Rise… A Moment Outside the Thread

On Saturday, I just wanted to paint.

No big mission. No concept to wrestle with. Just the urge to play, to loosen up, and enjoy the act of painting for its own sake. I’ve been deep in a body of work (The Space Between Us) that’s carried a huge amount of weight. Emotionally, psychologically, and creatively. There’s a direction to it. A mission. And it’s been driving me all year. I still feel very connected to it, and the ideas are growing. Bigger canvases, collaborative pieces with friends, big shows I’m planning for next year. The energy is still there, and I’m following it for as long as it lasts.

But every so often, it feels good to step off that road.

Rise came out of one of those moments. It’s a simple, intimate portrait of my girlfriend, Shiquita, waking up on a Saturday morning. We were lying in bed. Normal day. Soft light. I grabbed my phone and took a few photos as she stirred. She wasn’t exactly thrilled, but she knows me well enough by now to expect these moments. There was no agenda. It just happened.

This painting felt different. More relaxed. More instinctive. Not that my other work isn’t real, but this was real in a different way. It was raw and close and personal. And it reminded me of why I paint in the first place.

A Quiet Reflection

It was only later that I realised the weight that Saturday held. It marked one year since Shiquita’s dad passed away.

Grief changes how you move through the world. I know that deeply, having lost my own mum the year before. That first year is brutal. Every season, every date, every shift in light becomes something you carry. And as you approach that one-year mark, you can’t help but reflect. On the journey you’ve taken. Where it’s brought you. How different things feel now.

So maybe, without fully knowing it at the time, I was painting more than just a Saturday morning. Maybe it wasn’t just about capturing that raw, quiet moment of her waking. But something deeper. A kind of rising. Not just from sleep, but from grief. A gentle call upward. Or maybe a recognition that she was rising. That we both have.

Over the past few years, we’ve carried each other through some of the hardest losses of our lives. She supported me through the loss of Mum in 2023, in ways she probably doesn’t even realise. And when she lost her dad in 2024, we found ourselves navigating that same heavy road together. It’s brought us closer. Quietly. Steadily. Through shared understanding.

So when I instinctively called the painting Rise, it wasn’t just about waking up. It was about something bigger. Rising through. Rising from. Rising with.

Process and Presence

I used all my usual materials for Rise. Oil paints, charcoal, and Sennelier oil sticks, which I’ve been working into my practice more and more lately. The ground was a dark burnt umber, which is how I typically begin. A warm, rich base to build upon.

I started the way I often do. Laying out the general composition in charcoal. But this time, I deliberately chose to fill the entire page. There’s no background. No environmental cues. Just her. The portrait almost overtakes the paper. That’s something I love. When the figure spills beyond the bounds of the frame. It becomes larger than life. Fully present.

I’m drawn to these kinds of close crops. They take up space. They demand attention. And they give a sense of intimacy and immediacy that I keep coming back to.

The angle of the shot. The view from the lower part of the face looking upward. It really struck me. It reminded me of some of Jenny Saville’s work I’d been looking at recently. She often uses these monumental perspectives that elevate her subjects. Especially women. There’s a sense of reverence to it. A kind of unspoken respect.

I realise now that, without meaning to, I’d done something similar. That morning, lying next to Shiquita, I instinctively took the photo from that angle. And it ended up reinforcing everything the painting came to represent. Strength. Survival. The quiet power of rising through difficult things. The perspective, the scale, the title. Rise. They all speak to this idea of honouring her. Holding space for her. Placing her in that kind of spotlight.

So while the tools and materials were familiar, the meaning behind the work came from somewhere much deeper. It’s not just a portrait. It’s a kind of tribute.

Play, Process, and the Word Itself

There was one new thing I did with Rise, and it came about almost by accident. Through conversation.

I’m part of a small collective called In Full Flow. Four women. Myself, Sam, Tara, and Tiggy. We share ideas, talk about our practices, send each other images of works in progress. That Saturday, Tiggy and I were both painting at the same time. Texting back and forth. She’d just moved to Wales and sent over a photo of something she was working on. She’d scratched into the surface of her piece in this really natural, instinctive way, and it caught my eye. I remember thinking that’s cool. But then I went back into deep concentration and forgot about it.

Until the very end of my own painting.

I’d written the word rise across the piece in this beautiful, soft yellow Sennelier oil stick. It absolutely sings against the burnt umber ground. I wrote it, painted over it, wrote it again, painted it out. It became this wrestle. Appearing, disappearing. Rising, falling. Like a pulse.

It reminded me of how graffiti artists often map compositions with text or shapes that later get painted over, but still influence the whole piece. I liked that. So I let the word live and die on the canvas a few times. And finally, I scratched it in. Permanent. Honest. Final.

That act of scratching. Cutting into the surface. It felt like a shift. Sometimes, in painting, I move between complete control and total surrender. It’s like walking a tightrope. There’s a thrill in nearly falling. That movement keeps the work alive.

The painting became sculptural in places. Thick with palette knife. Scraped back. Thin. Then thick again. Scribing added another dimension. Another way of storytelling. It brought a kind of energy that sits beneath the image. A dialogue happening under the skin of the painting.

A Private Moment, Held in Paint

In the end, Rise feels like a snapshot. Not just in image, but in energy. Like a page from a family photo album. A quiet, intimate record of a morning. Of her. Of us.

It wasn’t made for anyone else. It didn’t need to be. It was made in that small space between reflection and instinct. Just painting. No pressure. For the joy of it. And maybe that’s what makes it special. It holds the weight of what we’ve come through. And the tenderness of how we keep going.

This painting is ours. A moment we’ll keep. Something to look back on. Not for the pose. Not for the polish. But for the truth in it.

Something real.

Artwork details
Title: Rise
Medium: Oil, charcoal and Sennelier oil stick
Surface: Fabriano Tela Oil heavyweight paper
Size: 594mm x 841mm
Tools: Brushes and palette knives
Year: 2025
Availability: Not for sale

Want to see the piece?
Rise is featured in my online portfolio, where you can view the full artwork, learn more about the materials, and explore other recent work: