There is a terrace above Positano where the sea turns to glass at the golden hour. I sat there with a small travel palette and let the colour do most of the talking — a wash of cerulean bleeding into the warm ochre of the cliffs.

Back in the studio, I never copy the photograph. I work from the memory of the light, layering thin glazes so the paper breathes through the pigment. That luminosity is impossible to fake; it has to be built slowly.

By the time a piece is finished, it carries the warmth of the moment that inspired it. That is the whole point — not a record of a place, but the feeling of having been there.