoying those unplanned experiments more than any observational work. They reminded me of those drawings with Anaïs. Free, intuitive, alive. And I started enjoying colour. For someone who spent years sculpting in shades of “emotionally repressed monotone,” this was a breakthrough.
And then, ever so naturally, those experiments began to cohere into something more structured. Compositions emerged—not by design, but by trust. By stepping back. By letting go.
I now look back on that shift in my painting, and I see how it mirrored my life. That period was a call to surrender. Burnout had forced me to stop. To let go of outcomes. To stop controlling the composition—not just in art, but in life.
And it wasn’t easy. Surrender rarely is. But it changed everything. My paintings became practices in presence. Not performances, but offerings. Invitations to meet what is.
That’s when the phrase came to me—listening to the light. It’s not something I strive to do. It’s something I return to. A quiet attentiveness. A willingness to follow what reveals itself in the stillness.
These days, I paint less to express an idea and more to witness what arises. To hold a space. To listen—beyond the noise—to the subtle light that shapes it all.