Some people have hobbies, interests. And then there are the rare, dazzling creatures who fall into an entire universe made of paper, pigment, and patterns. Fin Fellowes is one of them.
Every origin story needs a moment of inspiration. Hers arrived in the form of Alec Cobbe, caretaker of Hatchlands Park, and creator of exquisite bespoke stationery. “I saw a teeny-tiny top-floor cupboard of an exhibition at the V&A,” she recalls, “and I couldn't believe an art form like this exists; it really sparked something.” The Kensington Paperie quickly became known for its own exquisite stationery and wrapping paper and now hosts her debut wallpaper collection – a confident and deliberate step into the world of interiors.
Inspiration arrives for Fellowes in different forms. She talks of Tirzah Garwood as a touchstone for one of the designs. In Garwood, she sees a sort of playfulness, irreverence and also draws from her colour palette. “I came away from her retrospective at the Dulwich Picture Gallery entirely enchanted.” From that, the design Percival emerged.
Marbling, in particular, has long been an obsession. “I’ve always been fascinated with marble papers and the alchemy involved. I’ve done endless interpretations of marbling using pen and inks to capture the swirls and splatters in a way that feels unique to me.”
This is how she works: zoning in on a motif, a woodgrain, or the weave of a ribbon, and interpreting it for herself. “Pattern is so pleasing because something that is really tiny, a sort of non-event, pulled into a repeat, a stripe, a grid, suddenly becomes more than the sum of its parts.”
And then, there are ribbons.
This is not casual admiration. This is a self-declared devotion. And it isn’t just about bows. It’s the motifs, the textures, the depth, and the history. Indeed, most of the fragments spark a story. While unravelling one particular bolt, Fellowes retells of when her ribbon dealer – because, obviously, she has a ribbon dealer (and frankly, we all should) – sent a photo of Paul Mescal. Why? Because the Gladiator tunic he was wearing sported the very same trim from France that she had procured for The Kensington Paperie.
This is a practice built on obsession, reinterpretation, and the radical belief that tiny things deserve enormous attention. Swirls matter. Doodles matter. Ribbon trim from Roman-adjacent tunics absolutely matters. And of her tools? They are less rarefied than you might imagine. No precious sable brushes under glass. “The best brushes are always the oldest, gnarliest ones,” she insists. “And definitely stolen from the children at some point – the ones that just give.”
Somewhere, in a jar of murky, inky water, a very old brush is quietly doing the work of its life.