The tail of The artist

Mary Kelly was first to recognize my talent. She saw something in my chalk drawing on a blackboard and asked my mum if she could enrole me in her art class. I loved that class. It became my sanctuary.As I grew older, life pulled me in other directions, and sadly, I drifted away from art. Years later — during lockdown — something unexpected stirred it all back to life. We received bags of wood shavings from a company that made bespoke canvases. I memorized the name. That same day, as I emptied the shavings onto Freddie’s stable floor, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a memory of Mary's class, and the joy I felt being there. 

Unsure if I even remembered how to paint — I ordered a canvas. Big enough to paint Freddie's portrait, true to scale. Who knows perhaps the shavings from his portrait were once used as bedding for him. I'll never forget the first time I turned Freddie out. He looked at me, I looked at him, and his beauty moved me to tears. That moment brought it all back. 

My horse portraits are painted to scale and hung at the exact height they would be if the horse were standing or laying before you — to give the onlooker a real sense of being in the presence of the animal. Painted in the stillness. Each portrait is suspended by the horse’s own lead rope—the same rope once used to guide them—now gently repurposed to hold their image, their spirit. Those ropes… I could have walked forever, just holding onto them.

When I think of all the artists throughout history who were such troubled souls, I realize I’m the opposite. My art doesn’t come from pain — it comes from joy. Every brushstroke, every paint choice, as the painting slowly comes together, makes me smile.

                                                                                                     

 

  • Freddie Oil on Linen

    This portrait was inspired by the first time I ever turned him out. I remember standing in awe, watching him. In that fleeting moment just before he ran, as I slipped off his head collar, he would turn and look at me—as if to say, thank you, but I must go. Then he’d gallop into the day, full of life and freedom. This portrait captures that exact expression—his quiet gratitude, his wild heart.

  • Boysie Oil on Linen

    This portrait of Boysie holds the memory of his last night on earth, before he was gently laid to rest. I remember our final walk around the yard—he paused at each of the horses, as though they all knew he was saying goodbye. One by one, they embraced him in silent recognition. This portrait captures the moment he turned back toward the world, a final glance of farewell, before taking flight for the heavenly plains—where he will run without end, never grow old, never feel pain, and where the green grass rolls on forever.

  • Rhollex Oil on Linen

    Rhollex Running Riot—a gentle giant with a name that always made people smile. This portrait captures the quiet, early mornings when I’d go to bring him in at dawn. Often, he’d still be lying down, calm and majestic, and I would sit beside him in the stillness, just admiring his grace. I’d wait until he decided to rise, and we’d begin the slow saunter back. I lost this lead rope more times than I can remember. He walked like time didn’t matter, and I’d laugh, asking, Rhollex, can you not walk any faster? He’d glance at me with mischief in his eyes, as if to say, I’ll show you how fast I can walk, then bolt like a rocket—earth thundering beneath him, my heart soaring. In those moments, I was in heaven.