‘I am neither of the East nor of the West, no boundaries exist within my breast.’ ~ Rumi

A small selection that basically represents the period where I still fantasised about being a successful painter – working shit jobs for crap money by day while spending beautiful, solitary nights in my studio. I sold a few works here and there, but sadly not enough to fully sustain the dream. A combination of writing my novel, changing circumstances and generally growing tired of it as a medium led to exploring other creative avenues. While I still think painting has much to offer as an art form, I’m not sure a fickle world increasingly fuelled by the fleeting banality of clickbait spectacle agrees.