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Venus on the Half Shell began, in part, as a response to criticism that the women in my paintings tend to be idealised, often appearing in poses reminiscent of pin-ups. I thought it might be time for a different kind of Venus.

She stands on the forecourt of a petrol station, fuel nozzle in hand, entirely at ease with herself and seemingly oblivious to the fact that she has become the centre of the image. Her pose is almost theatrical in its elegance: one arm lifted, the body turned, the weight settling naturally through the hips. Yet there is no performance in her expression. She is not presenting herself to the viewer. The gesture feels casual, even absent-minded — a fleeting moment of nonchalance caught somewhere between the everyday and the monumental.

That contrast was important to me. The setting is deliberately ordinary, even banal, but the figure occupies it with the confidence and presence traditionally reserved for far more idealised bodies. The damaged Shell sign behind her adds a layer of visual playfulness, while also reinforcing the curious tension between the mundane and the mythic.

I wanted the humour to remain affectionate rather than satirical. She is neither caricature nor corrective, and the painting is not intended as a simple statement about body image. More than anything, it is about presence: about allowing a body that is rarely treated as classical, heroic or iconic to inhabit the picture with complete naturalness. The result is less a rejection of the traditional Venus than a quiet expansion of who might be allowed to become one