A Structure Left Standing

There’s a building not far from my studio, half-collapsed, burnt-out, barely noticed. I stumbled upon it one afternoon while walking my dog, hidden at the edge of a field. It had the forlorn air of something long forgotten: roof caved in, metal panels twisted and rusted, its surfaces scorched by fire and scarred by time. Once, it would have been useful. Now, it stands as a shell that no longer serves its intended function, but quietly persisting all the same.

At first, I was struck by its ugliness. Then, I couldn’t stop looking.

In many ways, this building encapsulates the ideas at the heart of my practice. I’ve long been drawn to materials and places that carry the marks of time. Things that have been altered, eroded or overlooked.

In a culture that prizes the new and the the flawless, I find myself pulled toward what has weathered: what is raw, broken. This structure, standing alone in the landscape, speaks of resilience, of abandonment, of transformation. It has outlived its purpose, and in doing so, has taken on a different kind of presence, something quiet but insistent, imperfect but undeniable.

I’ve started working with fragments from the site, fire-damaged metal panels, rusted surfaces, char-stained textures. These materials have become part of my vocabulary, not just physically, but emotionally. They bring with them the residue of time, of change. I don’t seek to restore or repair them. Instead, I work alongside them, allowing their history to guide the form and feel of each piece.

This building is more than just a ruin, it’s a reminder. A reminder that beauty doesn’t have to be pristine. That what we overlook still has something to say.

In my practice, I aim to listen. To hold space for what remains and to make work that honours the imperfect.