About Me

When I was training as an art therapist, I had a realisation: the columns that I was sculpting — always trying to get them to stand upright — were an unconscious representation of my own body. I have scoliosis (curvature of the spine) and a number of neurological conditions associated with this. I suddenly saw how much that physical reality had always been embedded in my work.

I’d been drawn to Brâncuși’s Endless Column, without fully understanding why. It wasn’t until I began analysing my own creative process during therapy training that I made the link: I was sculpting my own body, working through my own experience, without even realising it.

That was the point where the artist in me met the therapist. I realised that what I was doing wasn’t just about making art — it was about healing. It was therapy.

Art school had trained me to focus on the final product — how something looked, the aesthetics, the polished. But in art therapy, the focus is entirely different. It’s about the process. The how, not the what. The journey, not the outcome. What the work reveals — not just to others, but to you, the maker.

I made a conscious decision not to pursue being a full-time artist, but instead to become a therapist. That choice reflected how much I valued the process over the product. And yet, I never stopped being an artist. Those two parts of me are now inseparable.

What I love about sculpture is the act of manipulation—the transformation of materials, especially those that have been discarded, scarred, or shaped by their environment. They carry stories. I often work with unconventional materials such as chicken wire, rusted metal, and tree bark—elements typically abandoned, left to decay, like shed skin.

"Naked body without the trimmings, without the props—THIS IS ME! In the sense of imperfection I want them to be seen as they are, with a kind of rawness. I’m not trying to make them aesthetically pleasing. It is saying this is it. This is me! And in a way, I think that’s what years have taught me to embrace."

My recent sculptures have taken shape during a time of profound personal loss, following the passing of my close partner. This period drew me deeper within the practices and my understanding of Tai Chi and Qigong. Tai Chi which is centred on the restoration of harmony and balance, while Qigong is of breath and presence encouraging a deeper connection to the internal landscape. Both have guided me physically and emotionally and in many ways resonate spiritually with my Christian faith as I try to make sense of it all."

Political 

My sculptures often felt like they were a reflection — looking inward, almost confronting me, but in response to the situation in Gaza, my work shifted. It wasn’t about looking in but looking outward.

These sculptures are my way of responding to a wider political landscape. I use discarded materials — cardboard, wire, rubble — not just for their accessibility, but for their symbolism. These materials mirror the experiences of people who have been displaced, bombed, and forgotten. Their lives, like these scraps, are treated as disposable. That connection is deliberate. The materials become a metaphor for dehumanisation and neglect.

My work is always grounded in lived experiences — not just my own, but others' too. As a Black, disabled woman, I’ve always been politically engaged. It’s not something I can ignore — it’s part of my reality.

Throughout my life, I’ve been involved in movements around disability, race, and social justice. As an art therapist, I co-coordinated a group called ARC (Art Therapy: Race and Culture), and contributed a chapter to the book Art Therapy, Race and Culture. In that work, I explored the complex intersections of racism, identity, belonging, and exclusion.

These experiences aren’t separate from my ART — they shape it, and give it purpose.