There is something special about walking into a space that has creativity in mind.
Not a rented room that happens to have enough tables and chairs. Not a community hall where the tables are packed away at the end of the day. A space where every brush, every colour, every artwork you create quietly reminds you why you came.
That's what I wanted to create with Art in the Garden Room.
Nestled in my garden, the large enclosed room is surrounded by greenery, birdsong and changing light throughout the day. Before a brush even touches the paper, something begins to shift. The pace slows. The outside world becomes a little quieter. There is permission to simply be present, enjoy the company and relax.
We often think of art as something we produce, but the truth is that art also gives something back.
Creating art encourages us to observe more closely. We notice the subtle colours in a leaf, the rhythm of tree branches or the way afternoon light falls across a garden. Our attention moves away from our ever-growing to-do lists and towards the small details that are so easily overlooked.
That simple act of paying attention is incredibly restorative.
A relaxed creative space also offers something that is becoming increasingly rare—freedom from distraction. Phones are set aside, conversations become meaningful, and there is no pressure to rush. It's amazing how quickly two hours can pass when you're completely absorbed in the creative process.
I've noticed that people often arrive carrying the weight of the week. Within a short time, shoulders relax, laughter fills the room and the focus shifts from getting things "right" to simply enjoying the process. Some students leave with artwork they're proud of. Others leave with something equally valuable—a clearer mind and a renewed sense of calm.
There is also something wonderfully inspiring about creating in a unique space rather than a classroom. Everyone can see demonstrations clearly, questions are easily answered, and conversations happen naturally. It's a welcoming environment where creativity feels shared rather than intimidating.
The garden itself becomes part of the experience.
Season by season it changes, offering new colours, textures and inspiration. Sometimes it's the call of a magpie, the movement of leaves in the breeze or the changing sky that sparks an idea. Nature has always been one of my greatest teachers, and having it just outside the art room door is a gentle reminder that inspiration is everywhere if we take the time to look.
Art doesn't ask us to be perfect. It simply asks us to notice, to experiment and to enjoy the journey.
Whether someone has painted for years or is picking up a brush for the very first time, a creative space can make all the difference. It becomes more than just a room—it becomes a place where confidence grows, curiosity returns and creativity is given room to flourish.
For me, that's what Art in the Garden Room has become.
Not just a space, but a little creative sanctuary where people can slow down, connect with nature and rediscover the simple joy of making something with their own hands.
And perhaps that's the greatest gift a creative space can offer.

Featured Photo: Art in the Garden Room

There is a difference between attending an art workshop and experiencing one.
I've been thinking about this a lot recently. As both an artist and someone who teaches regularly, I often reflect on the workshops I've attended over the years. Every workshop, whether brilliant or disappointing, teaches me something about what helps people learn and what leaves them feeling lost.
For me, an excellent workshop isn't measured by the finished painting everyone takes home. It's measured by how confident participants feel when they leave.

The first 15 or 20 minutes matter more than many people realise.
Participants need to understand what they're about to learn, what materials they'll be using and what the process will look like. They need to know that it's okay to make mistakes and that they're in a supportive environment.
A brief introduction removes uncertainty and allows everyone to settle into a creative mindset.

One of the most powerful teaching tools is simply showing people.
Watching an experienced artist make decisions in real time is incredibly valuable. It isn't just about seeing brushstrokes or colour mixing. It's hearing the thought process.
"I'm making this area darker because I want the eye to travel here."
"Notice how I'm holding the palette knife differently to create this texture."
These small insights often become the biggest learning moments.
A demonstration doesn't need to be long, but it should give participants a clear starting point before they're expected to work independently.

People don't attend workshops simply to rent a table and paint.
They come because they want to learn.  That means circulating around the room, offering encouragement, answering questions and gently guiding participants when they become stuck.
Some people ask for help easily. Others quietly struggle, hoping someone will notice.
An attentive tutor recognises both.  Sometimes all it takes is one thoughtful suggestion or one reassuring comment to help someone move forward with confidence.

No two participants arrive with the same experience.
Some may have painted for years, while others are holding a brush or a palette knife for the very first time.  An excellent tutor adjusts their approach accordingly. They encourage beginners without overwhelming them and challenge more experienced artists without taking over their work. The goal isn't to produce identical paintings.
The goal is to help each person grow from wherever they currently are.

Many adults arrive at art workshops carrying years of self-doubt.  "I can't draw."
"I'm not creative." "I'm afraid I'll ruin it." 
A great tutor understands that teaching is about more than technique.
It's about creating an environment where people feel comfortable experimenting, asking questions and making mistakes without judgement.
When participants feel safe, they become willing to take creative risks—and that's where the real learning begins.

The best workshops don't produce twenty identical paintings lined up at the end of the day.  Instead, they encourage participants to interpret ideas in their own way.
The tutor provides knowledge, demonstrates techniques and offers guidance, but leaves room for individual expression.  That's how confidence grows.

People rarely remember every technical tip they were taught.
They remember how the workshop made them feel.

• Did they feel welcomed?
• Did they feel supported?
• Did they leave having learnt something new?
• Did they feel inspired to keep creating when they got home?

Those are the things that turn a good workshop into an excellent one.

As artists and teachers, we have the privilege of helping people discover their creativity. That's a responsibility I never take lightly.

Every workshop I teach reminds me that people aren't just investing their money—they're investing their time, their trust and often a little bit of their confidence.
For me, that's what makes an excellent workshop: not simply teaching art, but helping people believe they can continue creating long after the day is over.

​What do you like or expect from a workshop?  Leave comment below. 

Featured Photo: Close up of the texture from a working piece.

One of the unexpected challenges I've faced since finishing the Kingston Magnify Artist Residency has been finding my way back into a regular studio practice.
You would think that after spending months immersed in painting, I'd come home full of momentum and naturally keep going. The reality has been quite different.  Last week, I got a reality check!
Life quietly filled the spaces.
The washing needed doing. The shopping couldn't wait. The house needed cleaning. Emails piled up. There were several classes to prepare, social media to post, and a hundred little jobs that all seemed more urgent than picking up a palette knife.
At first, I found myself feeling frustrated. Why wasn't I creating as much as I had during the residency?  Reality set in as I  asked myself an uncomfortable question.
Who was making these decisions?  The answer was simple.  Me.
Nobody was stopping me from painting. Nobody was telling me that vacuuming was more important than creating art. I was making those choices every day without even realising it.
During the residency, studio time was protected. It was scheduled.  I left home to a space filled with purpose. It was expected. I didn't wait until everything else was finished before I painted—I painted because that was the priority.
Somewhere along the way, I had quietly reversed those priorities.  I hadn't seen my studio as a space of purpose, I almost saw it as a guilty pleasure.
The truth is, there will always be another load of washing. The supermarket will still be there tomorrow. Dust has an incredible talent for returning!
If I wait until every job is done before I walk into the studio, I'll probably never make another painting.
So I've made a promise to myself.  I am going to get back to viewing my studio as a place of purpose - to create!
I'm going to start blocking out pockets of creative time in my calendar and treat them like any other important appointment. Those hours aren't optional. They're not spare time to be filled with chores. They're my studio time.
Because creating isn't something I do after life is finished.  Creating is part of living.
It's easy to think artists are simply inspired and the work appears. In reality, most art is made because the artist showed up, even when there were plenty of reasons not to, and boy, we can always find a reason.
If you're finding it difficult to make time for your own creativity, maybe ask yourself the same question I did.
Who is deciding that everything else comes first?  The answer might surprise you.
Sometimes all it takes is giving yourself permission to protect that creative space again.

Featured Artwork: The Clearing  

There are moments in painting when the best thing you can do isn't pick up another brush.
It's to walk away.
As artists, we often feel like every blank space needs filling, every edge needs refining, and every painting needs just one more thing. I've learned over the years that some of my biggest breakthroughs haven't come from adding more—they've come from stopping.
This painting is a perfect example.
When I first stepped back from it, I was convinced it needed a large tree in the foreground on the left-hand side. In my mind, it would anchor the composition and create more depth. I could already picture the trunk, the branches and the dark foliage framing the scene.
So I almost painted it.
Instead, I did something I've trained myself to do whenever I'm uncertain. I put the brushes down, walked away from the easel and took a quick photo with my phone.
It's amazing what a photograph can reveal. Somehow, the camera separates you from the emotional attachment you've built up while painting. You stop seeing the hours you've invested and start seeing the artwork as it really is.
Even then, I wasn't completely sure.
So I left it alone for several hours.
When I returned with fresh eyes, the answer was obvious.
The painting didn't need a tree at all.
In fact, adding one would have taken away from what I loved most about the piece. The loose, broken texture in the background was already creating the feeling of a dense Australian bushland. The soft layers of blues, greens and earthy ochres were doing exactly what I wanted—suggesting rather than describing.
A solid tree in the foreground would have blocked those beautiful passages of colour and texture. It would have added weight where the painting already felt balanced. More importantly, it would have changed the conversation the painting was having with the viewer.
Instead of painting a tree, I reached for my palette knife.
With just a few touches, I added more texture into the greens and blues of the background. Small marks. Broken colour. Nothing overworked.
Those few palette knife strokes brought the whole painting to life.
The background became richer without becoming busy. The foliage sparkled with light. The layers underneath remained visible, creating that sense of depth that only comes from allowing previous marks to breathe.
Sometimes a painting doesn't need something different.
It simply needs more of what's already working.
This experience reminded me of something I tell my students all the time.
Don't make decisions when you're tired.
Don't make decisions when you've been staring at the same painting for three hours.
And definitely don't make decisions because you think every painting has to follow the same formula.
Fresh eyes are one of the most valuable tools an artist can have.
Whenever I feel stuck, I now have a little routine. I step away. I make a cup of tea. I work on something else. I take a photo. Sometimes I'll even leave the painting until the next morning.
More often than not, the answer becomes incredibly clear.
The hardest part isn't knowing what to paint.
It's having the confidence to leave well enough alone.
As artists, we're always tempted to chase perfection. Yet it's often the loose marks, unexpected textures and unresolved passages that give a painting its life. Those are the areas that invite the viewer in and allow them to complete the story in their own imagination.
This painting taught me that once again.
The tree never appeared.
And I'm so glad it didn't.
So the next time you're standing in front of your canvas thinking, "It just needs one more thing," ask yourself one question first.
Does it really?
You might discover, as I did, that the painting has already told you everything it needs to say. All you have to do is stop, step away from the brush, and listen.
​
Featured Artwork: Meander with Me 

This week, two of my paintings found new homes.
As an artist, there is nothing quite like the feeling of hearing that someone has chosen one of your works. It is both humbling and exciting to know that something created with your hands and heart has connected so deeply with another person that they want to live with it every day. There is no greater compliment.
Yet alongside the joy sits another emotion that is a little harder to explain.
Every painting carries a story. Sometimes it is the memory of standing in a particular place, soaking in the light and atmosphere before I ever picked up a palette knife. Sometimes it reminds me of a season in my own life, or of discovering a new way of expressing colour and texture. Occasionally, it is simply a composition that feels so complete, so balanced, that I find myself falling in love with it every time I walk past.
Those are the paintings that quietly whisper, "Perhaps this one can stay."
Of course, they rarely do.
The irony is that the works we become most attached to often resonate just as strongly with someone else. Maybe that's because they hold a little more of us within them. The authenticity, the emotion and the joy we felt while creating them somehow become part of the finished piece.
So, when a painting leaves my studio, there is always a small moment of loss. The empty space on the wall catches my eye for a few days, and I instinctively look for the familiar colours and textures that are no longer there.
But then I remind myself that a painting is never meant to remain hidden in the studio forever.
It is meant to become part of someone's life. To greet them each morning, to catch the changing afternoon light, to spark memories, conversations and moments of quiet reflection. It begins a new story, one that I will never fully know.
Perhaps that is the true purpose of creating art—not to keep it, but to let it go when the time is right.
So yes, selling artwork is bittersweet. It is a gentle tug between holding on and letting go. But every painting that leaves also creates space for the next one to emerge, carrying with it new memories, new places and new stories waiting to be told.
To the collectors who welcomed two of my paintings into their homes this week, thank you. Knowing they have found people who love them as much as I did makes letting go just a little easier.

Featured Artwork: Beyond The Bend 

I am back in my studio, and now it's time to settle back in.
Before I can even contemplate rearranging everything, I need to get on top of some administration. As I only have one class this week, I can focus my attention on updating my accounts ready for the new financial year, sending out my monthly invoices, answering a backlog of emails, and writing proposals for my Term Three classes. The morning is heavily focused on administration.
With a big chunk of that out of the way, I can finally turn my attention back to moving into the studio. I came back from the residency with more art supplies after changing to Solid Solutions Professional Acrylics, seven canvases, and all the bits and pieces I had accumulated over the three months. I made room for four paintings by adding hanging systems to the studio walls, and I found space for the others in my office.
The next big step was simply putting everything away. There was a lot of juggling and manoeuvring to fit in the extra supplies, but by the end of the day I felt like I was about ninety per cent there. My goal was to be painting again by mid-week and keep the momentum going.
The following day was filled with more administration before I headed out to buy a small hand drill for attaching the D-rings to my paintings. While I was shopping, my eye caught a beautiful piece of fabric that will make the perfect tablecloth for the large table in Art in the Garden Room.
Before I could continue unpacking from the residency, I needed to pack my trolley and prepare everything for my evening class. Somehow, it was already hump day! It was time to head down to the community centre and set up the room for the final Term Two evening class. After catching up on a few home duties, I managed to squeeze in a little rest before teaching.
As the week rolled on, I realised I had done very little painting. Home life had taken over while I caught up on everything I had neglected during the last three months. Preparing a canvas and floating frame for an exhibition drop-off next week became the priority.
Finally, my thoughts turned back to creating.
I headed down to Mordialloc Creek to photograph the pedestrian bridge for reference. I couldn't have picked a better time. The air was crisp, the winter sun peeked through fluffy clouds, and the light danced across the leaves. The reflections on the creek were magnificent. I came home with some wonderful reference photos.
Back in the studio, I grabbed my sketchbook, an HB pencil, my Caran d'Ache Neocolor II crayons and a watercolour brush, and began sketching the scene. It felt wonderful to use the crayons as the main medium rather than just an accent. I could immediately see their potential and how they might become a bigger part of my creative process.
My next task was to revisit a larger painting, toning down the lake and adding highlights to the foreground foliage. A wash of Ultramarine Blue and Burnt Sienna worked beautifully, bringing everything together. I'm really happy with where the painting has landed. After one final coat of varnish and attaching the D-rings, she was ready to go.

Sometimes creating begins long before the first brushstroke. This week it began by simply coming home.
And that's the week that was...
Next week, more creating.

Photograph: Quick sketch from sketchbook with Caran D'Ache Neocolour II

As I write this final residency blog, I find myself reflecting on what has been an extraordinary eleven weeks. The last week arrived with mixed emotions. There was a sense of excitement as artworks neared completion, but also a growing awareness that this creative chapter was coming to an end.
On Thursday, I arrived at the studio full of energy and determination. The space was quiet, I popped the heater  on, and for a brief moment I had the studio to myself. There is something special about those early hours before anyone else arrives—the stillness feels almost sacred. I was eager to continue work on my large canvas and spent the morning refining the waterline, adjusting the trees, and toning down sections of the lake. As artists, we often reach a point where a painting asks us to slow down and listen. Rather than forcing further changes, I chose to sit with the work and consider what it needed.
Alongside the larger painting, I varnished several finished pieces and began work on one final canvas destined for a floating frame. This painting combined ideas from two plein air studies completed at Racecourse Reserve. The bridge became a focal point, reminding me of the Mordialloc Foot Bridge, where Kevin and I had our wedding photographs taken. It felt fitting that one of my final works during the residency would hold a personal connection.
By Friday, the reality of the residency ending had begun to sink in. I realised how much I would miss the studio—the beautiful natural light, the dedicated creative space, and the opportunity to connect with other artists on a daily basis. At the same time, I found myself looking forward to returning to my own studio at home. There is a comfort in stepping out the back door and immediately being surrounded by familiar creative surroundings.  My love of painting in solitude and silence sits well in my home studio.
The final Open Studio on Saturday was a wonderful way to conclude the residency. Around fifty people came through the space, taking time to view the work, ask questions, and engage with the artists. It was heartening to see such genuine interest and support from the community. Before leaving, I wrote a small card for each of the resident artists—a simple gesture to acknowledge the friendships, conversations, and encouragement we had shared throughout the program.
As the afternoon drew to a close, I packed away the last of my materials and loaded the car.  The residency has provided far more than just a place to paint. It gave me the opportunity to focus on a substantial body of work in a concentrated period of time. It allowed me to experiment, take risks, and develop greater clarity in my artistic direction.
Most importantly, I feel that my artwork has gone up a notch. I have learned from the other artists, enjoyed forming a new friendship with Pilar, my studio buddy, and gained confidence in my own voice and abilities. This residency has reminded me to trust myself and my work.
I will treasure this experience for a long time. While the residency has ended, the growth, friendships, and confidence it has inspired will continue to shape the next chapter of my artistic journey.

Featured Photo: Three of the completed works during the residency 

As I entered the studio this week, it struck me just how quickly this residency is coming to an end. In only two weeks’ time I will be packing up my space and heading home. It feels hard to believe that the months have passed so quickly. While there is still a large canvas and a smaller work to complete, my focus now is firmly on making the most of the time that remains and ensuring I leave with the strongest body of work possible.
This week began with preparations for the largest painting. I spent time toning the canvas and planning a composition that combines elements from two separate reference photographs into a single landscape. The challenge will be bringing those different sources together in a way that feels natural and cohesive. It is an ambitious piece, but one I am excited to develop over the coming days.
As the end of the residency approaches, I find myself experiencing mixed emotions. Part of me would happily stay for another month. The studio has become a place of routine, creativity and connection. At the same time, I am looking forward to returning to my home studio, which has recently been transformed into a more organised and welcoming workspace. A new credenza now hides away many of the supplies that previously dominated the room, creating a calmer environment that I am eager to work in.
One of the highlights of the week came when I walked into the studio and saw the morning light striking a painting I had been working on with a palette knife. The effect was remarkable. The texture caught the light in unexpected ways, revealing depth and movement that I hadn’t fully appreciated while painting. It reminded me just how important texture can be in landscape work and reignited my enthusiasm for using the palette knife as a key part of my process.
The combination of palette knife techniques and the Solid Solutions acrylic paints has continued to make a significant difference to the work. Throughout the week I focused on building layers and developing surface texture across the canvas. Progress was substantial, although there is still plenty to refine. A newly added tree requires further attention, and parts of the lake need to be toned down so they sit more comfortably within the composition.
With October’s exhibition steadily approaching, the residency has become a balancing act between reflection and forward planning. The remaining days are precious, and my goal is simple: use every one of them wisely.

Photograph:  Taken at  Kingston Arts open studio session by photographer Gianna Rizzo.  

It is hard to believe that I have entered the final month of the Magnify Artist Residency. Walking into the studio on Monday, I found myself alone, with the quiet space giving me time to pause and take stock of what has been created over the past eight weeks. Looking around the studio walls, I could see six completed works that I felt genuinely happy with. There was a sense of satisfaction in seeing them together as a collection rather than as individual paintings.
The focus for the day was practical: varnishing a recently completed piece and finishing the artwork I had been working on the previous week. Yet beneath those tasks was something more important. I realised how much I was enjoying the process of creating these works. There is a freedom in this series that feels different from some of my earlier paintings. Rather than forcing ideas, I am allowing them to emerge naturally.
I often think the strongest sign that a creative project is heading in the right direction is when it stays with you after you leave the studio. These paintings have become like that. I find myself thinking about them while I am at home, imagining the next brushstroke, considering what needs to change, or becoming excited about beginning the next canvas. When the urge to return to the work is stronger than the desire to take a break, it feels like a good indication that the work is speaking to me.
By the end of the day, one more painting was complete. The next challenge, of course, was naming it—a task that sometimes feels more difficult than painting it.
Later in the week, winter made its presence known. The studio was freezing, and my first challenge on Thursday was working out how to get the heating running. Once settled, I returned to the painting that had occupied my attention for much of the week. My goal was to finish it, but as the day progressed, I realised I was not quite ready to call it complete.

A drop in from one of my art students to find out more on the use of a palette knife was a nice distraction.  This particular student is keen to progress her work using a palette knife.   Once she had left, it was time to try and make some headway on my latest piece. 

After spending several hours painting, I reached a point where I needed distance from the piece. Rather than continuing to make changes, I decided to sit with it for a while. Sometimes a painting reveals what it needs immediately; other times it asks for patience. This was one of those moments. I knew I would return the following day with fresher eyes and a better understanding of what still needed attention.
Alongside the painting, I also experimented with something new. I completed a test run of painting directly onto art paper as a way of embellishing a print. The results were encouraging. It is still early days, but the experiment opened up interesting possibilities for adding hand-painted elements to art print work, creating something unique while maintaining the accessibility of a print format.
As I reviewed the painting at the end of the day, several adjustments became clear. The foliage needed to be lightened, the central tree required further refinement, and the foreground needed softening to create a more cohesive flow through the landscape. The work was close, but not quite there yet.
By Friday, the week seemed determined to run ahead of me. What had been planned as an early start at the studio was delayed by meetings, artwork deliveries, and even a scheduled haircut. By the time I finally arrived, I was eager to get back to the painting I had been refining throughout the week.
The work was close, but not quite resolved. I knew the middle scrub needed lightening, the central tree branches required better definition, and the foreground needed softening to create a more convincing sense of depth. Much of the afternoon was spent working with a palette knife, carefully adjusting shapes, values, and textures.
Despite the changes, something still felt wrong. The trees had lost some of their presence after I lightened the foliage, but I couldn't immediately identify why. A quick critique from fellow resident artist, Pilar,  provided the answer. In brightening the foliage, I had unintentionally painted over many of the subtle light reflections that gave the trees structure and form. The solution was surprisingly simple: reintroducing highlights to selected branches and trunks. Those small adjustments immediately brought the painting back to life and reminded me how often a painting's success depends on the smallest details.
The day also provided an opportunity to record a short video update for our residency social media channels, sharing both the process and the progress of the work. It felt like a fitting end to a productive week—one that had been full of experimentation, problem-solving, and valuable feedback. More importantly, it reinforced a lesson that seems to surface repeatedly during this residency: sometimes the breakthrough comes not from making major changes, but from recognising what has been lost and carefully restoring it.
This completed painting now feels like an important milestone in the journey of the residency, bringing together many of the observations, techniques, and insights explored throughout the week.

Week eight of the Magnify Artist Residency felt like a week of contrasts. It began quietly, with the familiar ritual of arriving at the studio and settling into the creative space, and ended with the excitement of Open Studio, new connections, and the realisation that sometimes the most productive thing an artist can do is step away for a moment.
When I arrived at the studio on Tuesday, the space was empty but not silent. The distant voices from the room next door and the constant rush of traffic outside created a familiar backdrop. As has become part of my residency practice, I started by journalling. Taking a few moments to write helps me block out distractions and transition into a creative mindset.
Before beginning my next painting, I felt the need to return to fundamentals. I spent some time working on a value sketch, giving myself the opportunity to think through composition and tonal relationships before committing paint to canvas. It was exactly what I needed. By the end of the session, I had made a strong start on my fourth artwork for the residency and felt confident enough to add it to the growing list of works in progress. With Open Studio approaching, the afternoon became focused on preparation and making sure as much as possible was ready for the following evening.
Wednesday arrived with a mixture of excitement and nervous anticipation. Open Studio day had finally arrived.
After finishing the last of my setup, I took a moment to catch my breath and look at the space I had created. There is always a degree of uncertainty before opening the doors to the public. You hope people will come, you hope the work will connect with them, and you hope all the effort invested in preparation pays off.
I knew I had around twenty five people planning to visit, which was reassuring, but there is always the question of who else might wander through. Before the event began, we also participated in a professional photo shoot for the residency website and further promotions. Each artist had only a few minutes in front of the camera, but I am looking forward to seeing the results and having images that can be used both online and in future materials.
After grabbing a quick meal, I returned to the studio for one final check of the space. Everything was as ready as it could be. Then the doors opened and the evening took on a life of its own.  The studio was buzzing.
By Thursday morning, it was time to pack up and reflect on what had happened. The turnout exceeded my expectations. While I joked that there were “hundreds” of people through the doors, the reality was still impressive, with more than one hundred and fifty visitors attending the open studio. The atmosphere throughout the evening was vibrant and encouraging, with conversations flowing easily and people genuinely interested in the work being created during the residency.
One of the most rewarding outcomes was the number of new contacts made. I Meeting new people helps creating opportunities to continue building relationships with people who are interested in my artistic journey. For emerging and developing artists, these connections are invaluable. They remind us that creating art is not only about the work itself but also about the community that forms around it.
There was another unexpected highlight as well—one of my artworks sold during the event. Sales are never guaranteed, and while they are not the sole measure of success, they do provide affirmation that the work has resonated deeply enough with someone that they want to live with it every day. It was a wonderful boost of confidence and motivation.
With Open Studio behind me, my attention quickly shifted back to the residency and the exhibition planned for October. The sale of one artwork means there is now another gap to fill, and that creates an exciting challenge. The residency has helped build momentum, and I am eager to continue developing new pieces while the ideas are still flowing.
Friday was spent photographing the four completed residency works and making a start on a new painting. This next piece is particularly exciting because it will be presented in a pine frame, giving me another opportunity to think about how the finished work will be displayed.
As the day progressed, however, I became aware that my energy was fading. The intensity of preparing for Open Studio, hosting visitors, and maintaining momentum in the studio had begun to take its toll. Rather than pushing through, I decided to listen to what I needed. I packed up early, chose not to spend the weekend in the studio, and gave myself permission to regroup.
Sometimes progress is measured in paintings completed, visitors welcomed, or artworks sold. Other times, progress is recognising when rest is necessary. This week contained a little of everything—creative breakthroughs, meaningful connections, professional opportunities, and a reminder that sustaining a creative practice requires balance.
Eight weeks into the Magnify Artist Residency, the artworks are coming along well, the exhibition pieces are taking shape, and perhaps most importantly, I am learning to trust both the momentum and the pauses that are part of the creative process.

Week seven of the Magnify Artist Residency felt like returning after being away much longer than I actually had been. Ten days doesn’t sound like much on paper, but stepping back into the studio felt like reconnecting with a rhythm I’d missed.
I came back carrying ideas from a recent walk through McClelland Sculpture Park — photos full of colour, movement and possibility. I wanted to capture that feeling rather than recreate the scene exactly. More colour. More energy. More freedom.
I started another landscape, this time on one of my larger canvases, working into the sky first and allowing the painting to unfold layer by layer. There’s something satisfying about beginning with broad decisions and trusting that the details will emerge later.

Then life interrupted in the nicest way.
A knock at the door — a surprise coffee visit from Kevin. One of those unexpected pauses that reminds me the residency isn’t only about output. It’s also about conversations, moments of connection and giving creativity enough breathing space.

Back in the studio, the first layer was complete. That familiar waiting game began — letting paint dry before returning with texture and marks.
The next day I arrived early and finished off the previous piece before quickly writing my residency update and reorganising paints. Open Studio preparations are starting to become real. Pilar suggested how to install my panels onto the pin-up boards without them falling down and suddenly the event felt tangible rather than something in the distance.

I launched straight into another painting.
This week I’ve been experimenting more boldly with process and tools — using brushes of different sizes to build soft, colourful backgrounds and then layering over them with palette knives, a silicone kidney tool, a kitchen spatula, sticks and even skewers. Each tool leaves behind something unexpected.
That unpredictability has become one of my favourite parts.
The textures emerging in these semi-abstract landscapes feel alive — marks overlapping, colour breaking through, surfaces becoming more interesting than if I tried to control every outcome.

By Saturday, the focus shifted from creating to preparing.
I unpacked bags of artworks, flyers and sign-up materials for Open Studio and spent time varnishing finished pieces. It’s always satisfying watching colours deepen and unify under varnish — seeing a painting settle into itself.
There was one small mishap.
I’d forgotten that one panel included water-soluble pastels and when I varnished it… everything smeared. Frustrating in the moment, but also a reminder that experimentation comes with lessons attached.

Even with that setback, I ended the week feeling something I haven’t felt for a while:
I think I’ve hit my stride.

These semi-abstract landscapes — full of colour, texture and palette knife marks — feel like they’re opening a new direction. There’s momentum building now, and for the first time in a while I’m less focused on whether the work is “right” and more interested in where it wants to go next.
Week seven felt like returning, reconnecting… and moving forward.

Featured Artwork: Unnamed semi abstract from my photos at McClelland Sculpture Park

Week six of the Magnify Artist Residency felt less like a carefully curated creative practice and more like standing in the middle of intersecting roads, trying to honour each direction at once.
This week wasn’t defined by uninterrupted studio time or long stretches of focused making. Instead, it became a lesson in holding multiple important things at once.
Three art classes filled the calendar, each requiring preparation, presence and energy. Teaching always asks something different of me creatively — it isn’t the same as making my own work, but it still draws from the same well. There’s a generosity in sharing process and encouraging others that I value deeply, even when it leaves less room for my own art practice.
At the same time, family moved into the centre of the week.
My brother arrived from Perth for the weekend — one of those visits that feels both ordinary and precious. Time together always seems shorter than expected, and there’s a quiet reminder that life doesn’t pause neatly around studio schedules and residency goals.
Then, in between classes,  I packed to travel to Perth myself to celebrate something truly special: Mum and Dad’s 60th wedding anniversary.  My brother joined us after his conference and the family was almost united.  My hubby stayed home and looked after our fur baby, and my niece's partner was overseas.  
Sixty years.
It feels almost impossible to hold the scale of that in a single number. Six decades of partnership, seasons of change, ordinary days stacked into an extraordinary life together. Being there to celebrate with them felt important in a way that art deadlines and to-do lists simply couldn’t compete with.
I found myself thinking a lot this week about balance — or perhaps questioning whether balance is even the right word.
Residencies often bring an expectation of momentum, output and visible progress. But creative life doesn’t happen in isolation. It sits alongside family, work, travel, celebration and the unexpected rhythms of real life.
This week reminded me that stepping away from the easel isn’t always stepping away from creativity.
Watching conversations unfold around family tables, noticing colours and landscapes from airport windows, hearing old stories retold — these moments quietly feed the work too.
Week six may not have looked productive in the traditional sense, but it felt full.
And maybe there is value in recognising that creative practice isn’t only what happens in the studio. Sometimes it’s what happens while living.
I’m carrying that into the weeks ahead.

Finding Flow, Trusting Process, and Letting Paint Lead
Week five of the Magnify Residency felt quieter in some ways, but also more focused. There was less searching and more listening — to the work, to instinct, and to the process itself.
After class early in the week, I packed up for the following day and headed straight to the studio. There’s something grounding about arriving in that space and settling in before creating. The artist opposite me, was there working on her beautiful fibre art, and sharing the studio with other makers continues to be one of the unexpected gifts of residency life.
I began by doing a value study for an artwork I’d been planning to develop on canvas. Rather than rushing into all of the ideas sitting around me, I made the decision to leave some of the other canvases alone for now. Sometimes stepping away is productive in itself. Not every artwork wants immediate attention, and I’m learning that giving pieces time can reveal more than forcing progress.
From there I started a new canvas using a reference image that had been transformed into a more impressionistic version of one of my own photographs. That shift in approach changed everything.
Colour suddenly felt easier.  Brushstrokes came to me naturally, no overthinking. 
Instead of getting caught in realism or overthinking decisions, I found myself responding more intuitively. There was a looseness to the process that I really enjoyed, and for the first time in a while I felt like the artwork was moving confidently in the right direction. It reminded me that interpretation can sometimes unlock creativity more than accuracy.
Later in the week I returned to the studio ready to continue working on the half-finished piece. I settled in quickly and found myself genuinely pleased with where the painting was heading. Only a few adjustments remained — mainly lifting the brightness of two rocks in the foreground to help balance the composition.
One unexpected highlight this week was discovering just how much I’m enjoying working with Solid Solutions® paint. The consistency feels rich and creamy, coverage is strong, and the colours hold beautifully while still blending with ease. Finding materials that support your process rather than interrupt it makes such a difference.
Outside of painting, residency life continues to involve plenty happening behind the scenes. I created a flyer and sent invitations through my database and social channels for the upcoming Open Studio on the 27th. Building connection with people feels just as important as creating the work itself. Every new person who follows along becomes part of the wider creative journey, offering opportunities to  enjoy exhibitions and events still to come.
Friday started early with collecting more supplies before heading into the studio. After unpacking paint and revisiting the previous day’s work, I realised there were only a couple of areas that needed refining.
And then — it was done.
I finished the painting and felt genuinely happy with it. A few adjustments to lights and darks brought everything together and it finally felt resolved.
I also prepared a wooden panel with gesso and quietly admitted defeat on another artwork that had been frustrating me. Rather than letting it continue taking up mental space, I decided to paint over it.
That decision felt surprisingly freeing.
Week five reminded me that not every artwork is meant to survive, not every canvas needs immediate answers, and sometimes the best progress happens when you loosen your grip and trust the paint.
​
Featured Artwork: Unnamed artwork, the piece I was working on. PS: I did a little more adjusting of the rocks after I took this photo. 

​There’s a noticeable shift that happened by the third week of the residency—less uncertainty, more rhythm. This week felt like settling in, both physically and creatively, and beginning to trust the quieter moments just as much as the productive ones.
I found myself returning to the studio most mornings to an empty space, and surprisingly, I really value that. There’s something deeply calming about working alone, without distraction. The light and openness of the studio continue to be a highlight—so different from my cosy setup at home. That contrast is making me more aware of how environment shapes the way I work. Here, I feel like I can spread out, think bigger, and let ideas breathe a little.
Midweek, I decided to focus on smaller canvas panels. It felt like a manageable way to explore ideas without overcommitting. I’ve been looking again at impressionist landscapes, particularly drawn to those soft, subtle palettes that feel almost dreamlike. I noticed that I naturally achieve that softness when working in watercolour in my sketchbook, but not as easily with acrylics. So this became a bit of a quiet challenge for the week—how to translate that gentleness into my preferred medium.
I leaned into a softer colour palette and allowed myself to experiment without expectation. Some pieces worked better than others, but that’s part of it. I completed a small diptych that I felt genuinely happy with—those moments of quiet satisfaction are becoming more frequent, which feels like progress. There’s still a sense of editing and refining needed, but the foundation is there.
The studio wasn’t entirely solitary this week. One of the other artists joined me one morning, and we ended up having a really honest conversation about the pressure we sometimes put on ourselves as artists. It was grounding to share that space and realise those thoughts aren’t mine alone.
Later that day,  I showed a fellow artist around the gallery and studio, which offered a different perspective again—seeing the space through fresh eyes reminded me how special this opportunity is.
By Friday, there was a bit of excitement in the air. New paints arrived—something I’d been looking forward to—and they didn’t disappoint. The texture, the creaminess, the way they moved… it immediately sparked a new energy. There’s something about new materials that invites play, and that’s exactly what I did. I worked on a small panel inspired by the view at the back of our house, letting colour lead the way rather than overthinking composition.
I also spent time creating a batch of small works—ACEOs—which felt productive, though I’m still sitting with how I feel about them. Not everything needs to be resolved immediately. What mattered more was the act of making, of staying engaged, of continuing to show up.
Looking back on the week, there’s a quiet confidence building. I’m not rushing outcomes as much. I’m allowing space for exploration, for softness, for uncertainty. And in that space, something is starting to form—not yet a body of work, but a deeper understanding of how I want to paint.
Week three wasn’t loud or dramatic, but it felt important. It was about consistency, experimentation, and beginning to trust my own creative instincts a little more.

Due to classes and a touch of ill health it was only midweek, I eased into the studio after a Creative Circle session.  I was still carrying a gentle, reflective energy with me.

Arriving to a familiar face and a calm, almost hushed space made the transition feel easy. We spoke about lighting—such a small, practical detail, yet one that can completely shape how you work. With a few simple adjustments, the space became “good enough,” and that felt important. It removed the barrier of perfection and allowed me to begin.
I started a seascape inspired by earlier watercolour studies. There’s always a moment of hesitation when translating work between mediums, and I could feel that resistance creeping in. As I worked, I noticed myself holding back, returning to safe, familiar colours rather than pushing into something more expressive. It’s a subtle habit, but a persistent one—staying close to what I see rather than what I feel.
That quiet tension carried into the following day. After a meeting about an upcoming exhibition and a stop to pick up fresh materials, I arrived at the studio to complete stillness. No voices, no movement—just space. The silence was unexpectedly grounding, allowing me to drop more fully into the work. I began to push the painting further, especially in the cliffs, letting go just a little more. But when I moved into the waves, they quickly took over, disrupting the balance I had been building. The painting shifted from something controlled to something almost overwhelming.
Instead of forcing a resolution, I stepped away.  I find creating distance between me and the artwork can sometimes resolve what is blinding me. 
There’s a kind of discipline in knowing when to pause—to let the work breathe rather than pushing it into something it’s not ready to become. Sitting with that uncertainty felt more productive than continuing blindly.
By Friday, something began to shift. A simple conversation with a friend and words of encouragement on the way into the studio helped me articulate what had been sitting just below the surface. Saying it out loud seemed to loosen it. From that came a clear decision: to step away from the pressure of larger canvases and return to paper and smaller panels. It felt like giving myself permission to explore again.
Almost immediately, the work changed.
Working on paper brought a sense of freedom and play back into the process. Colour became something to enjoy rather than control. I found myself responding more intuitively, layering and moving without overthinking. By the end of the session, I had created a piece that felt vibrant and alive—one of those moments that gently reminds you why you keep showing up.
Saturday carried that momentum forward. The studio remained quiet, and I found myself appreciating the solitude more than I expected. There’s a clarity that comes with working alone—space to think, to experiment, to simply be present with the work. I layered colour over the previous day’s piece, building depth, then moved onto a canvas panel, continuing to explore with a lighter touch.
What’s emerging through all of this isn’t a dramatic breakthrough or a sudden change in direction, but something quieter and more sustainable—a growing confidence in the process itself.
A willingness to pause, to shift direction, and to trust that the work will unfold in its own time.
And for now, that feels like more than enough.

Featured artwork:  Experiment with colour week two Magnify Residency program 

There’s something special about the first week of a residency—the anticipation, the unknown, and the quiet excitement of what might unfold. Walking into the studio for the very first time felt like stepping into possibility.
Day one was all about access and orientation (with a touch of reality!). After navigating the security system and exploring the space, I took my time settling in. The studio needed a little love—paint-splattered desks and all—but there was something grounding about physically preparing the space. Scraping back layers of old acrylic with a palette knife felt symbolic… making room for what’s to come.
I eased in with some sketchbook work—grid explorations and a couple of mini landscapes. Already, ideas were starting to form, along with a few “oh, I should have brought that!” moments. A quick trip to the shops was on the cards (plastic tablecloths was top of the list to ensure no further damage to the tables.).
By Thursday, the rhythm of the space began to reveal itself. I met one of the other artists, and it became clear that we work quite differently—especially when it comes to light. Adapting to the environment (and each other) is all part of the process, though. I experimented with positioning, chasing natural light from the windows… even if it meant battling it directly at times!
I began work on a larger A3 landscape—still in progress, with more attention needed in the foreground—but it feels good to be creating. I even filmed part of the process, although I realised later I missed capturing the second half. A learning curve already!
Then Friday arrived… and with it, a gift: the studio all to myself. Absolute bliss. Lights on, space fully mine, and finally able to work exactly how I like—what a difference that makes. 
I leaned into creating, producing a series of ACEOs and mini landscapes. There’s something about working in multiples that really clicks for me—it builds momentum, rhythm, and flow. Sixteen small works later, I could feel that creative groove settling in.
That said, I’ve also noticed a bit of second-guessing creeping in with my landscapes—something I want to gently push through next week.  I had in my minds eye, what I was going to create at the residency for the last twelve months.  Now I am there, things have changed.
And then, as often happens, inspiration struck unexpectedly. Listening to a podcast on the way home sparked a new idea: exploring landscapes inspired by the local wetlands, bay and Kingston Council gardens. It feels aligned, connected, and full of potential.
Week one has been about setting up, tuning in, and beginning. There’s already a sense that this residency is going to open new doors creatively—and I’m so ready for what comes next

Have you had a change of mind on your creativity journey?  Leave a comment below.   
Featured Artwork:  Grid work of ACEO's 
​Check out a quick update on Youtube here

There’s a particular kind of energy that sits just before something begins—a mix of anticipation, curiosity, and a quiet hum of possibility. That’s exactly where I find myself right now.

Although the residency officially starts today, the journey had already begun in subtle ways. I’ve completed my induction, met the other artists, and chosen my studio space. Each of those moments has helped shape the experience before a single mark has even been made.

Meeting the other residents offered a glimpse into the diverse creative practices that will sit alongside my own. There’s something reassuring and inspiring about being surrounded by artists who are all stepping into the unknown in their own way. It feels like the beginning of a shared, yet deeply personal, exploration.

Choosing my studio space felt significant. Even empty, it holds potential. I can already sense how it might evolve—how it will soon carry layers of paint, fragments of ideas, and the energy of experimentation. For now, it sits quietly, waiting.
At this stage, my plan is simple: to experiment, to explore, and to allow a new body of work to emerge from this time. I’m intentionally not over-planning. Instead, I want to lean into intuition—responding to the space, to the process, and to the natural surroundings that continually inspire my work.

There’s a build-up happening, a creative tension that comes from not yet starting. Rather than rushing in, I’m embracing this moment. It feels important. Like standing at the edge before stepping forward.

Now, the real work begins. For now, I’m holding my breath for what’s to come.

Sometimes new creative directions appear completely by accident.
Recently I began painting a series of tiny landscape studies as reference and inspiration for an upcoming artist residency in April. They were quick pieces—small explorations of colour, light and composition. But as they accumulated on my desk, I realised they naturally fit the format of Artist Trading Cards (ATCs) and Art Card Editions and Originals (ACEOs).
What began as simple reference studies suddenly opened the door to an entirely different art form.
What Are ATCs and ACEOs?Both ATCs and ACEOs are small artworks measuring 2.5 x 3.5 inches (6.4 x 8.9 cm)—the same size as a trading card.

• ​Artist Trading Cards (ATCs) are traditionally created to be traded, not sold. Artists exchange them with other artists as a way to share work and connect creatively.
• Art Card Editions and Originals (ACEOs) are similar in size and concept, but they are typically sold to collectors.

Despite their small size, these cards are original artworks. They can be paintings, drawings, collages, prints, or mixed media pieces.
Benefits for Artists1. A space for experimentation
The small format removes pressure. An ATC can be completed quickly, making it the perfect space to test ideas, colour combinations, or techniques. Many artists discover new directions through these small studies.
2. Low commitment, high creativity
Because they are small and fast to create, artists can produce multiple works without the time investment of larger paintings. This encourages playfulness and exploration.
3. Accessibility for collectors
Large artworks can be a significant investment. ATCs and ACEOs allow collectors to own original art at a more accessible price point, making it easier to build a following.
4. Building community
ATCs, especially, are rooted in connection. Trading cards with other artists builds relationships, sparks conversations, and creates a sense of shared creative practice.
Benefits for CollectorsFor collectors, these miniature artworks offer something special.
They are affordable, collectable, and easy to display or store. Many collectors enjoy building themed collections—landscapes, portraits, botanical studies, or works from a favourite artist.
Each card is a small window into an artist’s process. Often they capture spontaneous moments or ideas that may later evolve into larger works.
Small Art with Big ImpactFor me, these little landscape studies began as reference material for future paintings. Yet they quickly became finished pieces in their own right—tiny snapshots of inspiration.
Sometimes creativity doesn’t start with a grand plan. Sometimes it begins with a small piece of paper, a few brushstrokes, and the freedom to explore.
And occasionally, those small experiments become artworks worth sharing.

In a world that often feels rushed and noisy, giving yourself permission to slow down and create can be incredibly powerful. My Creative Colour & Calm Workshop is designed to do exactly that — offer a gentle space where creativity and relaxation come together.
This workshop isn’t about technical skills, perfect drawings, or creating a masterpiece. Instead, it’s about using colour, simple art materials, and mindful creativity to quiet the mind and reconnect with the joy of making.
Many people find that when they sit down with colour and allow themselves to create without pressure, something shifts. The mind settles. The constant chatter slows. Your focus moves from worrying about the outcome to simply enjoying the process. This is where the magic happens.
During the Creative Colour & Calm Workshop, we’ll explore simple exercises using colour, marks, and intuitive creativity. These activities are designed to help you loosen up, let go of expectations, and discover how art can be a calming and restorative experience.
You don’t need to be an artist to benefit from this workshop. In fact, many people who join are simply curious about creativity or looking for a relaxing way to recharge. The beauty of working with colour is that it’s instinctive and personal. There are no rules — only exploration.
By the end of the session, most participants feel lighter, more relaxed, and often surprised by what they’ve created. More importantly, they leave with simple techniques they can return to whenever they need a creative reset.
Taking time for creativity isn’t indulgent — it’s essential. It allows us to reconnect with curiosity, imagination, and the calm that comes from making something with our own hands.
If you’ve been feeling the need to slow down, recharge, or simply try something new, this workshop is a perfect place to begin.
Join me for the Creative Colour & Calm Workshop and experience how a little colour and creativity can transform your day.
✨ Spaces are limited to keep the session relaxed and welcoming.
Book your spot now and give yourself the gift of creative calm.

As artists, we spend many hours in our studios working on technique, experimenting with materials, and developing our personal style. But sometimes the best thing you can do for your creativity is step away from the easel and go experience art in the world around you.
Visiting galleries, sculpture parks, and artist communities can be incredibly inspiring. When you see artwork in person, you begin to notice things that photos online simply can’t capture — the texture of paint, the energy of brushstrokes, the layering of colour, and the scale of the work.
Art outings also help you discover your own artistic taste.
You may find yourself drawn to certain pieces without immediately knowing why. Perhaps it’s the looseness of the brushwork, the colour palette, or the atmosphere the artist has created. Just as valuable is recognising work that doesn’t resonate with you. Both experiences help clarify what you enjoy and what you might like to explore in your own art.
Another wonderful aspect of visiting art spaces is the conversations that happen along the way. When artists walk through exhibitions together, they often see different things. Someone might notice a compositional choice you missed or point out a technique that changes how you view the work.
These shared observations often spark new ideas.
Art outings help refill the creative well. They remind us why we love making art and often send us back to the studio with fresh energy and inspiration.
Join an Arty Outing
If you’d like to explore art in a relaxed and friendly group, come along to one of my Arty Outings. We visit galleries, creative spaces, and artist communities together — sharing inspiration, conversation, and a love of art along the way.
It’s a wonderful way to connect with other artists and see creativity from a new perspective.

One of the most powerful tools in your art practice isn’t a brush, a colour, or a technique.
It’s distance.
When you work closely on a piece for a long time, your eyes adjust to what’s in front of you. You stop seeing the whole artwork and start seeing only small sections. This is often when artists feel stuck or frustrated and think, “Something isn’t working, but I m not sure what it is”  The problem usually isn’t your skill — it’s your point of view.
In my classes, I wander around the room looking at everyone’s artwork. While I’m doing that, I also take a moment to step back and look at my own piece from across the space. That small shift makes a big difference. Suddenly, the overall balance of the artwork becomes clearer. I can see if one area is too heavy, if a colour is shouting too loudly, or if a section feels flat and needs more depth. Distance shows you what your artwork is really saying.
I use this same approach in my own studio. When I start to overthink or feel unsure about a painting, I’ll leave it for a short break. I might go make a cuppa, prepare some lunch, or simply step outside the studio for a few minutes. When I return, I look at the work with fresh eyes. Almost every time, something becomes obvious straight away — what needs softening, where the colour needs more depth, or which area needs a little reworking.
Stepping away gives your eyes and brain a reset. When you’re too close for too long, you’re seeing your intentions, not what’s actually on the canvas. Distance helps you see the artwork as a viewer would, not just as the maker.
Here are a few simple ways to build distance into your creative process:
Step back from your artwork every 10–15 minutes and view it from across the room
​Take short breaks, even if it’s just a couple of minutes

• Look at your piece from different angles or in different lighting

• Use your phone camera to view your artwork on a small screen – it can reveal composition issues quickly​
• Look in a mirror over your shoulder at your artwork - another perspective
• ​Leave your artwork for a day or two and return to it.  Even better hang it in a space at home that you can walk past regularly to see it from different angles and light. 

Another helpful habit is to notice what your eye is drawn to first when you return to your work. Is that where you want the focus to be? If not, that’s a useful clue about what needs adjusting.
Instead of pushing harder when you feel stuck, try stepping away. Distance creates clarity. Distance in space or time,  gives you perspective, and perspective helps you make better creative decisions.
Sometimes the thing you’re searching for isn’t hidden in your painting —
it’s hidden by how close you’re standing to it.

Featured Artwork: A page from my watercolour sketchbook, preparation for my artist residency in April.

How do you assess your artwork?  Do you have any handy tips or ideas?  Add them in the comments below. 

With two months to go until the Magnify Artist Residency at the studios at Kingston Art Gallery, I’m in that familiar space where the time ahead feels generous — yet I know it will slip by faster than expected.
This stage of preparation isn’t about rushing finished work. It’s about tuning in, paying attention, and keeping creativity gently bubbling beneath the surface.
Right now, my various sketchbooks is where everything is happening. Sketching, painting and doodling is my thinking space. It’s where ideas arrive loosely, without pressure to resolve or perform. Some pages are filled with quick marks and unfinished painting, others with repeated shapes, colour thoughts, or questions that don’t yet have answers. This is the groundwork — not for finished pieces, but for clarity.

As the residency approaches, I’m also beginning to think practically about what I’ll bring with me into the Kingston Art Gallery studios. What tools support my process without overwhelming it? Which paints and materials feel essential, and which ones might quietly distract? Limiting materials can be as creative a decision as expanding them. Each choice shapes how the work unfolds.

Preparation at this stage is about intention rather than accumulation. Choosing tools that allow for play, experimentation, and responsiveness. Making sure I have what I need to follow an idea when it surfaces — but leaving enough space for surprises.

Sketching and material selection go hand in hand. The marks I’m making now are already suggesting scale, texture, and medium. They’re hinting at what wants to be explored during the residency, without demanding certainty too soon.

For now, the focus is simple: keep drawing, painting and playing, keep noticing, keep the ideas warm. When the residency begins, I want to arrive with a sketchbook full of possibilities and a kit of materials that supports curiosity, not control.
The quiet preparation has begun.

Do you use a sketchbook?  How often do you use it and how has it helped you with your art?  leave your comments below, I would love to hear from you. 

Featured Artwork:  A page from my current A4 mixed media sketchbook

​Every year I like to choose a word—not a resolution as such, not a rigid plan—but a word that gently guides how I move through my art, my work, and my days.
For 2026, my word is Activate.
For a long time, so much of my creative life has lived in the planning stages. Ideas brewing. Classes forming. Collaborations discussed. Sketchbooks filling. Things on the boil. The work was happening, but often quietly, behind the scenes.
Activate I feel, will mark a shift.
To activate is to bring something to life. To switch it on. To move from potential into action.
In 2026, Activate means trusting that the foundations are already there. The experience, the ideas, the community, the curiosity—none of it is new. What’s new is allowing those things to step fully into the light.
What Activate means for my art practice, it means showing the work more often, not just making it.
Sharing the process, not waiting for perfection. Pulling out the video and sharing what I do. (Now that is scary!)
Letting experimentation be visible, even when it’s messy or unfinished.
It’s about saying yes a little faster, hesitating a little less, and recognising that growth doesn’t come from standing still.  I haven't really been a stand still sort of person, I can however, ponder too long.

What Activate means for Lee Cummins Art in 2026, you’ll see more of what already matters deeply to me:

• Creative gatherings and shared experiences such as the En Plein Air Social group and Art Outings.
• Classes that encourage exploration over rules, having fun experimenting in Creative Circles
• Art in everyday spaces, not just on walls; look around and what do you see?
• Community-first projects that invite people in, perfect timing for my up and coming artist residency.

Activate is about creating momentum—allowing ideas to move, evolve, and meet people where they are.
What Activate means personally on a quieter level, this word is also a reminder to stay present. To engage fully with the moment I’m in. To recognise when it’s time to stop preparing and start doing.
Not everything needs to be perfect before it begins. Sometimes it just needs to be activated.
As 2026 unfolds, I’m carrying this word with me into the studio, into classes, into conversations, and into new opportunities. A gentle nudge forward. A reminder that creativity is meant to be lived, shared, and experienced.
Here’s to activating ideas, connections, and creativity in the year ahead.

Ready to activate your creativity?
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D you have a word of the year?  Comment below.

One of my favourite places to be as an artist is right in the middle of an experiment — no expectations, no pressure, just curiosity leading the way.
Over the weekend, I spent time behind the easel playing with Kuretake Gansai Tambi granulating watercolours, and it was pure creative joy. I wasn’t aiming for a finished piece or a polished result. Instead, I allowed myself to simply explore: adding water, layering colour, tilting the paper, and watching how the pigments settled, separated, and surprised me.
Granulating watercolours have a personality of their own. They bloom, scatter, and gather in unexpected ways, creating texture and movement that feels almost alive. I loved observing how each brushstroke behaved differently depending on the amount of water, the surface beneath it, and the colour combinations I chose. Some effects were subtle and soft; others were bold and beautifully unpredictable.
What I enjoyed most was the freedom of it all. Experimentation removes the fear of “getting it right” and replaces it with wonder. Each little test revealed something new — a colour interaction I hadn’t considered, a texture that sparked an idea, or a technique I’m excited to explore further.
These experiments have already planted seeds for future artwork. I can see these granulating effects finding their way into landscapes, abstracts, and mixed-media pieces, adding depth and atmosphere in ways I hadn’t planned but now can’t ignore.
Behind the easel, experimentation is where learning happens — and where creativity feels most alive. Sometimes the best ideas don’t arrive fully formed; they emerge quietly, pigment by pigment, while we give ourselves permission to play.

Has this inspired you to experiment? Share in the comments below if you take time out to experiment and have fun. 

Featured photo:  The spread from my watercolour sketchbook