A fleeting idea is captured as it flies past my senses: between the pages of a book or a sound, a touch, a fragrance or a spoken word peeping over the window’s edge of my subconscious. Some strands of perception are suddenly knitted together between my inner and outer worlds: a metaphor I seem to recognise, a way to say something about someone or something without seeming banal.
Intimacy matters. Drawing catches a thought, an idea, uncritically and in all its freshness. Drawing on everyday life without rehearsal. Perhaps there is a kind of poetry and a deeper, more complex narrative in the drawing of a moment than in artworks that require hours of arduous application.
Drawing is a kind of code of communication between the very ancient and the very new in art. Drawings from the past inform the drawer of the future.
I am informed. I inform.


I assembled an Ikea shoe cupboard for our foyer at home. It was a complicated exercise but nevertheless successful, thanks to the illustrated assembly instructions provided in this mass-produced flatpack product.
These drawn instructions are quite elegant. They communicate intricate information using simple images, for millions of people to understand: remove something from the images and the instructions don’t make sense, add something and they would be confusing. I like that reductive, economical kind of visual language.
I am using image fragments from these minimal, elegant, how-to-assemble instructions in the "Ikea Suite". All of the “Ikea Suite” drawings are in graphite (with a little colour) on 50.0 cm x 65.0 cm  polyester drafting film.

In a hardware store in Paris, I bought a packet of tiny, rectangular wooden wedges. They seemed at the time very Duchamp-esque.I consequently discovered they are designed to slip between doors and floors to hold the doors open. In the packet there were twenty-one wedges, three each of seven different sizes. The sizes range from circa 1.9 x 2.3 centimetres through to the largest which are circa 4.9 x 6.1 centimetres.
I took these little wooden panels out of their packet and stood them on a shelf in a long row with the sharp edges of each wedge pointing upwards. They looked like twenty-one empty chapters from a story waiting to be told.
Using cut and paste, I covered each little wedged panel with narrative-rich images beginning with the "Man with the Red Bowtie", the narrator of the "Doorwedge Chronicles"
I liked the images so much that I scaled them up a little and painted them in oils onto gessoed wood panels. I also drew them with graphite pencil onto Tru-Grain transparent film.