Pride sits comfortably at the front of the seven deadly sins, polished and self-assured, convinced it deserves the lead role. In this painting, Pride is not loud or aggressive; it is quiet, manicured, and carefully maintained. It lives behind a low fence, in straight mowing lines and a lawn that glows with impossible perfection. Everything here is in its place, and that, perhaps, is the point.
The scene is suburban, familiar, and deceptively calm. A garden sprinkler ticks steadily at the centre of the lawn, tracing slow arcs of water that keep the grass impossibly green. This is not a garden left to chance; it is managed, controlled, and curated. The house stands proudly behind it, solid and respectable, painted in colours that speak of permanence and order. Nothing is out of line. Nothing is accidental.
In the foreground sits a gleaming, immaculate red pedal car. It is parked just so, angled to be seen, its curves catching the light. This is not merely a toy; it is a statement. It represents care, ownership, and display. The child who owns it may be absent, but the object remains as evidence: look what we have, look how well we look after things. Pride often speaks through possessions, especially those designed to be noticed.
Yet Pride rarely exists alone. Woven quietly into the painting is Envy, peering through a narrow gap in the curtains next door. The neighbour remains unseen, reduced to a presence rather than a person, defined by their gaze rather than their identity. They watch from the shadows, separated by walls and hedges, measuring their own life against what is visible across the boundary. Is this admiration or longing? Is it inspiration or resentment? Envy does not announce itself; it observes.
The relationship between the two houses is crucial. One displays, the other looks on. One curates perfection, the other consumes it visually. Pride needs an audience, even an unwilling one. Without comparison, its power fades. The perfect lawn only matters because someone else can see it. The shine on the pedal car only exists to be reflected in another’s eyes.
There is a tension here between childhood innocence and adult behaviour. The pedal car suggests play, imagination, and freedom, yet it is framed within an adult world of property lines, status, and presentation. The garden becomes a stage, the toy a prop. Even childhood is drawn into the performance.
Colour plays a quiet but persuasive role. The greens are rich and controlled, the red of the car confident and bold. Nothing clashes; everything harmonises. This is a world where effort has been invested to create an impression of ease. Pride thrives in this balance, where labour disappears behind appearance.
Ultimately, Pride asks a simple question: Who is this for? Is the lawn enjoyed, or merely maintained? Is the pedal car loved, or displayed? And across the way, behind the curtain, does Envy dream of joining this scene, or of surpassing it? Between these two houses, a silent exchange takes place, reminding us that the sins rarely act alone, and that even the most perfect surface can conceal uneasy desires beneath.
Oil on fine portrait linen: 125 x 95 cm; 49.21 x 37.4 in (Sold)
37 Pride
Oil on fine portrait linen: 125 x 95 cm; 49.21 x 37.4 in (Sold)
