Saturday, 22 December 2012

Sedna on Silk

Fabulous Fabric

I have been having great fun screen printing in the textile department this month, here are some snaps of my first attempts.

Wednesday, 7 November 2012

Sea Fever!


Never got around to posting this, sorry for the delay! Sedna and the Fulmar, the fascinating folk tale of a Native American girl swept off to the land of the birds by a Fulmar. Here is a peak at my illustrations for it, more to follow!

Monday, 28 May 2012

Designs for Danie

Been doing some work for the lovely Danielle Couchman as she launches her new TV presenter career. Being the most girly girl in existence she needed a design to fit! Follow her twitter @DanieCouchman

Tuesday, 1 May 2012

Oh if only I had a tipi....

I have been becoming a little obsessed with tipis lately. I close my eyes and it is all I can see. One sweet day maybe I will have one, but until then I will continue to draw them. Here are some from a one of my 'Sedna and the Fulmar' illustrations, watch this space for the finished artwork.

Italian Film Poster Winner!

Big thanks to the people at Filmhouse and everyone involved in the Italian Film project. My L'avventura poster won the competition with the prize of a 6 months free pass to the Filmhouse for myself and a plus one. Date night anyone?

Tuesday, 10 April 2012


I took part in a collaborative project between ECA illustration students and creative writing students from Edinburgh University. I was teamed with the Brilliant Clint Wilson who gave me a truly inspiring piece to work with. Here is our final collaboration. See the other students work at-

Non Omnis Moriar
by Clint Wilson

The river races without legs. The trees whisper without mouths. The still-stirring life rises and breathes and dances without arms, fingers, eyes. Whatever nature lacks in human form is compensated through its imitation: the sounds, the shapes, the movements of these untouched parts of the world.
The river’s current is strong, its course shaped by the valley cutting through the mountains. The old oaks and elms direct all eyes upward, toward the heights of peaks framed by the slowly turning sky. A choir of cardinals chirp and chatter as they fly in formation through the valley, gliding through the trees and into the open air above the river.
Two hours on the river and not so much as a nibble on the line. Rise and fall, rise and fall, the rapids, the line, the rod, the swimming of the fish and the lungless breathing of the wind. The line, a sliver of thin white slicing through the autumn air, rising higher and then falling farther with a light clap on the surface of the water. The rod, arching back and forth, bending under the strain, bending but not breaking but close to it, twisting with the arm of the caster, bowing to the water and its prey. Dignified. Rise and fall, the water over the rocks, the mountains over the water, the sun over the mountains. All of life here, rising and falling, and rising and falling again.
Being on the river alone brings out the philosopher in every man. Being alone, truly alone – without the distractions of a slick, sleek world – brings to the forefront, to the surface, above the calming current of endless endeavors, the birth of philosophy and the search for an answer.
The fisherman stands in the middle of the river, water to his waist, casting the fly in repetition, back and forth, up and down. Poetry, the motion. Music, the crescendo is the symphony of the quickening, daybreak world. He hums an old Irish tune his father had once taught him, a nameless melody that visits him in quiet hours like these.
The fisherman had awoken at 2:50 AM. He had driven three hours into the heart of the Appalachians, where rivers cross and lose their name, forget their destination. Or reject their destination, if they had one. These are places the fisherman knows from childhood, where he is sure to be alone, places forgotten and abandoned. The only other people who knew of them were his friends from long ago, now dead. Buried. Such is the life of a man who has defied the calling toward rest, the eternal lasting kind, when all around have departed. Seventy-six years ago was the last time he stood in this river without a name. And here he is again. For the last time.
His eyes are thin, pressed down around the folds and wrinkles that spread out like lines drawn with a pencil by an unsteady hand. His lips are dry as a desert, but his grin is young, unburdened. Hopeful. He stands in the rising sun, he stands in the water, in his waders he stands casting and risking a smile. His torn hands hold the line loosely across his pruned fingertips as he waits for a on the line, even the slightest motion that cannot be the current alone.
A fisherman knows about waiting. About patience. He knows about the cold morning, the expectation, the shine on the water, the promise in its flow. He knows about days when nothing bites, and he knows about days when you catch too many to keep.
This morning, the fisherman waits not merely expectantly, but confidently. He feels that a fish is promised. Only one. He requires only one. He throws back his arm, and with it the rod, the line curves in a near-perfect figure arc as it flies backwards, cut short in its flight by tension before turning about-face, diving to the surface of the water. The fly lands in a gentle rapid with a light but discernable snap. It rests there for only a few seconds before an eager trout emerges from the river and sets its jaws on the bait.
Rise and fall, the battle with the fish, the strain and the release in steady measure, reeling closer and closer with each passing minute, but not too fast or the line will break, not too slow or the current will take it and it will be lost. Life, he thinks, not too slow but not too fast, hold on in the current but not too tightly. Rise and fall, the rod as the fisherman pulls with vigor and looses with compassion, in equal turns, until he finally holds the fish in his hand, his fingers digging underneath its gill.
The waiting is over, the final rise and fall has come. The fisherman has returned home, alone, as he always is these days. He releases the rod from his hand, and the swift river carries it away. He grasps the fish firmly now, taking strides long and powerful. The river overcomes him, fills his waders, takes him down. He lies back into the river, eyes open, smile wide. It fills him, takes him, runs with him. He feels its legs, better than legs than his. He hears whispers in the wind, a stronger voice than his own. The river has no name and soon, neither will he. His last act on earth is to release the fish from his hand, for mercy, a life returned, is always required for a life taken. And still, the river keeps racing.

Friday, 30 March 2012

Come with me to the Land of the Birds

Currently doing some illustrations on a story called Sedna and the Fulmar. These screen prints are some initial experimental designs. They illustrate the part of the story where the heroine is being seduced by the fulmar into running away to the 'land of the birds'.

Thursday, 15 March 2012


Screen printed A3 Poster made for the Edinburgh University Italian department as part of the Italian film festival. L'avventura- the story of.... Well lets be honest, not a whole lot. Mainly about looking for a girl called Anna.

Tuesday, 13 March 2012

So I wanted to experiment with layering colours in screen printing. I also only wanted to use the most delicious colours I could mix. 10 colours later I had this!

Monday, 5 March 2012

Hello Edinburgh, hello masters, hello screen printing! I am totally addicted to experimenting with beautiful colours in screen printing at the moment. Here is an example of the chaos of my desk. More pics to follow soon!