FLOWERS – FLORA IN CONTEMPORARY ART & CULTURE - SAATCHI GALLERY

Ping! You never quite know when the next big opportunity is going to land. Sometimes, you have to go out and make things happen; other times, it’s just a case of an email landing in your inbox on an ordinary day that suddenly changes everything. And that’s exactly what happened. One moment, it was a regular day in September, and then—Ping!—a message inviting me to discuss a forthcoming exhibition. Oh. My. Word. Exciting doesn’t even cover it. I’d shown at the Saatchi back in 2021, but I would never have assumed I’d be invited back. And yet, after a few back-and-forth emails, a meeting was arranged. They wanted four large canvases—100x100cm. No problem, I thought. Except, slight issue: I didn’t have any. And rather than paint just four (too much pressure, what if one went wrong?), I decided to paint nine. That way, I could work across them all at once, keeping my brushwork loose and free, and let Saatchi pick their favourites. Decision made. I ordered the canvases—boxes of three, so that neatly sealed the deal—and when they arrived, well, there’s no better feeling than those first big, uninhibited brushstrokes on a fresh canvas, however

Painting Flowers in Winter

Now, I knew the exhibition was going to be titled FLOWERS – FLORA IN CONTEMPORARY ART & CULTURE, but there was one small problem—I was painting these pieces heading into winter. And let’s be honest, winter 2024 was particularly grey. My garden was looking pretty dead, the lawn was more mud than grass, and my beloved South Downs walks had turned into a slippery, colourless trek. Don’t get me wrong, I love the changing seasons. There’s something magical about the shift but I knew straight away that these paintings needed to be the complete opposite of what was happening outside. Outrageous. Bursting with colour. Full of life. No hibernating, no hiding, just pure, unapologetic energy on canvas.

So I turned to reference points…

Photos

The very first thing I did was a quick search on my phone. I love that function. I use it all the time. I simply typed "flowers," and up popped every photo I’d ever taken of flowers (and weeds… I have a soft spot for a good weed).

Luckily, I take photos all the time—every day, in fact—so I had hundreds to sift through. And this is where things get fun. Because these photos were taken all over the world, the paintings became a wild, impossible mix of blooms and foliage that would never be seen together in real life. But on canvas? They could sit side by side, creating something completely new.

I also love to get my camera right in close, capturing blurred edges and tiny, hidden details—the kind you might not even notice with the naked eye. Here are a few of my favourites (I won’t share them all, or we’d be here all day—probably enough for an entire book!).

Books

I also turned to my trusty stack of books.  Poor things.  They’re absolutely covered in paint splatters now, but they were essential for keeping my eyes on colourful blooms, especially when everything outside felt so bleak. These books were propped up, sprawled across the floor, and generally lived in a state of organised chaos while I painted. They became such an important reference point, a little window into a brighter, more vibrant world. I’m sure the authors would be horrifiedif they saw the state of them now!

Exhibitions

Luckily for me, I’d been to so many exhibitions throughout 2024. I don’t think you can ever see enough art.  There’s always something new to take in, a fresh perspective, an unexpected spark of inspiration. Of course, I’m naturally drawn to (ha!) painting, but I love sculpture and photography  too. So, I went back through my photos from the year, searching for the works that had really stuck with me. And even while I was working on these paintings, I kept visiting exhibitions: looking, absorbing, letting it all sink in. Inspiration doesn’t happen in a bubble, and for me, seeing art in person is just as important as making it.

TV

Honestly—don’t laugh—but when you spend weeks (actually, months) in the studio, you need something to keep you company. And on one particularly colourless day, when the grey outside felt never-ending, I found myself sticking on an old episodes of BBC Gardeners’ World in the background. And you know what? It was fantastic. The way they described plants, the textures, the colours, the techniques of gardening—it was like being wrapped in a world of flowers without having to step outside into the drizzle. The screen was bursting with petals and leaves, and the experts were all talking plants. Heaven! It was exactly the kind of unexpected inspiration I needed, and I like to think a little bit of Monty Don’s enthusiasm might have made its way into the paintings too

Audiobooks

Not so much inspiration as studio survival, but I thought you might like to know that while painting, I usually have audiobooks on. And since I knew I’d be in the studio for a long stretch, I finally got around to listening to The Goldfinch. And, of course, I bloody loved every moment of it.

I also listened to Vincent and Theo after visiting Poets and Lovers at the National, The Salt Path, The Let Them Theory, and The Tempest! No particular theme, really—I actually love finishing one book and then jumping into something completely different. Keeps things interesting!

Music and Dancing

As I painted, watching the work grow and flourish around me, I had so much time to think: about the feeling I was trying to capture, about what these paintings were really about. And it all came back to one thing: being in full, joyous bloom. No expectations, no constraints; just feeling utterly alive. And for me, when I reach that state, there’s really only one place to be: the dance floor. Music pulsing through your body, hands in the air like you just don’t care. No phones, no photographic evidence, just pure, unfiltered joy. That moment when the beat builds, the crowd moves as one, and the energy lifts—it’s electric.

And, well, while painting this series, I did a lot of dancing. I’m not particularly good at it (my rhythm is a bit questionable, if I’m honest), but in my head, the link between dancing and flowers kept growing stronger. Flowers don’t hold back.  They don’t shrink or try to hide. They bloom boldly, unapologetically.  And that’s exactly the feeling I wanted to capture in these paintings: that moment when you’re lost in the music, surrounded by friends, completely in the moment. Peace, love, unity!

Events & Beats

While working on this series, I went to several events that fed straight into the energy of these paintings. The first was In Pursuit of Repetitive Beats, a VR experience all about rave culture. Now, I’m just a few years too young to have been sneaking off to illegal raves, but I did my fair share of clubbing in Sheffield and London back in the ’90s so it still hit very close to home.

I also went to an absolutely brilliant night called Club Life, a theatre-meets-dance floor experience by Lemon Jelly’s Fred Deakin. It was like nothing I’d been to before.  A proper show with storytelling, visuals, and some of the best mixing I’ve ever heard. But most importantly, it was a night of pure, unfiltered dancing and laughter. He’s a total pro at getting people moving, and I loved every second of it.

And then there’s my everyday life, which, thankfully, is also full of music. I’m super lucky to live with a DJ—not Dave’s full-time job, but honestly, he’s bloody amazing. So daily, my ears are treated to some of the best mixing around. We talk music constantly, we go to gigs, and we have more than our fair share of kitchen discos. From my studio, I can see Dave mixing while I paint, and in the summer, when the doors are open, his beats drift in, becoming the perfect soundtrack to my work. There’s nothing better to paint to.

Setting the Scene

So, I’ve set the scene. The studio was a glorious mess, covered in books, my phone packed with reference photos, audio books at the ready, some music pumping too, exhibitions swirling in my mind. And then, finally, it was time to paint. I’ve never really painted florals in winter; I usually wait for that first sign of spring—the snowdrops and crocuses poking their heads out, a little whisper of colour after months of grey. But I absolutely loved throwing down these wham-bam, full-throttle, outrageous canvases while the rain hammered on the shed roof and the ground outside was frozen solid. We even got snow, actual snow! which is a rarity down here in Brighton.

As I paint, I work my way through the rainbow: Richard Of York Gave Battle In Vain—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet! That little phrase loops in my head as I move colour across the canvas. The first few layers are big and bold, where I’m using my whole body, sweeping paint instinctively and energetically onto the surface. In these first few weeks, I barely sit down; I’m standing, reaching, using wide brushes, throwing colour around with no hesitation. At this stage, the paintings are totally abstract—huge, gestural marks filling the once-black, glaringly white canvases. And sometimes, I just love these early marks so much I want to leave them be. Actually, if you look closely, you can still see some of them poking through in the final paintings—little echoes of where it all began.

From Big to Small

Then, as the days passed, the marks got smaller, and so did my movements. At first, it was all full-body sweeps, big gestures, moving with the canvas. But gradually, things shifted—now it was my arm, my wrist, my fingertips doing the work. Out came the finer brushes, the smaller details, but I still wanted to keep that energy alive, that sense of movement blooming through every layer.

At the same time, I was running my November Squares challenge, using my Sketch Sketch tool. That whole project was about permission to play, and it definitely fed into these paintings. Mornings were spent filming and editing little squares for November Squares, then afternoons were for the big canvases—jumping between tiny, experimental play and these huge, expressive paintings. I was playing with collage, with printing, using all sorts of techniques to build up layers of colour and form. Printing, especially, was a game-changer for stalks and leaves—I love how marks cross over each other naturally, how the texture feels more spontaneous. Somehow, it felt easier to print a line than to paint one, like it had more of a life of its own.

A Life of Their Own

And this is the magic of painting—each canvas starts the same, but then they take on a life of their own. A bit like children, really. They all began with the same grounding layers, the same wild, sweeping marks, but then off they went in different directions. Four leaned into green, two swayed towards blue, one went full-throttle orange, another blushed pink, and the last settled into deep, velvety purple. I had no idea which four they’d choose; would they pick a set that harmonised? Or go for complete contrast?

As I worked, the canvases kept growing en masse, layer upon layer, colours colliding, shapes emerging. I carved out poppies from the depths of the layers below, scattered tiny daisy-like marks, filled every space with movement until the paintings felt fully alive, bursting at the seams in a happy state. The party had well and truly started—colour vibrating, brushstrokes pulsing, the whole shed humming with energy. These canvases were thriving together, dancing with their blooms, just like I had been, throwing my arms up, hands up in the air! The whole thing felt like a celebration—of nature, of movement, of pure joy rising.

To the Photographer

And then, just like that, it was time to stop. The deadline loomed, and honestly, I love a bit of pressure when painting—sounds mad, I know, but without it, I’d faff about forever, tweaking and overworking until I’d lost the magic. So, I’d done the sensible thing: booked in my wonderful photographer, Andre. That meant no excuses. I had to finish the paintings the day before I took them to him. That final week was a whirlwind of long hours, no housework, paint squeezed on to every surface for mixing, but I loved every minute.

The day came to send them off, and it’s always a moment. Seeing them leave my messy, paint-splattered studio and land on the pristine white walls of Andre’s space—it’s like they shift into another dimension. That’s when I know they’re done. No more second-guessing, no more last-minute tweaks. It’s also the moment they start to leave me. Up until now, they’ve been mine—like an umbilical cord still attached. I’ve poured everything into them, dreamt about them, lived with them. But once they’re handed over, that cord is cut. They’re ready to start their adventures without me.

I walked out, took a deep breath—then, instead of collapsing in a heap (which, let’s be honest, would have been the logical choice), I jumped on a train. It was the last week of Poets and Lovers, at The National Gallery and even though I’d already been twice, something was pulling me back for one final look.

That night, the images from Andre landed in my inbox, and boom! There they were, glowing back at me from the screen. The detachment had begun—I could finally see them with a more critical eye. I never go back and rework paintings, but I do look and learn for the next ones. I sent the files straight to Saatchi, having absolutely no idea which ones they’d go for. But they came back super quick—one green, one pink, one blue, one orange. Almost the full rainbow! I snapped a photo of the four together, and there it was: the energy, the movement, everything I’d wanted to capture.

Then came five days of varnishing and painting the edges. The boring-but-essential bit. I let my mind wander as I worked, and that’s when it hit me—the press pack had already gone out, and my paintings weren’t in it because, well… I hadn’t finished them in time. I quickly emailed the comms team: Would you like the images? Yes, please, they would.

Then—PING. One of those emails. The kind you’re not expecting, the kind that makes you read it twice. They were asking if they could use my painting on a five-metre banner outside the Saatchi Gallery. Oh. My. God. My brain couldn’t quite compute what I was reading. I even got Dave to double-check the email, convinced I must have misread it. But no—there it was, plain as day. A section of my painting, scaled up, on a massive banner. How bloody marvellous.

And, like any artist with an ego to feed, I replied immediately: YES PLEASE!

Title please!

I spend way too long titling my work. Honestly, it’s all part of the process for me. At least a day, sometimes two. I have this little box, filled with tiny slips of paper, each holding a word or phrase I’ve collected over time. Some are just a single word; others are snippets of conversations, lines from songs, or random thoughts that pop into my head. It’s a forever-growing collection, and, to be honest, half the time I can’t even read my own handwriting. Being dyslexic doesn’t help either. These little scraps of paper probably wouldn’t make much sense to anyone else, especially when I’ve scribbled them down in a hurry.

When it’s time to title a new collection, I lay all the paintings out in front of me and read every slip I’ve ever written. The ones that don’t fit go straight back into the box for another time, while a pile of maybes starts to take shape. On this particular day, I had the wonderful Clair with me and she helped me sort through them, grouping words and phrases together. It’s so important to have someone to bounce ideas off, and talking it through with her really helped cement the idea of dancing together and being in full bloom—both in the paintings and in life.

Each painting ended up with three or four possible titles. Some names settled in quickly, while others took their time. I’d leave the slips sitting next to the canvas for a few days, waiting to see which one resonated the most. The four going to Saatchi found their names first: Joy Rising, En Masse, Until We Stop, and Peace, Love and Unity.

The paintings were done—painted, photographed, varnished, titled. I had one last goodbye with them, taking some intimate close-ups, soaking them in, knowing they might never be in my space again. Then, packed up and ready to go, my art handler arrived, and off to London they went. At least they were all together—they wouldn’t get lonely!

What to wear, oh the despair

Now, far more stressful than painting? Figuring out what to wear. Honestly, I hate dressing up. It fills me with absolute fear! I spend my days in the studio in tracky bottoms, comfy and practical, and if you saw me over these weeks, I probably bored you silly with my outfit anxiety. I had the media preview in the morning, the Private View in the evening, and I just wanted people to look at my paintings, not me. But with these events, anything goes—some people turn up super casual, others are dressed to the nines. If I were a man, I’d just throw on a black suit and be done with it, but suits look awful on me. I’m short, plump, and definitely no model.

I must have tried on 25–30 different outfits—none of them felt like me. I even considered going in my painting clothes, but that would have made me stand out even more. Off I went to John Lewis on Oxford Street surely something in there…nope, bought a dress from Toast, then promptly sent it back—it made me look like I was off to milk some cows. I tried a vintage kilo sale (thank goodness for that), where I found a shirt I actually liked. In the end, I settled on something I’d wear again—classic black jeans from M&S (handily in short length), a sleeveless black jumper from Wallis, the vintage shirt, and—bonus—a great excuse to buy new Dr. Martens, as my old ones were over ten years old. That was the media preview outfit sorted.

Next, the Private View. I figured I’d go for a dress, as it had more of a party feel. After much agonising, I went with a green dress I’d had for years, but it was blooming freezing, so I popped the black jumper over the top. And do you know what? After all that worry, on the night, it really wouldn’t have mattered what I wore. I must remember this for the future. What a silly old bean I am!

Lets go shopping!

In between having the paintings delivered and the opening, I’d been in touch with the shop at the Saatchi Gallery. They were keen to have greetings cards of the four paintings. I didn’t have long to turn this around, but I’ve got a great graphic designer and my printers know me well, so I managed to get the cards designed, printed, and delivered all within a couple of weeks. And I must say, they look absolutely wonderful. Everyone did such a great job! I just know these are going to sell like hot cakes.

I was also asked if I could produce some limited edition prints. We decided on a very limited run of just 20. They picked En Masse and Until We Stop to be printed, again which had to be a quick turnaround to get them there in time for the opening. For limited editions, I use a different printer, and they recommended some lovely thick Fabriano paper, which looks fantastic. I also ordered two double frames from a framer. These double frames are a bit more expensive, but they really set off the work perfectly. I went for a grey frame with a pink inner frame for En Masse and a grey frame with a purple inner frame for Until We Stop. I must admit, it can be tricky picturing how an image will work in a frame, but this gets easier with experience and, let’s face it, a bit of confidence too!

The cards and prints are available at the Saatchi Gallery Shop, so make sure you grab yours when you visit!

Media Preview

I didn’t have to go to the media preview, but of course, I wanted to. It started at 9 a.m., so I was up with the lark, getting ready, jumping on the train from Brighton, and feeling slightly giddy with nerves. I’d treated myself to a hotel, so I dropped off my bags, grabbed a coffee, and set off for the gallery.

And then—ooooh—on the way, there it was. The banner. My painting. Five metres of it. Hanging outside the Saatchi Gallery. I don’t think that’s ever going to stop being exciting! I took a moment to gawp at it, took a quick photo (obviously), and then headed to the front door.

I had no idea where my work would be, so I whizzed through the exhibition, barely taking anything in, eyes darting from wall to wall. And then, in the last room—phew—there they were. My paintings. Looking great. Time to pause, breathe, take it in.

Of course, I wasn’t the only one zooming around—there were photographers everywhere. I tried to speak to as many as I could, smiling for photos, hoping I didn’t look completely dazed. They didn’t have much time to chat—just snap, snap, snap, and off to the next story. I didn’t think much of it until the next evening when my phone pinged. A message from my mum:

"You know you’re in The Telegraph?"

No. No, I did not.

At that moment, I was lying on the sofa, still in my coat and hat, barely functioning after the long couple of days. But The Telegraph? I peeled myself off the sofa and ran to the local corner shop. They had one copy left. Flicked through. And—there! A photo by Stephen Chung, of me taking a selfie in front of my paintings.

And honestly? Two things went through my mind. First—wow, my paintings were in a national newspaper! Second—thank goodness I’d agonised over what to wear and got my hair highlighted. I know that’s vain, but really, what a relief I didn’t look like a dog’s dinner in The Telegraph! Ha!!

Private View

After the media preview, I had lunch with the lovely Susan Beech, another Brighton artist who also has work in the exhibition. Her work is exquisite, so if you’re visiting, make sure you check it out. It was so nice to have a proper catch-up and do absolutely nothing for a couple of hours—just eat, chat, and breathe.

Then back to the hotel, where I thought I might have a little nap. I did not. Instead, I got changed, and David met me there before we headed out to the Private View—PV for those in the know.

Whoa. The queue was massive. Properly snaking down the street. There was a real buzz in the air, that mix of excitement, anticipation that makes these nights feel electric. It was so special to share the moment with David—at this point, it was all fun, no stress. I grabbed a cocktail (essential) and made my way upstairs.

And oh, there was a DJ in our room. But—phew!—he hadn’t set up right in front of my work. As the night went on, people started dancing, and at one point, I looked up to see a group of young, joyful beings properly dancing right in front of my paintings. It was perfect. The whole night felt like a celebration, and then—out of nowhere—we bumped into some old friends we hadn’t seen in ten years. One of those magical, unexpected moments that makes an already brilliant night even better.

Private Views are funny things—I always dread them, and then, every time, I end up having a wonderful night. And just as I finally started to relax into it—poof! Over. So we did the only sensible thing: headed to the pub for a proper moment of celebration.

Next day

As we’d stayed the night, I decided to head back to the exhibition the next day. I hadn’t really taken the time to properly look around the other rooms, so I was determined to make the most of it. There are nine rooms in total, and it took me a good 2.5 to 3 hours to go through them all. I can see why it’s been such a hit, even though it’s only been open for two weeks. The exhibition covers so many different genres—fashion, music, film, interior design, medicine, massive installations. Over 500 items across two floors.

I feel so proud to be a tiny part of it all. I’ve loved every single moment—well, apart from the whole dressing-up bit, of course!

And when you visit, make sure to book your ticket in advance and definitely eat beforehand, because there’s no café on-site. But do not miss the shop—it’s packed full of lovely things. I can never resist a good gallery shop!

The paintings are available from the Saatchi online website.