The first piece Hippodrome, was a faithful recreation of a genuine 1904 flyer from the venue’s golden age. Paying homage to its history, the flyer was framed within a design mirroring the Hippodrome's iconic stained glass canopy. This limited edition version - only available to buy directly at the fleeting exhibit - subtly degraded moving down the piece, dissolving into decay until the text is no longer readable - a visual metaphor for the Hippodrome’s faded splendour and a quiet protest against its abandonment.

A year-long project I undertook in the wake of the pandemic during a time of mass uncertainty that drew from Shakespeare’s sonnets as a kind of cultural compass. I used playing cards like tarot - selecting one at random each week, pairing it with a chance sonnet line, then turning the card itself into a miniature artwork in response.

Each card became a small, altered object - painted, burned, collaged, or torn - taking on new symbolic weight. Later I photographed them inside handmade miniature galleries, scaling them up through illusion to question how presented context affects weight and value, to argue that even the smallest pieces can hold great meaning.

To conclude the project, I wanted to create something more meaningful than a mostly ignored social media post. I didn’t love every piece on its own, but the body of work — the process, the ritual and the persistence — was something I was proud of. Maybe I’d grown protective of the cards after pouring so much energy into them, but to me they felt larger than their literal dimensions. I wanted others to see them that way too.

With some sleight of hand, I built miniature gallery spaces to photograph each card as though it were a monumental work. The model people were left stark and white — unpainted on purpose — to expose the artifice. I wanted to draw attention to how much weight a gallery space can lend a piece of art, and to encourage viewers to reconsider something they might otherwise overlook — like a small, altered playing card on a desk.