Your work often draws on the Australian coast and sun-soaked landscapes —
what keeps it inspiring you? How does the Aussie coast compare to beaches
elsewhere?

The inspiration comes from the sheer scale and diversity of the Australian coastline. There
are thousands of kilometres of constantly changing scenery  different light, colours, moods
and that variety is hard to match anywhere else in the world. It never really runs out.
I’m also endlessly influenced by art itself  past and present. From early modern movements
like Fauvism to individual artists such as Gauguin or Peter Doig, I’m constantly looking,
absorbing, and responding. Those influences sit quietly beneath the surface of my work,
informing colour, atmosphere, and emotional tone rather than anything literal.

Looking back over your career, from studying in Sydney to working in
Germany and teaching at the University of Western Sydney, how have those
experiences shaped the way you paint today?

I think there’s a well-roundedness that only comes from a mix of education, travel, hard
work, and — if you’re lucky — time spent inside the art industry itself. Lived experience is a
major influence on my work.
When I lectured, I always told my students: leave the ego at home, see the world, live by your
wits, and work as hard as you can to support your craft. If you can do that, you’ll usually
find your way.

Many of your exhibitions have evocative titles — Mirror Maze, Children of the
Sun, Heatwave — how do these ideas come about?
Titles are important to me and are often quite personal. Mirror Maze, for example, came from
the hall of mirrors at the old amusement park at Manly Wharf — sadly long gone. As kids,
we’d hang out there when the surf was flat. The titles tend to come from memories like that.

Your paintings often have a warm, nostalgic feeling. How do you capture that
mood on canvas?

I’m interested in conveying a sense of indolent utopia — a slower, simpler state of mind. To
paraphrase Timothy Leary: turn on, tune in, drop out.

My paintings reflect a time people still yearn for: jump in the ocean, lie on the sand, forget
about everything else for a while. It’s a feeling advertisers have tapped into for over a century
because it’s universally understood.

After decades of practice and exhibitions worldwide, what keeps you excited
about painting?

I still have hundreds of images and ideas in my head that I haven’t realised yet. That’s what
drives me. Every day in the studio throws up new possibilities, and that sense of potential
never really fades.

How does your process usually start — do you begin with a place, a feeling, a
memory, or something else entirely?

It almost always starts with an idea, usually tied to a place from memory. I work from
photographs and have a large back catalogue of imagery that I continually return to and
reinterpret.
At the same time, art history is always present in my thinking — colour, composition, and
mood filtered through years of looking at and learning from other artists.

What do you hope people feel when they live with one of your pieces?

I think there’s a shared thread — what I call a kind of collective DNA — that’s activated
when people view my work. Memory is powerful, whether real or imagined.
The paintings tend to resonate with anyone who’s had those formative beach experiences,
especially as a child. We rarely forget certain holidays — often around Christmas — when
Australians migrate up and down the coast in search of their own version of utopia.

Looking forward, are there new themes, places, or ideas you’re excited to
explore in your art?

There’s always something new to paint. At the moment, I’m working on coastal themes
where the colours are inverted — blues become oranges, reds turn green, yellows shift to
purple. Memory becomes inverted too. Nothing is quite as it seems.
I’m interested in pushing the boundaries of my practice and challenging how people perceive
familiar places.

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