While I love the richness of oil paint, I choose to work primarily with acrylics — and that choice comes down to health. Traditional oil paints often require strong solvents like turpentine or mineral spirits for cleaning and thinning, which can release harmful fumes and irritate the lungs, skin, and nervous system over time.

As someone who manages a number of chronic health conditions day-to-day, I prioritise creating in a way that supports my wellbeing. Acrylics allow me to work more safely, freely, and with less physical toll — while still offering the texture, depth, and vibrancy I adore.

In the end, the materials I use are a reflection of how I want to live and create: intuitively, sustainably, and in tune with what my body needs.

Almost always — though it’s not always music. Sometimes it’s soft, instrumental tunes or something I can hum along to. Other times I’ve got a favourite podcast or a comforting comedy series playing in the background — something familiar that I don’t need to pay too much attention to.

But once I really get into the flow of painting, everything around me starts to blur. The world fades out, the sounds drift into the background, and it’s just me, the paint, and the canvas. That quiet, focused space is where the magic happens.

My studio looks out over my back garden in the Perth Hills — a space filled with trees, birdsong, the occasional quenda scurrying by, and kangaroos that hop past more often than you’d think. It’s quiet, light-filled, and full of soul — a place where paintbrushes live in old jars, and the light shifts beautifully throughout the day.

It’s also (if I’m honest) often a bit of a creative mess. There are canvases waiting to be brought to life, others drying quietly in corners, and more than a few paint splashes on the white walls from moments when I got completely lost in the process. I try to keep it tidy — but creativity tends to wander, and it’s not one to stay neatly in the lines.

I believe art belongs to everyone. Truly. Whether you’ve collected a whole wall of originals or you’ve just tucked a single postcard print into the corner of your bookshelf — you’re a collector.

There’s a certain exclusivity that can hover around the art world… a feeling that you need to have the right words, the right budget, or the right background to be part of it. But I don’t see it that way. I never have.

To me, the heart of collecting is connection. It’s about finding a piece that stirs something in you, even if you can’t quite explain why. That quiet moment of “this one” — that’s what matters.

Everyone deserves to enjoy art. Everyone can enjoy art. You don’t need a degree, a gallery wall, or any kind of permission slip. If something speaks to you, that’s enough. That’s everything.

Some of my most cherished pieces are crumpled little drawings gifted to me by my nieces and nephews — full of wild colour and pure, unfiltered joy. That’s art, too. And it’s just as worthy of love and space as anything hanging in a frame.

So if you’re here and you’re moved by something I’ve made, know that you’re already part of this story. You’re welcome in this space. You’re welcome in the art world. You’re allowed to feel like a collector — because you are one.