Along the way there were graffiti crews, nights under bridges, immigration interviews, and gallery openings, some with life-changing sales, others where the silence rang louder than applause.

So I’ll keep painting, trusting the scattered pieces will find their place.

Unopened tubes wait: orange, yellow, green. A touch of vermilion warms it, ready to glow against grey.

The still London street mirrors my state: muted bricks, soft edges, grey light.

Looking back, there’s calm in knowing life is never finished—only paused until the next mark begins—an acceptance that the journey stays open. Each painting—and the life behind it—quietly suggests that moments, however broken, can still be pieced into something meaningful.

It feels lived, no designed.

Part memoir, part studio diary, part essay on art, migration, labour and survival. ✍️

We keep going. 🥶

There isn’t a correct route through the arts. No syllabus that guarantees a voice, no ladder that fits every hand. You learn by marks that fail, by work that goes unseen, by staying long enough for the surface to answer back. The question isn’t ‘What’s the right path?’ but ‘What can I return to until it leaves a trace ... Show more

Art stretches beyond studios and salons. It lives wherever I make space for it—in conversation, protest, celebration, or silence. The work begins again, always. That’s the only constant. Every medium, every project is an entry point into something larger.

Have a spooky night everyone 🔥

Like a shark on the scent, I circle the work—restless—as instinct pushes me closer and I debate what details should stay or go.

And yet, a distance lingers. I turn the painting to the wall, a ritual I return to often. Out of sight, it loses its grip. I stare at the back of the canvas. The world moves on. So do I. That canvas becomes just another surface, another version of me, unloaded, waiting for whatever comes next.