The Names Gallery Pop-Up Exhibition, The Last Abstraction Gallery, Ottakringer Str. 23, Vienna, Austria (12–13 September 2026)

ARTMUC Autumn 2025, presented by Galeria Gaudi, MTC Locations, Munich, Germany (10–12 October 2025)

Eunoia, MONAT Gallery, Madrid, Spain (6 September – 5 October 2024)

Ethereal, MONAT Gallery, Madrid, Spain (31 May – 21 June 2024)(un)fair, Superstudio Maxi, Milan, Italy (1–3 March 2024)

Marea, MONAT Gallery, Madrid, Spain (6–20 February 2024)

Art3F Paris, Salon International d’Art Contemporain, Paris Expo Porte de Versailles, France (26–28 January 2024)

Visual Art Journal, Issue 20 (2025) – Feature and artist commentary focusing on cinematic aesthetics and your beauty ethos.

Artist Talk Magazine, Issue 31 (2024) – Coverage of The Birth of Venus, examining themes of myth, artificial intelligence, and humanity.

Art Edit Magazine, Issue 32 (2022) – Feature on Alexa, Play Come Clean.

Bachelor of Multimedia Design, Swinburne University of Technology, Melbourne, Australia, 2007

My work as a painter did not begin with painting. It began with a lifelong fascination with how images are constructed, communicated and remembered.

Before working full-time as a painter, I worked across 3D animation, graphic design, multimedia and signwriting. Each discipline gave me a different way of thinking about the image: how it is composed, how the eye moves through it, and how visual decisions create meaning.

Signwriting was particularly important to the development of VetroScope. It was where I learned to work with vinyl as a physical medium, from preparing artwork and cutting shapes and lettering with a plotter to applying finished graphics to a surface.

VetroScope grew from that history.

It brings together the different disciplines I had worked across. Traditional oil painting provides the painted image, while my background in graphic design informs the composition, shape, typography and visual hierarchy. My experience with vinyl and signwriting led me to incorporate cut vinyl into the work, applied to glass in front of the painting.

The result is an image constructed across multiple surfaces, with painting, vinyl and glass working together within a single frame.

VetroScope began with an idea about how an image could be constructed.

I had been thinking about the techniques used in early animation and cinema, particularly Disney's multi-plane camera. Characters and painted backgrounds could be placed on separate planes of glass, allowing the camera to look through the layers and create an illusion of depth.

That idea stayed with me.

I became interested in what could happen if a painted image was similarly divided across physical planes: oil on canvas, graphic elements on glass, with space between them. The result would still read as a single image, but it would exist physically across more than one surface.

The name came from that idea.

Vetro is Italian for glass, while scope suggests viewing and the optical technologies associated with cinema.

The combination of Italian and English is deliberate. As an Italian-Australian, I wanted the name to reflect both sides of my background. I also wanted it to sound as though it belonged to the world of cinema itself.

Names such as VistaVision, Panavision and Technicolor are part of the language of mid-century cinema. They describe technologies, formats and processes, but they also became part of the identity of the films and era they helped define. I wanted VetroScope to have something of that quality. It describes the physical principle behind the work while placing it within a cinematic world.

VetroScope is therefore both a technique and a name for the visual language that has grown from it: painting, graphic design, glass, depth and the constructed image.

Before cinema was experienced on a screen, it was often encountered on the street.

The posters advertising Hollywood films were designed to stop people in their tracks. They had to communicate a film quickly, from a distance, using composition, typography, colour and the recognisable presence of its stars.

But the format itself was part of the language.

Hollywood studios developed a range of standard poster sizes for different locations and purposes. The One Sheet, typically 27 × 41 inches, was designed for display in cinema foyers and theatres. The Half Sheet was smaller, while the Insert was a narrow vertical format intended to fit into display cases and other spaces. Larger formats, including the Three Sheet, were used to create a much more imposing presence.

These proportions were not arbitrary. They influenced how images were composed.

A figure could be given more height and presence in a One Sheet. A narrow Insert encouraged a different relationship between character and typography. Larger formats allowed compositions to become more theatrical, while smaller formats demanded clarity and economy.

That relationship between image and format is something I wanted to preserve in The Golden Age.

The paintings in the series use traditional film-poster proportions rather than being cropped into contemporary art formats. The dimensions become part of the composition, connecting the finished work to the visual language that originally inspired it.

There is also something appealing about retaining a format designed for public display and giving it a different life.

The original posters were advertisements. These works are paintings.

The format remains, but its purpose has changed.

Hollywood's Golden Age was shaped by a particular tension.

The films were designed to sell glamour, romance, desire and sophistication, yet the images were subject to strict rules about what could be shown and how it could be shown. The Motion Picture Production Code, commonly known as the Hays Code, governed Hollywood productions for decades, restricting everything from sexuality and language to depictions of crime and morality.

But restriction did not necessarily make the images less sophisticated.

In many cases, it made them more inventive.

A glance could replace a declaration. A gesture could suggest intimacy without showing it. A silhouette, a neckline, a pose or a carefully placed hand could carry an extraordinary amount of meaning.

The result was a visual language built around suggestion.

This coincided with a period of enormous optimism in American popular culture. After the Second World War, cinema offered audiences images of a world that was glamorous, desirable and carefully composed. Hotels, nightclubs, Riviera villas, cocktail parties, elegant wardrobes and immaculate interiors became part of an idealised visual vocabulary.

Everything seemed considered.

That restraint is one of the things I find most compelling about the period.

The elegance was not simply in the clothes or the architecture. It was in the discipline of the image itself. Compositions were controlled. Gestures were deliberate. Colour was purposeful. Even when a scene was extravagant, there was often a remarkable economy to the way it was constructed.

That quality has influenced The Golden Age.

I'm interested in the space between what an image shows and what it suggests. The paintings borrow from a period in which visual storytelling depended heavily on composition, silhouette, colour and gesture rather than simply revealing everything.

Perhaps that is why those images can still feel so powerful.

They leave something to the imagination.

Some of the most compelling things in our culture do more than exist in themselves. They suggest a world around them.

A fragrance can do it. A film can do it. A hotel, a train, a piece of design. The object becomes a doorway into something larger, leaving enough space for the imagination to complete the picture.

Penhaligon’s understands this particularly well. Its fragrances come with characters, relationships and an entire imagined society. The products are real, but the world around them gives them another dimension.

For me, though, the ultimate expression of this idea is Orient Express.

The name alone conjures an entire world: grand hotels, European cities, beautifully considered interiors, long journeys and the romance of travel for its own sake. What makes the modern Orient Express so compelling is that it doesn’t simply preserve that heritage. It brings it forward, maintaining the standards, ceremony and sense of occasion while allowing the experience to belong to the present.

That idea has become central to the way I think about my own work.

I don’t think nostalgia has to mean looking backwards. Some things from the past are worth carrying forward.

Much of my work draws from the visual language of mid-century cinema: the clothes, interiors, graphic design, architecture and atmosphere. But I’m less interested in reproducing the period than in what those images communicate. They suggest a world where presentation mattered, craftsmanship was visible, and manners, conduct and attention to detail had a place.

That is the world I want the paintings to evoke.

The image is only the beginning. I want the finished piece to feel less like a picture of somewhere else and more like a fragment that has somehow arrived from there.

Not a reproduction of the past, but something from its world, reimagined for the present.

That, to me, is where nostalgia becomes contemporary.

The first thing that comes to mind when I think of Hermès is the Kelly bag. For me, it was always Grace Kelly: that unmistakable silhouette, the elegance of the photograph, and the story of how a bag became an icon. But Hermès is perhaps better known for something broader: an uncompromising approach to craftsmanship and quality.

Hermès goes to extraordinary lengths to ensure that its craftsmanship can continue. The house has established dedicated training schools where new artisans learn alongside experienced craftspeople, developing the skills required for leatherwork, cutting and stitching. The purpose isn't simply to produce more artisans. It is to transmit the knowledge and techniques that make the objects possible in the first place.

There is something profound about that.

The idea of longevity isn't limited to making an object durable. It can mean preserving the ability to make it at all.

Patek Philippe expresses a similar idea in another way. A fine watch can outlive its maker, its owner and even the generation after that. It can be maintained, passed on and become part of someone else's life. Its value isn't exhausted when it leaves the workshop.

That changes the meaning of craftsmanship. You aren't simply making something for the present. You are participating in a chain of knowledge, while making something that may have a life beyond your own.

That principle matters to me as a painter.

A painting takes time. The materials matter. The construction matters. The way it is framed and presented matters. Every decision contributes to whether the finished work feels temporary or considered enough to endure.

I don't expect a painting to become an heirloom simply because it was made carefully. But I do want to make work with that possibility built into it.

Perhaps that is the real appeal of making things well. Not simply to make something that lasts, but to make something worth keeping.

There is a particular way of experiencing the world that has always felt cinematic to me. It is rooted in atmosphere and in the small, deliberate details that can make an ordinary moment feel larger than itself.

I am drawn to places where elegance, movement and transience meet. Venice after dark has this quality in every season. Footsteps become the only sound in the lanes; light glimmers on the canals; a boat passes quietly beneath a bridge. In winter the fog turns those same streets slightly mysterious, almost noir.

Elsewhere it appears in different forms: a night train crossing borders, the long drive over the Alps as the light fades, crossing the Bosphorus and watching the mosques and palaces rise against the skyline, a quiet bar discovered late in a foreign city, a bartender in a white jacket, a pianist in a hotel lobby, lighting a woman’s cigarette with a match. These are the moments that remain. Not the itinerary, but the light, the sound, the small act of consideration. A kindness extended or received often outlasts the memory of the station or the city in which it happened.

This way of seeing was shaped by the visual language of mid-century cinema. Those films understood that atmosphere and restraint could carry as much meaning as the story itself. A composed room, a carefully held gesture, the weight of a pause, the way light fell across a surface — these elements created a world that felt both idealised and strangely real. The same sensibility extended beyond the screen into hotel interiors, magazine pages, travel, and the small codes of manners and presentation that once shaped how people moved through public space.

I am interested in that space between reality and the image we make of it. My work does not attempt to recreate the past. It draws on the discipline, atmosphere and visual intelligence of that era in order to make something contemporary.

The Golden Age series is one expression of this fascination. Other aspects of this way of seeing — the fleeting encounters, the remembered kindnesses, the particular quality of light in a foreign city at night — have yet to find their full form in the paintings.

This is what I mean by La Vita Cinematografica: experiencing the present through a cinematic sensibility, in which memory, atmosphere and the constructed image become inseparable.