My envelope works were inspired by a suitcase at my late Grandmother's house, unopened for decades. It was crammed with letters, some opened, others still sealed, brought with her when she emigrated to London in 1965 with her two daughters. The letters represented a life left behind, some too painful to open. This coincided with me working in an office: I would doodle and make notes  on envelopes while talking on the phone. Gradually my drawings evolved into filling the torn-open envelope interiors, running the gamut of office supplies from vivid gel pens to silvery graphite and oily iridescent ballpoint pens. The interiors became a repository for meditative mark-making, responding to the colours and patterns already on their surfaces through minimal repetitive gestures. Their slowness demanded time but not a huge amount of space; they were portable and could be worked on in transit, incrementally at stolen moments. At the time I was thinking about how one determines the beginning and end of a drawing. The envelope surfaces could be completely filled up with marks, designating the drawings "finished". The interior patterns, designed to conceal confidential contents - as important as a love letter, or mundane as a bill - become charged, now open for all to see. 

In our current age of instant communication these normally discarded objects signify travel across time and space, the patience of waiting for a response. Their torn edges suggest the materiality of touch - travelling from one body to another - something that screens, pixels and vectors can't encompass. Denmark's recent decision in 2025 to stop delivering letters, and the prohibitive price of stamps, makes me wonder how much longer this mode of communication will be available.