I grew up in the Black Country, the polluted industrial guts of England, where factories hummed in the background and work was something people became ground down from.

One of my earliest memories is a getaway car from a robbery flipping over and crashing onto our driveway. Three men crawled out and were arrested right there. I wasn’t scared, I just remember wondering what kind of problems lead you to that.

Later, I found myself carving luxury yachts for people I’d never meet. I insured million-pound artworks by day and drank to forget it by night. The disconnect between the makers and the takers — the ones who build and the ones who own — had lodged itself deep in my frustrations. I’ve worked in tattoo studios and around grassroots motorsport, where people scraped together meaning with whatever tools they had. Symbols mattered in all those places — in the logos, the icons, the slogans, the hype.

My practice uses sculpture, moving-image, performance, and fiction to explore the systems we live within — and how they reduce complexity, flatten culture, and turn meaning into something saleable. I often build fictional infrastructures and speculative corporate artefacts to mirror these systems back to us. Through a process known as critical fabulation, I blend storytelling and fabrication to expose deeper truths that lie beneath the surface of power.

In basic terms, I think of myself as somewhere between being a sculptor and a landscape artist, only the landscapes I’m interested in are social, economic, corporate, psychological and cultural. I build within the cracks of that terrain. Living with an autoimmune condition has taught me how the world excludes based on what it doesn’t want to confront. That awareness sits underneath everything I make.

I’m fascinated by low-level manipulation — the kind that whispers until you believe it. But I don’t reject it. I believe the tools that shape us can be retooled, redirected, and recharged. If culture is vanillarised for the sake of profit, I want my work to hold on to the grit and the ghosts. Not to moralise, but to offer alternative narratives. A place that feels uncomfortable enough to be honest.