Sid White-Jones' work uncovers the beauty within forgotten moments, demonstrating that even the most overlooked details can tell powerful stories. Balancing intuition and technique, each piece invites viewers to contemplate the delicate tension between permanence and transience.

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Is art created for the artist, the audience, or somewhere in between? 

I think it can be all three. Often, though, the most exciting work is the kind the artist never intended to be seen - not because of the voyeuristic element, but because their time has been entirely focused on improving the work and experimenting with the medium. When recognition or commercial success becomes a factor, time with the work itself is inevitably sacrificed in favour of writing proposals, applying for grants, managing a digital presence, and all the other demands that come with being a working artist. Take Vivian Maier, for example. She worked as a nanny but spent decades secretly photographing, amassing over 100,000 exposures without ever sharing them. Her work was only discovered after her death when her undeveloped negatives were sold to John Maloof in 2007 at a blind auction in Chicago and later exhibited by him to international acclaim. It seems that she created purely for herself, driven by something personal rather than by a pursuit of recognition.

 

I’m currently reading Poor Artists by Gabrielle de Puente and Zarina Muhammad, and there’s a character in the book so determined to be a full-time artist that she spends two days a week producing large-scale neon paintings—just because they sell. While that initially sounds commercially driven and audience-led, she actually detests the paintings and exhibits them under a pseudonym, using the income to fund the work she truly cares about, which she creates under her real name. She feels conflicted about this but can’t see another way to afford herself enough time to make the work she wants to do, so sometimes there’s a sacrifice worth making.  I’d say I’m somewhere in between. When I’m collaging with found negatives on the lightbox, I’m completely making work for myself - no thoughts of anything else. But when I start enlarging those images, fixing them on canvas, and preparing them for a gallery setting, I begin considering the audience, the space, and the reception. I enjoy that process - it doesn’t feel like a sacrifice of my personal preferences or time, but rather a way to curate my work so it better engages with the themes of a particular show.

Do you feel a personal connection to your subject matter is essential? How has this connection shaped your work? 

Not at all. In fact, the opposite. Having no personal connection to the subject matter allows me to be more objective. This detachment is why I gravitate towards working with found negatives. I do shoot a lot of my own photographs too, but I tend to fixate on achieving a specific outcome, which often leaves me feeling unsatisfied. With found images, the photograph already exists - I don’t know who took it or why - so I can reconfigure it in whatever way feels most natural. Because of the structure of the celluloid and the tools I use to rework them, that journey of decisions can then be traced on the surface of each canvas - every cut and crop remains visible.

Can you take us through the evolution of an artwork, from that first spark of inspiration to the finished piece? 

Yeah, sure. It all starts with negatives or positives, mostly 35mm. I manipulate these in various ways over a lightbox, using all sorts of chemicals and tools to achieve different effects. At this stage, I’m not looking for anything in particular - I just let the images take me in different directions. When I feel I’ve reached something interesting, I scan them in and begin scaling them up using an industrial printer. Sometimes they remain small, around five inches, but more often, they’re much larger. The shift in scale is something I find really interesting - as later they become quite imposing objects, no longer something that can be simply tucked away or pocketed, but something you have to encounter. I then enlarge them, working on small sections at a time, which forms their grid-like structure. I then use a range of transfer techniques to paint these printed sections onto canvas. The process, if you were to watch it, resembles printmaking more than painting, involving a squeegee and multiple layers of paint. The final stage is the most intense: revealing the image. Once the layers of paint and paper have dried, I carefully remove them until only the ink remains. It involves a lot of scrubbing with water and cloth and is physically demanding - something I had been seeking more of. These moments are always thrilling because, even though I know what’s underneath, there’s still an element of surprise. The materials can sometimes cause unexpected slippages or breaks, and I welcome those interventions.

Have you ever struggled with the ethics of your art—such as who it represents or who it impacts? 

It’s something I think about a lot. One of the main reasons I love working with discarded photographs - truly discarded, not just stored away - is the confidence that, without my intervention, they would have ceased to exist. I find them in skips and other abandoned places, which helps me feel assured that I’m not interfering with someone’s personal archive in a way that feels unethical. I wouldn’t have any concerns about just scanning and preserving them, but because my process involves physically tearing and reconstructing the images, I need to trust that I’m working with them in a responsible way, which I think I am. There’s something fascinating about the banality of the photos I find in these places - they tend to be incidental shots, moments caught between important events, or simple mistakes: figures in party clothes with their heads cropped off, vast foreign vistas obscured by rogue fingers, and the tail end of film rolls, forever marked by flame.

How important is it for viewers to understand the intended message of your work? Does ambiguity add value, or do you seek clarity in your expression? 

The only real message is that I’ve saved these photographs from oblivion—though I wouldn’t really call that a message, just the reality of how they’ve come to exist in a new context. Any meaning tends to emerge through the process of making. Most people view them ambiguously, and that’s enjoyable in its own way, as sometimes seeing behind the curtain can spoil things. But if someone asks how they’re created, I’m always happy to explain. At my recent show With Edges Like Glass at Cambridge Artworks, I set up a lightbox at the front desk with the original celluloid collages so visitors could see how I work with them in their miniature form—the most solitary part of my process. From there, I could explain how they’re scaled up, painted, peeled, and washed down. I don’t seek to hide anything, but to be honest, it tends to be other artists who are most interested in that level of detail, which makes sense. That said, none of this is essential to know before looking at the work. In fact, it’s often the ambiguity of the image itself that sparks those conversations in the first place.

Is there a piece of art you’ve created that now feels entirely different to you with the passage of time? 

Definitely my series Residues. While they are physically different from the works I’m making now - being photographic prints - they marked the first time I worked with discarded photographs, in this case, ones I found in a skip. I originally made the collages years ago, but something about their scanned versions didn’t sit right with me - something was getting lost in their transition to digital. I left them untouched for ages, gathering virtual dust on my desktop, until I came across an open call from ICBQ Magazine looking for ‘unseen and unused work that didn’t quite make the cut’. I sent them across that same day. That opportunity made me revisit them, and through the process of being interviewed about the series, I saw them in a new light. At the time, I hadn’t really considered the significance of salvaging work that would otherwise be destroyed - I had simply found the images and made something with them. That realisation came later, which is often the case for me. I tend to figure out why I’m drawn to certain things long after I’ve already started working with them. Time and distance can be really valuable, and it comes back to that idea of objectivity. That’s one of the reasons I prefer analogue to digital. You don’t get instant results, and that delay really helps my mindset. By the time you’ve exposed the film - and even more so if you send it off for processing - you’ve had time to let go of the idealised image in your head, allowing you to see the work with fresh eyes. 

How do you reignite creativity during those inevitable periods of self-doubt or stagnation?

I’m not sure I do this very well, but when I feel I’m stagnating, I shift my focus to engaging with media instead of creating it - seeing shows, reading books, watching films or whatever feels the most immersive at the time. The less this relates to my own work, the better; otherwise, it can have the opposite effect, making me even more unsure of where to head next. I’ve never been someone who takes a complete break, but balancing two jobs alongside my practice - and everything that comes with it - means that after a particularly productive period, my inspiration can drop off simply because I’ve had no time for anything other than physically making the work. After a while of just engaging with the world and the work of others, I naturally reach a point where it feels right - easy, even - to jump back in.

What are your long-term aspirations as an artist, both personally and professionally? 

In the long term, I just want more time to make work. I’d love to be able to quit one of my jobs and devote the majority of my week to my practice - I’m curious about the work that would come from that. Thanks to my AA2A residency and the facilities at Anglia Ruskin, I’ve been able to produce far more than usual this year, so I think having the time and space to sustain that momentum would lead to good results and allow me to build a larger body of work.

Are there any upcoming projects or dreams that you’re particularly excited about?

Yeah, definitely. My friend Vincenzo Sgaramella and I are currently working on an exhibition called STAFF ROOM, which will take place at Kettle’s Yard in August. It will feature artworks by staff members who balance their own creative practice alongside their day jobs - which is a lot of us. I’m also enjoying experimenting with some new techniques during the remainder of my AA2A residency at Anglia Ruskin University, including laser cutting and ceramics. Right now, I’m working on recreating my grandmother’s tiled splashback in ceramics, firing found photographs onto the surface to explore how cooking shaped our family life. Later this year, the other artists on the residency and I have a show at the Ruskin Gallery to mark the end of the residency, and I’d love to exhibit some of these work-in-progress pieces there, alongside my current work.

If you could live anywhere in the world to further inspire your creativity, where would it be?

Hmm, maybe Brussels? I’m sure I’m romanticising it a bit - last time I was there, it was summer, I was with friends, and everyone was out on the streets enjoying themselves. But I felt really relaxed there. One day, I broke off from my friends to visit Harlan Levey Projects. I love TR Ericsson’s work, and since he’s collaborated with them a lot, I was determined to check it out. But it was much farther than I expected and almost impossible to find. I nearly gave up, but on my last loop around the block, I spotted the tiniest sign, rang the bell, and got let in. Inside, it was absolutely packed. On the way out, some of the other visitors invited me along to their open studios, so we spent the rest of the afternoon dipping in and out of tons of studios – everyone was so welcoming and there was so much to see, it was great.

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Through collage and found images, Sid White-Jones revitalizes the forgotten, giving discarded memories a second life. By embracing ambiguity and unpredictability, the work exemplifies art’s ability to spark reflection and foster connection. As it continues evolving, Sid’s art will undoubtedly deepen its exploration of memory, chance, and preservation.