Since October, I’ve been working on a monthly process, painting a large canvas, then covering it over to begin again. It’s intentional. Each layer represents a feeling or experience, painted over by the next, like life, where so much sits beneath the surface. Some months I returned the canvas to white; others I worked straight over what was there. Each layer has taken on a different style, reflecting both the moment and how I’ve changed over time.

In March, I took myself off to Falmouth for a week. I’d never been before, and it felt somehow much further away than it really is. I went by train, which slowed everything down in a good way. No rushing, no driving, just watching the amazing landscape change. Falmouth itself felt full of contrast, wide skies, shifting weather, soft sandy coves one moment and rugged, rocky edges the next.

Since my cataract operation in December, I’ve been living with what I can only describe as optical chaos. One eye is crystal clear. The other isn’t. If I’m wearing reading glasses, I can’t see anything more than two feet away. Without them, I can see into the distance beautifully, but not my phone, my plate, or the TV remote (which I now operate entirely by guesswork).

Last week’s word was connection: from the Latin connectere, meaning “to bind together.” It began as something physical: tying, linking, fastening, and has grown to describe everything from relationships to any place two things touch. I've been playing with acrylic and watercolour inks this week, wetting the paper and dropping inks and letting them find their own connection. I love the randomness of what happens - …

This week’s word is roots, quiet, steadfast things that hold life together. You rarely see them, yet they do all the work, anchoring, feeding, connecting. The word itself is ancient, from Old English rōt and Latin radix, which also gives us radical — literally “to go to the root.” I love that: to be radical isn’t to reject what came before, but to dig deep into origins, essence, and truth.

This week’s word is liminality, from the Latin limen, meaning threshold. It describes the space between what was and what’s next: the moment of suspension before transformation takes hold. Doorways, bridges, shorelines at low tide. They sit between states, quietly holding their breath. Portals. It feels especially relevant now. The year itself stands on a threshold, Halloween, Samhain, the turning from light to dark.

October’s been full of small experiments that have made me get excited about my art again. My Creative Hug project, a loose structure built around a “word of the week” and a larger project, has given me that nudge I've needed. Each word sparks fresh activities, readings, or just little shifts in how I see things.   I've been watching leaves fall into puddles, shadows form on walls and paint drip randomly. 

This week’s word is serendipity - those happy accidents that seem to find you when you’re not looking. The word itself comes from an old Persian tale about three princes who kept stumbling upon discoveries by chance, guided by curiosity and awareness rather than control. In my art, serendipity feels like the moment a drip lands perfectly, or a colour I didn’t plan suddenly makes the whole piece sing.

Not everything needs to be understood. Some things are meant to be felt and experienced. My word of the week has been mystery. Etymology & history of “mystery” From Latin mysterium → from Greek mystērion (plural mystēria) = “a secret rite, a hidden truth known only to the initiated.” Related to mystēs (“one who has been initiated”) and myein (“to close the eyes or lips”), suggesting secrecy or silent knowing.

As part of my Creative Hug, I have a word a week to inspire my art. This week, I’m doing everything with curiosity - in my drawings, my walks, daily life. I have enjoyed learning the etymology of "curiosity". Historically, curious took quite a journey. In medieval times, it was almost an insult - suggesting nosiness or meddling in things best left alone, especially divine mysteries.

A Continuing Painting This winter, I’m inspired by Judy Tuwaletstiwa’s approach of returning to one painting again and again, layering it with time, thought, and presence. Instead of creating many “finished” works, I’ll be living with a single canvas — an ongoing conversation rather than a product. This idea has been bubbling away for months after I heard Judy’s story, so I am giving it a go!

Winter can be a difficult time for me as I navigate chronic fatigue and longstanding SAD (seasonal affective disorder). But I’ve learned that the rhythm of the seasons can also be a guide, a way to create structure, meaning, and light in the darker months. This year I’ve designed a Seasonal Daily Art Practice to carry me through autumn, winter, and into spring.

I was watching Moana at the weekend with my granddaughter. Every time, one scene in particular stays with me: Moana standing on the beach, staring out to the horizon, knowing she has to go beyond the reef. She doesn’t know exactly what she’ll find out there. She just feels the pull. Others tell her to stay, to be content where she is, but the call doesn’t go away.

Art is connection, not decoration We underestimate the power of our surroundings. The things we see every day—walls, colours, textures, shape our mood more than we realise. That’s why art isn’t just “decoration.” A painting you truly love can shift your whole state of mind. Maybe it’s a calm landscape that soothes you after a tough day, or a bold abstract that lifts your energy before you even have your first coffee.

Bimbling A gentle, meandering walk with no particular haste or purpose. Wiktionary With the speed of modern life where we rush around from morning till night to achieve everything, the concept of &…

Say no to landfill, say yes to real art! We live in a world where so much is made to be thrown away - clothes, furniture, coffee cups...... Everything is designed for speed, not longevity. Art is the opposite. A painting, a sculpture, a drawing..... These are things made to last, with care, attention, and a bit of the maker’s soul poured in.

“What does it mean??” We've all asked it. But here's the truth: there's no right answer. You don’t need to understand art to feel it. You just need to let it get to you.

(Why Imperfect Art Might Be Exactly What You Need) Mark Rothko once said, when pressed about the meaning of his art: “You’ve got sadness in you, I’ve got sadness in me – and my works of art are places where the two sadnesses can meet, and therefore both of us need to feel less sad.” (as told by Alain de Botton)

Do you ever say "it'll be ok" when deep inside you know it won't? It's a big problem for me sometimes, and of course whatever it might be rarely works out and boom, a chance to beat myself up. 🫤 Today I was prepping some cards for my website and getting a large piece of paper taped off ready. I knew it was the wrong paper "it'll be ok" but I taped it up and added the 1st layer of gesso.

(Or: Why That IKEA Print Will Never Speak to Your Soul) Real art—art made by a human hand—can stir something in us. And that can be unsettling, especially with abstract work. No one tells you what it means. It might be easier to choose something mass-produced, designed to blend in, not stand out. But when you buy a piece made by an artist, you’re choosing connection and authenticity.

In January 2024, just one week into leaving my career to focus on art, I collapsed, physically and emotionally. I couldn’t create, couldn’t function. It took months to understand that this wasn’t a sudden fall, but a long-overdue stop. I had been holding everything up for years. Recovery has been slow, and life has had to change completely. But now, 18 months on, I’m about 80% back.

Yesterday, I was reminded of the quiet power of an abundant mindset — especially in creative work. I had been listening to a talk by Nicolas Wilton, one of my mentors. He spoke about the importance of sharing everything we know with those who are a few steps behind us on the path. Nick says that this generosity is not just kind, it’s magnetic.

When Is a Painting Finished? It’s the question I get asked more than any other: how do you know when it’s finished? The truth is, there’s no single answer. Every artist approaches it differently. For some, it’s a feeling. For others, a technical assessment. Many of us rely on time and space to help us see clearly. Personally, I know a painting is finished when it stops pulling at my attention.

Why Do Abstract Paintings Move Me So Deeply? In my last blog post, I wrote about my response to my friend Alan Brain's painting, A Curious Sadness. It’s a simple yet powerful composition—two bold shapes in electric blue and deep red, conveying a sense of emotion that I found deeply moving. I’ve noticed this isn’t an isolated experience. Certain abstract works seem to reach into me and stir something profound.

Artist Alan Brain's abstract piece, "The Curious Sadness," is a masterclass in simplicity and emotion. Two bold shapes in electric blue and deep red evoke a sense of curiosity and melancholy, while subtle details draw the eye. This is my personal interpretation – I wonder, what do you see? Alan Brain: A curious sadness 2025. An artist friend, Alan Brain, recently shared his latest painting on Facebook, playfully asking for title suggestions.