About the Maps

The Typographic Origin: “Where in the World”

This series didn’t start as a grand experiment in endurance; it began at Reading College during my graphic design studies. The spark was a brief for the International Society of Typographic Designers titled “Where in the World.” Having spent the previous summer in New York, I wanted to capture the sensory overload of the city—the way the architecture and the energy felt as a visitor.

I created a large-scale linocut map of New York using nothing but typography. By varying the sizes and directions of the type, I was able to replicate the disorientation and vibrance of the streets. That project set the foundation for everything that followed. When I was later asked to create a map of London for the London Design Festival, a one-off college project evolved into a lifelong series.

The Evolution of Scale and Resilience

As the series progressed, the reasoning behind it deepened. I began to refine my process and, for a long time, I felt a drive to keep pushing the scale further. This culminated in the Berlin map—a massive, 2.4-meter block that became a defining test of my physical and mental limits.

I put roughly 2,500 hours into the manual carving of that block. To document the sheer labor involved, I created a timelapse, which reveals the slow, rhythmic evolution of the map. It was during these larger, more grueling projects that the work became a way to challenge myself. Having lived with chronic arthritis since I was 12, the physical act of relief printing is a double-edged sword. It is demanding and often painful, but seeing a project of that magnitude through to the end is a vital act of will.

During the carving of Berlin, I actually had to teach myself to carve using both my left and right hands. This allowed me to continue working on particularly painful days, giving one hand a rest while the other took over the gouge. It turned the project into a lesson in adaptability—proving that I could navigate my own physical limitations by literally changing the way I worked to keep the momentum going.

From Solitary Work to Public Connection

The culmination of the Berlin project was my first solo show. The response was overwhelming—500 people turned up for the private view. After so many thousands of hours spent alone with the lino, it was incredible to bring people into that process.

For the event, I hosted a public printing where the audience became part of the creation. Because of the scale of the work, we didn’t use a traditional press; instead, people helped me print the work using large spoons, hand-burnishing the paper against the inked lino. It was a beautiful way to share the physicality of the medium, turning what is usually a very solitary, quiet practice into a collective, high-energy event.

Typography as Geography

My maps aren’t just about location; they are about how a city speaks.

The Visual Language: I don’t just label streets; I let the letters become the streets. For the Berlin map, I integrated hundreds of unique typefaces found within the city itself—from historic signage to modern branding—ensuring the map was built from its own distinct visual DNA.
The Edit and “White Space”: I prioritize areas of visual interest over total geographic accuracy. The use of “white space” is a deliberate compositional choice; it allows the work to breathe, but it also serves a functional purpose. These uncarved areas define the shapes of roads, parks, and urban voids, ensuring the final print feels like a sophisticated piece of art rather than a purely functional document.

The Laboratory of the Press: Printing and Experimentation

Once the carving is complete, a new phase of the project begins. For me, the linocut block is not a static end-point but a tool for extensive experimentation. While I produce traditional editions, I’ve spent a great deal of time pushing the boundaries of what a relief print can be.

I treat the printing process like a laboratory. I experiment with monoprinting, where each pull from the press is a unique, one-of-a-kind variation. By varying the inking techniques, layering colors, or manipulating the pressure, I can create stylized, limited-edition versions of the maps that feel entirely different from one another. This stage allows me to play with mood and atmosphere—transforming the rigid, carved geography of the lino into something more fluid and expressive.

Coming Home

After completing Berlin, I reached a turning point. I realized I didn’t have to keep going “up” in scale to find meaning in the work. I shifted my focus to the history and intimacy of smaller locations, like my map of Bath.

Currently, I am working on a map of my home town, Reading. It feels like a full circle—bringing the techniques, the typographic philosophy, and the resilience I’ve developed over years of international maps back to the place where the project first began at college. These maps are a record of my persistence—not just in art, but in navigating the world with the hands I have.