I first started making my envelope works when I was working in an office: I would doodle and make notes while talking on the phone. Gradually my drawings evolved into filling the torn-open envelope interiors, running the gamut of office stationery supplies from vivid gel pens to silvery graphite and iridescent ballpoint pens. The interiors became a repository for meditative mark-making, working with the colours and patterns already on their surfaces. Their slowness demanded time but not a huge amount of space; they were portable and could be worked on in transit to and from work, and at stolen moments at my desk. At the time I was also thinking about how one determines the beginning and end of a drawing. The envelopes were something that could be completely filled up with marks, designating it "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. I began to become fascinated and absorbed in the colour interactions of the marks with the surface patterns, and in the impact of repetitive minimal interventions. 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 around.