In October 2024, I was proud to be part of a Black History Month event at the University of Reading, made possible through Jelly’s support. After going through the application process, I was given a dedicated space for a month to create new work. It marked the first time in nearly seven years that I picked up the brush and painted on canvas again.
That period in my life was confusing. I had just graduated and was trying to find my place in the world. I was applying for graduate schemes and getting rejection after rejection. I didn’t really know where I was heading or what I was supposed to be doing. Everything felt up in the air.
Around that time, I was also working part-time in kitchens. Before that, I had somehow managed to get into a fancier kitchen as a chef de partie. I kind of lied my way into it, saying, “Yeah, I can do that,” because at that moment I really thought that was what I wanted to do. And it was fun for a while — the chaos, the movement, the creativity of it — but deep down I knew it wasn’t for me. There was a point where I caught myself thinking, what’s the end goal here? Do I want to own a restaurant? No. Then why am I still here? I was just going through the motions, trying to make sense of life.
During that time, I was still part of Jelly’s Young Creatives, meeting people, soaking up new ideas, learning what art could look like in the real world. I didn’t fully see myself as an artist yet, but something inside me was starting to pull back in that direction. Then one day, during my break at work, I got a message from the Young Creatives group. They were looking for artists to take part in a Black History Month exhibition.
At first, my plan was to curate other artists. I wanted to highlight Black creatives who inspired me, like Slawn, Mowalola, and Charlie Mitchell. Slawn was tearing up the art world, Mowalola was reshaping fashion, and Charlie Mitchell was the first Black Michelin-starred chef in New York. I thought it would be great to celebrate them.
But when I spoke with Laura and others at Jelly, they asked me something simple that changed everything. “Why don’t you make your own work?” It hit me. I said, yeah, you know what, I will. And that’s what I did.
Jelly gave me a whole month to use the studio, and I showed up every single day. Some days I painted from morning till late. I didn’t overthink anything; I just let it happen. Paint, energy, emotion, everything poured out. It felt healing, it felt real. I wasn’t thinking about how the work would look — I was just trying to express what I felt.
By the end of the month, I had about fifteen paintings. They were wild, abstract, and full of movement. They didn’t look like what I make now, but they carried truth. When the exhibition came around, people came in and reacted in ways I couldn’t predict. Some were confused, some loved it, and some connected so deeply that they bought pieces. I made around sixty pounds, which wasn’t life-changing, but it meant something. It was people saying, “I see you.”
One person who visited was a lecturer from the University of Reading’s Geography Department. She was drawn to one piece in particular — The Boy and the Heron, which I had painted after watching the Studio Ghibli film. She told me the painting spoke to her, that it carried a mix of chaos and peace that she couldn’t quite explain. Later on, she reached out and asked if it could be permanently installed in the department. That moment stopped me in my tracks.
I was still getting rejection emails from jobs, still feeling unsure about where life was heading, but that one conversation gave me a glimpse of something real. I realised I didn’t need to have everything figured out to be doing what I was meant to do.
Pictures of the event and the lead‑up to it can be seen on Jelly’s Instagram here.