Matt Eley is a British artist whose work explores the mental weight of language through bold, text-based paintings. Working in monochrome, Eley uses black ink and acrylic to hand-paint single words or short phrases that sit at the intersection of graphic design and fine art. His pieces are immediate yet reflective—designed to resonate like fragments of thought, memory, or emotion.
Can you tell us about your journey into the art world? Did it start with the act of creation or being more on the sidelines?
My journey started firmly in creation. I’ve been a graphic designer for over 30 years, 25 of which have been spent running my own agency. I’ve been lucky enough to produce campaigns for some of the biggest brands in the world. As a graphic designer that creative output always lives within boundaries: client briefs, deadlines, and commercial objectives.
After many years of that cycle, I started to feel a pull towards something that wasn’t just about solving problems for others, but about expressing my own emotions, thoughts and memories. Painting offers that space. It gives me permission to slow down, to create without a set outcome in mind, and to explore permanence in a way graphic design struggles with. Painting has become my way to create something more personal, more permanent. It isn’t a rejection of design, but a pivot – a recognition that my creative life needed a different outlet.
Do you collect art?
Absolutely. I have a broad collection of work gathered directly from artists or purchased at art fairs and exhibitions. I really enjoy meeting the artists whose work I bring home; hearing their stories and understanding what drove them to create a particular piece adds another layer of meaning for me.
My collection is quite eclectic. I’m drawn to pieces that feel honest and human – sometimes it’s a fragment of text that resonates, sometimes it’s a texture or a colour that feels familiar. I’ve collected everything from small works on paper by emerging artists to larger canvases that have been with me for decades.
Collecting art keeps me connected to the wider creative community. It’s a reminder that art is a conversation, not just a product. As an artist myself, I find it important to support other artists and keep that dialogue alive.
You have a career in graphic design and branding, and know the power of visual arts in communicating a message. To what extent should art, or artists, be political?
I think art inevitably carries politics with it, whether the artist intends it or not. Words, in particular, are loaded; they’re constantly weaponised, reframed, and fought over. So when I paint, I realise I’m not making an entirely neutral gesture – I’m acknowledging that language shapes culture and identity and is wide open to interpretation. That said, I don’t see my role as telling people what to think politically. I’m more interested in creating a space where people can encounter words differently, pause, and feel their weight again. If that prompts political reflection, so much the better – but I don’t believe art should ever reduce itself to pure propaganda.
As a follow-up question: To what extent should they be ‘politically correct’?
I don’t think artists should be constrained by political correctness in the corporate sense. That kind of safe, slightly sanitised expression is what I’ve spent decades carefully navigating with brands – it certainly has its place, but I wouldn’t call it art. At the same time, I’m not interested in provocation for provocation’s sake. For me, the most powerful art isn’t about offending or pleasing, it’s about honesty. If the truth of a phrase or an emotion is uncomfortable, then that discomfort is part of the work.
Can you tell us about your methodology?
I love working with words – short, loaded phrases that carry layers of meaning. My process usually begins with something I’ve overheard, a memory, or an inner dialogue that refuses to leave me. I strip it back to its rawest form, and then I begin painting. The hand-painted aspect is crucial: in an age where words are endlessly typed, printed, and pixelated, I want the human presence in the brushstrokes to be visible.
The collections I’ve created reflect two sides of this approach. ‘Love Lettered’ is stark, monochrome, intimate – fragments of declarations and regrets. ‘Echoes of Urban Decay’ brings in distressed surfaces and layers of texture to mimic the erosion of time. In both cases, the methodology is about allowing words to take centre stage, not as decoration, but as emotional invitations.
What percentage of your works are commissions?
At the moment, commissions account for perhaps 15 to 20 percent of my work. The majority of my practice is self-driven, following my own threads of memory and language. But I do enjoy commissions, because they often bring in words or circumstances that wouldn’t otherwise have crossed my path.
As a follow-up question: Do you prefer to be given a brief or carte blanche when it comes to commissions?
That really depends on the buyer. Sometimes people come to me with a very fixed idea of the words they want, often because they’re deeply personal, and in those cases there isn’t much room for collaboration, which I completely respect. The commissions I enjoy most are when someone gives me an experience or memory that matters to them and then trusts me to interpret it in my own voice. That trust keeps the work alive, rather than feeling like I’m just executing someone’s instructions. If someone simply wants a piece to add to their collection, they can always buy directly from the gallery wall. Commissions should feel more personal than that.
Do you have any exhibitions coming up?
I’ll be exhibiting work in the Brighton Winter Open Houses, running from 29 November to 16 December, in collaboration with Studio 106 and George Gallery.
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