My name is Paul Lee Stevenson, and I work under the title of The Imp, as I feel that best represents the scope of my work which I call Pop-Alchemy—an attempt to turn the glitter and grit of British pop culture into something visionary, mystical, and oddly sincere. I trained at Northampton College back in the nineties, though after that my life took a peripatetic turn of such labyrinthine peculiarities that it’s hardly worth recording here. Let’s just say I strayed far from the studio, only to circle back years later with a renewed sense of purpose—and a taste for transformation.

In Pop-Alchemy, I reimagine the icons of our national dreamscape: Gnasher, The Hooden Horse, Dave Hill of Slade. Gnasher, Dennis the Menace’s feral companion, becomes a kind of shaggy familiar—part demon, part totem of untamed energy. In his snarl I see the ancient spirit of rebellion, the gleeful chaos that underpins so much of British humour. The Hooden Horse merged with Showaddywaddy becomes, through day-glow Teddy Boyisms, a folk deity of sequins and swagger, a cross between a pantomime steed and a rock ’n’ roll saint, stamping out the rhythm of national nostalgia. Crowley, standing in for Dave Hill is my glittering hierophant of the everyday—his silver suit a priestly robe, his grin a benediction. And Slade themselves are the elemental chorus, alchemists of sound who turn noise into ecstasy, their stomp and shout echoing like a mass for the working-class divine.

Visually, my pieces thrive on contradictions: off season end of the pier revues entwined with occult sigils, cartoon ink merging with celestial gold. I want to reveal the hidden mysticism of British kitsch—the holiness of the half-cut knees-up, the transcendence of tinsel and feedback.

Pop-Alchemy, for me, is a form of reclamation and resurrection. It’s about finding magic in mischief, and grace in glitter. In Gnasher’s snarl, the Hooden Horses rictus grin, and Slade’s thunder, I see a vision of Britain that’s both ridiculous and radiant—where even chaos can be sacred.