In my sunroom are two sliding windows. The light that passes through them is bright and relatively even, becoming stronger in the afternoon as the sun hits the side of the neighbour's house. This is where I work, setting up arrangements of objects to paint from life. As I paint, sunlight pours in from the left to light the objects, which are weighted by small shadows.

I like to make still lifes using what is readily available, rummaging through cupboards and kitchen drawers for subject matter. Often, I will pick out a piece of fabric from a small collection that I've gathered, and use it to offset a colour, shape or pattern in a painting—dull pink stripes against a brighter pink gingham, or deep blue against crisp white paper.

In March, my habit of combing the house for material became more significant as self-isolation restricted my choices to the things at hand. I rediscovered a pair of woolly gloves, and a flowery brown dress snuck its way into a painting. 

These paintings are about looking, considering colour, pattern and texture. They are also about time—both the weird, bendy time of the past few house-bound months and the contained time taken to complete each painting.