There’s something quietly magical about carving into Lino. It’s slow, tactile, and wonderfully imperfect. Every gouge is deliberate, every mark a decision you can't undo—and I love that.

I didn’t set out to become a printmaker. But over time, I realised I was craving something more grounded—something that pulled me out of screens and into my senses. Linocut offered that pause. It invited me to work with my hands again, to make a mess, to celebrate process over perfection.

I chose linocut because it gave me space to slow down, to play with colour and form in a way that felt joyful and honest. There’s a kind of magic in peeling back that first print, not knowing exactly what you’ll get. It’s a little like life—messy, surprising, and full of happy accidents.

Now, each print I create tells a story—of a place, a memory, a dream. It’s a way of capturing joy in layers of ink and paper, and sharing a moment of stillness in a fast-moving world.

Lino reduction print has become my favourite way to work over the last few years. When I explain it to people, it blows their mind how I can work this backwards process out as I go but it’s that uncertainty that is part of the appeal for me.

With this piece I really wanted to work more instinctively than I have in the past so I only traced off the sky, trunk outlines and bracken.

Towards the end of 2023, I was working away on a new print and now it’s time to tell you the story of how it came to life.

Tumbling is a celebration of the wild waves of the North Sea. I went to stay in Beadnell and we were greeted with Storm Babet. Some people may see this as a time to hide away and stay cosy but I’m not one of those people. Instead I collected my sketchbook and watercolours and headed out to explore.