Covid made me paint again. It was the first time I’d had to sit with myself for long periods of time. I realised how ill equipped I was to deal with the big emotions I’d been running from my whole life. I’m a person who chooses busyness over sitting with myself. Over exercising, drinking, obsessing over romantic relationships and friendships, workaholism, and binging on tv were my coping mechanisms. They were failing me. 

Then my dog died and I had a horrible incident at work in March of 2022. This coupled with Covid made me lose it. Out of desperation I picked up my paint brushes again. 

In one of my big break down moments I took a photo of myself crying. It was hard to look at. By painting something you have to study it like a scientist. I spent hours looking and copying my distorted, puffy face. 

I was raised in a society that said the ultimate goal was happiness and emotions like this were meant to be stuffed down, ignored, overridden. Painting was my process of unlearning that.

I was so proud of the final painting and then a new fear showed up. Who would want to see this? But I was also proud of it. I was torn between putting it out there and hiding it away. I was afraid my mom would hate me. I was afraid people would mock me. But there was a point where I was more afraid of hiding something I was proud of. 

What surprised me the most was that the reaction on social media. I had people reaching out saying they loved it, it really made them feel. I had never put that together as a point of art. To evoke a feeling, and not just a positive one. 

I mined my insecurities for more inspiration. I had massive body dysmoprhia and over exercised like a maniac, using the scale and my pants to keep me in check. I painted myself naked. I put it on Instagram. I showed the world. I ran an ad in the London Underground that was 16 feet tall with my naked body. The world didn’t end. My confidence grew and grew. 

Eventually I started looking into the systems at play behind my beliefs. Why was I afraid of sadness? Why did I grow up to hate my perfectly fine body? I looked at patriarchy, I looked at racism. I questioned how I was both the victim and perpetrator in these systems. My world became less black and white, more colourful. I painted my way through all of it. There were so many bad paintings, discarded thoughts, soap boxes I’d jump on then quickly jump off. 

My capacity to share my thoughts and take up space grew with each painting.

Our world is complex and I believe it’s my job as an artist to explore it, examine it, and then try to convey what I feel to the best of my ability.  For better or worse I am a person who feels deeply and I need a place for those feelings to go and that place is my art.