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?
Explore upcoming classes, workshops, and events, or subscribe to stay in the loop.  Don't forget to follow along on the socials @leecumminsart

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

Thank you for your continued support throughout 2025. Whether you have been with me from the beginning or joined more recently, I sincerely appreciate your encouragement and look forward to many more years together.
2025 was a notable year, filled with both personal and professional highlights. With wonderful travel commitments, my own artwork took a lesser role, but the year was nevertheless marked by meaningful progress and unexpected opportunities.
I conducted art classes for U3A over two terms, and at Aspendale Gardens Community Service, we trialled a third afternoon class. While it was a rewarding experience, the additional class proved too demanding to maintain long-term.
My private client classes continued, and I received offers to expand classes at another venue. I am pleased to announce that my application for an Artist Residency with the City of Kingston was accepted; I will begin the residency in April this year.  I am looking forward to having the time and space to produce exciting new work.
During 2025, I held eight art demonstrations and participated in two solo exhibitions—first at Patterson Lakes Community Artist Wall, then with an opening night and a two week exhibition at Art Lark Gallery & Art Space.  Over the year, I sold 17 artworks along with the submitted three pieces to the Incognito Art Show.
A major milestone in July was moving into a new, purpose-built art studio. This new space has significantly enhanced my creative process and stands out as a key highlight of the year.
Although the creation of new artworks was not as prominent in 2025, the year was still rich with professional and personal growth. I completed eleven new paintings and am enthusiastic about the possibilities that 2026 holds.
Thank you for accompanying me on this journey. Here’s to another year of creativity and progress.

 Now it's your turn, what was your favourite achievement in 2025? Leave your comment below. 
 

I travelled smarter this time.  I had travel constraints such as luggage weight and carryon luggage liquid allowances.
​Firstly, consider the size of the art kit you’ll bring along. When travelling by caravan, I can take everything—from acrylic paints and easels to a full range of mixed media supplies. However, flying interstate or overseas means I need to pare things down due to luggage restrictions.
For sketching, I prefer an A5 watercolour sketchbook with watercolour or mixed media quality paper. The sturdier paper stands up well to watercolour washes, gouache, and other water-based mediums. A hard cover is ideal, offering a stable surface wherever I choose to work. On my most recent trip, I opted for an even smaller 12cm x 12cm mini watercolour sketchbook.
Watercolours make excellent travel companions. They are lightweight, easy to pack into a small palette, and are remarkably clean to use. I travel with a compact palette that includes a mixing area. This time, I chose a Tobias-style palette with eight colours and used a jar lid for mixing. Palettes are far more convenient for travel than tubes, as you can fill the palette wells with paint, let them dry, and they’re ready to go. I also include a small tube of white gouache.
As for brushes, I travel with just two—one for myself and one for my hubby in  case he wants to join in. My preferred brushes are water brushes, which feature a small reservoir in the barrel for water. These eliminate the need for cups and extra water supplies, keeping things tidy and mess-free. Water brushes even allow for painting on the plane. There are many brands available; I use Mont Marte, which offers packs with different sizes.
Completing my kit are a mechanical pencil, a small eraser, and a quality ink pen for wash and ink techniques. A small pill bottle with an airtight lid fits snuggly in and is a good ‘cup” to rinse off my brush if the colour builds up too much, and a few sheets of kitchen towel cut into small squares.
Travelling with a compact, quickly assembled kit removes the pressure of perfection—no need to worry about having every supply or perfect lighting. Instead, you can embrace the moment, enjoy spontaneity, and experience the freedom to create what you see and feel as you travel.
What do you think of the mini kit?  Do you have some tricks up your sleeve for travelling light and smart? Add your comments below.

The longer I paint, the more I realise that art and life are remarkably similar. The lessons learned behind the easel quietly shape the way we move through the world.
Art has taught me patience — that good things take time to unfold. It’s taught me courage — to try again after a messy start. And it’s taught me acceptance — that sometimes a “mistake” can become the best part of a piece.
Every brushstroke is a small act of faith. You never really know how it will look until it’s on the canvas. That’s not so different from the choices we make every day.
I’ve learned that layering matters. Each experience, each colour, each emotion adds depth. Even when something feels like it’s gone wrong, it often becomes part of the richness of the whole.
Perspective, too, changes everything. Step too close to a painting and all you see are the flaws. Step back, and you see balance, movement, and light. It’s the same with life. Sometimes we just need distance to recognise beauty in the mess.
And maybe the biggest lesson of all: we are always evolving. No artwork is ever truly finished — we simply reach a point of pause. Every creative journey is ongoing, just like personal growth.
Art keeps teaching me to slow down, to notice, and to appreciate the process — not just the outcome.
So, if you ever doubt the value of your creative practice, remember that the lessons go far beyond the canvas. Each time you show up to paint, you’re practising patience, courage, flexibility, and trust.
Those skills spill beautifully into everyday life.
What’s one life lesson art has taught you recently? Pop it in the comments below — I’d love to hear.

Featured Artwork: Beyond the Sweeping Plains (not available until December)

Every artist knows that uncomfortable middle stage — when a painting looks awkward, the colours clash, and you’re not sure if it’s ever going to work. You’ve moved past the excitement of beginning, but you’re nowhere near the satisfying finish. It’s the messy middle, and it can test even the most patient creative.  I like to call it the ugly stage, and every painting goes through it. 
When I first started painting seriously, I used to panic in this stage. I’d convince myself the work was a disaster and either overwork it or abandon it altogether. But over time, I realised that almost every artwork I love today passed through this same uncertain phase. The difference was learning to trust the process.
Creativity is rarely linear. It’s full of highs and lows, bursts of clarity and patches of doubt. The magic happens when we keep showing up anyway — even when we can’t see the outcome yet.
This lesson spills far beyond the studio. Life, too, has its messy middles — times when things feel unclear, when progress is hard to measure, when the path ahead is foggy. In those moments, it helps to remember that growth isn’t always visible from the inside. Sometimes the most important shifts happen quietly, under the surface.
When you’re stuck mid-painting, try stepping back. Literally. Stand a few metres away from the canvas and see the whole picture. The same applies in life — a bit of distance can reveal patterns we can’t see up close.  It is amazing what a nights sleep can do.
I also like to remind myself that every layer, even the awkward ones, contributes to the final piece. Those strange patches of colour or unexpected textures often add depth and character later on. Nothing is wasted, it is giving the painting a story and history. .
So next time your painting (or your plans) feel like they’re falling apart, resist the urge to give up. Take a breath. Keep going. Trust that what looks uncertain now might just be the foundation of something beautiful.
As artists, we learn resilience through practice — by facing the uncomfortable and staying curious. The truth is, creativity thrives not in certainty, but in the willingness to explore the unknown.
So, when you find yourself in that in-between space — not lost, but not yet found — know that you’re exactly where you need to be. That’s where growth is quietly happening.
How do you handle the messy middle in your creative work? Share your thoughts in the comments below.

Featured Photo: My messy brushes 

There’s something deeply grounding about small rituals — those familiar actions that help us settle into the creative zone. They might seem insignificant on the surface, but they hold a quiet kind of power.
For me, it starts with a clearing the workspace. and putting on my messy old apron. I make a cup of coffee or herbal tea, open the door for some fresh air, and put on some music. Those small actions signal to my brain: it’s time to create.
Every artist has their own version. Some sharpen their pencils, others sort their paints or light a candle. These rituals act as gentle cues, moving us from the noise of everyday life into the calm of creative focus.
It’s the same principle I talk about in class and  carries through generally in life — small, consistent actions that build meaningful momentum. You don’t have to wait for inspiration to strike; you can create the conditions that invite it in.
The best part is, these rituals don’t need to be elaborate. Sometimes it’s simply sitting in silence for a few minutes before you start, or taking three deep breaths before you pick up your brush.
Rituals remind us that creativity is a practice, not an accident. They also create boundaries — a way of saying to yourself, “this time is mine.” In a world full of distraction, that’s a powerful thing.
If you’ve ever struggled to find focus, try introducing one small ritual before you create. Over time, your mind will learn to associate that action with flow and presence.
The more we respect the process, the more the process respects us back.

What’s one small ritual that helps you step into your creative space? Share your thoughts in the comments below.

Featured Artwork:  Work in progress from an art demonstration

There’s a certain moment, somewhere between almost finished and overworked, where every artist has to decide: is this done?
We fuss and fiddle, adding one more stroke here, adjusting a colour there — until suddenly, what was once fresh and alive starts to lose its energy. Letting go at the right moment can feel impossible, but it’s one of the most valuable creative skills you can learn.
I’ve had paintings that sat on my easel for weeks longer than they should have, simply because I couldn’t stop “fixing” them. Eventually I realised I wasn’t improving them — I was just trying to control them.  A term I learned and have fallen victim to is "Toomuchery", you need to tale a step back and stop. 
Art, like life, doesn’t always need to be perfect. Sometimes it just needs to be honest.
Letting go of a painting teaches us trust — trust in our instincts, trust in the process, and trust that we’ve done enough. The irony is that once you release the need to control every detail, your work begins to breathe again.
The same principle applies beyond the canvas. We often hold onto ideas, plans, or even relationships long after they’ve served their purpose. We tell ourselves it’s not the right time to let go, or that maybe one more adjustment will make things better. But sometimes, the most courageous thing we can do is to stop holding on.
When you let something go — whether it’s a half-finished painting or a long-held expectation — you create space for something new to emerge. The energy that was tied up in resistance becomes available for creation again.
So, next time you’re unsure if something is finished, step back and ask yourself: am I still adding value, or just avoiding closure? More often than not, the answer will tell you it’s time to put down the brush.
Letting go isn’t failure. It’s freedom.

What’s something you’ve recently let go of — in art or in life — that opened space for something new? I’d love to hear below.
​Featured Artwork:  Work in progress from an en plein air outing 

There’s a point in every painting when you have to stop — not because it’s finished, but because it needs time. The paint needs to dry, the layers need to settle, and you need to step back.
That waiting period can feel uncomfortable, especially if you’re eager to keep going. But I’ve learned that those pauses are just as important as the brushstrokes themselves. They give space for clarity. Sometimes what we see after a break is completely different to what we saw before.

Art teaches us that growth happens in the quiet moments — the intervals between the doing. When we pause, our perspective widens. We begin to notice things we’d have missed in the rush to keep moving.
It’s much the same in life. We live in a culture that glorifies busyness. We fill every gap, every silence, every moment with activity. But creativity — and genuine wellbeing — don’t thrive in constant motion. They need breathing room.

Taking a pause doesn’t mean you’ve lost momentum. It means you’re allowing the work (and yourself) to rest, reflect, and recharge. Even the most vibrant colours need time to settle before the next layer can hold.

When I take breaks from painting, I often step outside or make a cuppa and sit in the garden. Looking away for a little while helps me see the piece differently when I return. Sometimes I realise it’s already finished. Other times, I see exactly what’s missing.
 We can’t see the full picture when we’re standing too close to it. Pausing allows the bigger view to come into focus.
So next time you feel impatient — whether with your art or with life — give yourself permission to stop. Not to abandon the work, but to give it (and you) time to breathe. When you come back, you’ll be surprised at how much clearer everything feels.
👉 Do you find it easy or hard to pause in your creative process? Share your thoughts in the comments below.

Featured Artwork: Winter Glow - Port Phillip Bay on canvas board 

Inspiration can be a tricky thing. Sometimes it sweeps in like a gust of wind, lighting up your imagination with a single idea. Other times, it’s nowhere to be found — no matter how long you sit in front of a blank page, waiting for something to happen.
What I’ve come to realise, both as an artist and an art instructor, is that inspiration isn’t something we have to chase. It’s something we cultivate by paying attention.
The most beautiful sparks often come from the smallest, simplest moments. The shape of morning light through the kitchen window. The way a breeze moves through eucalyptus leaves. A snippet of conversation overheard at the café. These moments might seem insignificant, but they’re quietly abundant if we choose to notice them.
I remember once sketching outside after a long creative block. I wasn’t feeling inspired at all — I just wanted to sit in the sun. But as I looked around, I noticed the way the gum leaves caught the light, each one slightly different in tone and curve. Before I knew it, my pencil was moving, tracing the rhythm of those leaves, and the spark returned.
Creativity thrives when we let ourselves be curious, not when we pressure ourselves to produce. Sometimes all we need to do is slow down enough to notice what’s right in front of us.
If you ever feel creatively stuck, try taking yourself on what I call an “inspiration wander.” Leave your phone behind, walk somewhere familiar, and simply observe. Notice colours, shapes, and shadows. Listen to sounds. Feel textures. You might spot patterns in the pavement, reflections in puddles, or interesting lines in a fence post. These little details often hold more creative potential than grand scenes.

It’s also worth remembering that creativity isn’t limited to your art practice. Cooking, gardening, rearranging your home or studio — all of these things feed your creative well. The key is presence. When we approach everyday life with curiosity, the world becomes a gallery of ideas waiting to be explored.

This is what mindfulness really looks like in action — not sitting still trying to quiet the mind, but living, awake to your surroundings. When we engage with life fully, inspiration naturally follows.
The next time you sit down to paint or draw, try pulling one of those small observations into your work. Maybe it’s the shadow of a leaf, the warmth of sunlight, or the rhythm of waves. Those details carry the memory of presence — and that’s what gives a piece its soul.

So, instead of waiting for inspiration to arrive like a lightning bolt, start noticing the sparks already around you. You might find they were there all along, quietly waiting for you to look up.

👉 What’s one small, everyday thing that’s sparked your creativity lately? I’d love to hear in the comments below.
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Featured Photo:  Dry palette page from producing an artwork 

There’s something quietly powerful about starting again. That first brushstroke on a fresh canvas, or the moment you open a new sketchbook — crisp, blank, full of potential. It’s equal parts exciting and terrifying. Every artist knows that feeling.
After time away from painting, it can feel awkward to begin again. The brush doesn’t sit quite right in your hand, your ideas feel fuzzy, and that little voice pipes up — “What if I’ve lost it?” But here’s the truth: you haven’t lost anything. Creativity isn’t something that disappears; it just shifts, waiting for you to return.
I’ve learned that we often expect ourselves to pick up exactly where we left off, as though our creative energy is a tap we can simply turn back on. But creativity has its own rhythm. It ebbs and flows with the seasons of our lives — and that’s okay. The important part is the return.
When you step back into your art space, don’t demand brilliance. Just begin. Put down colour. Scribble. Smudge. Play. The first few marks are rarely pretty, but they’re the bridge between where you were and where you’re going. Each stroke rebuilds the connection between your hands, heart, and imagination.
It’s the same in life, isn’t it? We often put off starting again — whether that’s getting back into a healthy routine, reconnecting with someone, or revisiting a dream we shelved long ago — because we think we need the perfect plan or timing. But waiting for perfection only keeps us still. The real shift happens when we take that small, imperfect step forward.
So, if you’ve stepped away from your art, remember that creativity doesn’t hold grudges. It waits patiently for your return. Each time you show up, you reignite the spark.
Here’s a little exercise I love: when you feel hesitant to start, choose one colour that feels good to you and fill a whole page with it — loose strokes, no goal, no outcome. Just the joy of movement. That simple act opens the door to the creative rhythm again.  You can build on it either now or at a later date.  It is going anywhere, it is simply waiting for you and your timing. 
Starting again isn’t a setback; it’s a continuation — another layer in the lifelong painting that is your creative story. The beauty is, every time you return, you bring something new with you — more life, more perspective, more you.
👉 I’d love to hear — what helps you restart your creative flow after a break? Share your thoughts in the comments below.

Featured artwork:  Watercolour Botanical Study/Play page 

​There’s a moment — often quiet, sometimes uncertain — when the brushes are rinsed, the palette is set aside, and you take a step back. The canvas or paper, once bare and brimming with possibility, now holds something entirely new. A story told in colour, gesture, and emotion. And then comes the final act: the signature.
To sign your artwork is to say, I was here.  Own it!
It’s not just a mark of creativeship — it’s a quiet declaration of pride in your work. A gentle claim of the journey you’ve taken from blank surface to expressive creation.
 Every piece begins in gentle contemplation. A blank canvas, a flicker of inspiration, a hesitant first stroke. Whether it’s graphite on paper or acrylic on board, the process is rarely straightforward. There are detours, doubts, delightful surprises and happy accidents. You mix, layer, erase, and reimagine. Slowly, something emerges — something that didn’t exist before you touched it.
That transformation deserves acknowledgement.
 Why the Signature Matters

• It’s a record of your presence.
  Your signature is a timestamp of your creative voice at this moment in your life. It says, This is mine, and this is me — right now.
• It invites connection.
  Viewers often seek the artist’s name not just for attribution, but to feel closer to the hand behind the work. Your signature becomes a bridge between your  world and theirs.
• It honours the process.
  Signing your work is a ritual of completion. It’s a way of saying, I’ve shown up. I’ve created something worth standing beside. It's mine and I am proud.
• It builds legacy.
  Whether your art hangs in a gallery, a classroom, or a quiet corner of yours or someone’s home, your name carries your story forward. It’s a seed planted for future recognition, reflection, and remembrance.

There’s no single “right” way to sign your work. Some artists tuck their name subtly into a corner; others make it part of the composition. You might use initials, a full name, or even a symbol. What matters is that it feels authentic to you.
Things to Consider:

• Placement: Does it balance the composition or distract from it?
• Medium: Will it last as long as the artwork itself?
• Style: Does it reflect your artistic voice?

And most importantly — sign it with pride. Not perfection. Just pride.
If you’ve ever hesitated to sign your work — worried it’s not “good enough” or “finished enough” — remember this: the act of creating is already brave. The signature is simply the punctuation at the end of your sentence. It’s the moment you say, This is mine. I made this. And I’m proud.
So go ahead. Sign it. Own it. Celebrate it.
Your art is a testament to your presence, your process, and your passion.
Do you have a special way you sign your artwork or do you hesitate to sign it?
Share your thoughts below in the comments.

Featured Artwork: Mini landscapes 

I've got sketchbooks everywhere. There are a few on the go at any onetime, one in my studio, one in my bag, and honestly, probably two or three floating around my car. They're battered, not too pretty, and full of terrible drawings and painting alongside the occasional gem. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Here's the thing nobody tells you when you're starting out: your sketchbook isn't supposed to be precious. It's not a portfolio piece. It's not something you frame and hang on the wall (usually). It's a playground, a laboratory, a place where you get to be messy and curious and completely, wonderfully imperfect.
I see students all the time who are afraid to "ruin" their nice paper or sketchbook with a bad drawing. So, they don't draw at all. That beautiful blank journal just sits there, intimidating them. If this is you, please go draw something truly awful in it right now. I'll wait. There. Now you're free.
When I'm working on a new  piece or something for a show, there's pressure. It needs to work. It needs to be good. But in my sketchbook? I can try that weird colour combination I've been thinking about. I can sketch the same landscape or flower seventeen different ways. I can doodle nonsense while I'm on hold with a service  provider.
Some of my best finished pieces started as throwaway sketches I did in my sketchbook. One of the paintings that sold at last month's opening? Started as a doodle with a splash of colour in my sketchbook. You just never know what's going to spark something.
I use my sketchbook to capture an interesting shadow pattern on my kitchen wall at 3pm. The way my neighbour’s garden looks in the fading light. Colour swatches from a sunset I saw last Tuesday. Random thoughts about composition. Notes on what worked or didn't work in class that week.
Months or even years later, I'll flip through and find something that's suddenly relevant to what I'm working on. It's like I've been collecting little time capsules of inspiration for my future self.
This sounds cheesy, but it's true: keeping a sketchbook makes you more observant. When you know, you might want to sketch something later, you start really looking at the world. You notice the specific curve of a wine bottle. The way light hits a building at different times of day. The leaves on the ground, the way a tree grows at odd angles.
Even if you never draw those things, you've trained your eye. And that shows up in all your work.
We get so serious about art sometimes. We forget that part of why we started making art in the first place was because it was fun. Your sketchbook is where you get to remember that.
Try drawing with your non-dominant hand. Fill a page with patterns. Sketch something while looking only at the subject, never at the paper. Use colours that "shouldn't" go together. Make ugly art on purpose.
The skills you develop while playing show up in your serious work. The looseness, the confidence, the willingness to take risks—that all comes from having a place where stakes are low and curiosity is high.
You don't need an expensive sketchbook. Some of my favourite ones cost a few dollars at the local shop. You don't need fancy pencils or pens. Whatever you've got works fine.
You don't need to draw every day, though it's great if you do. You don't need to fill every page before starting a new book (I'm a chronic sketchbook juggler—no judgment here). You don't need to be "good" at drawing. You just need to start.
Grab whatever paper is near you right now an envelope, a scrap paper, anything and draw something you can see from where you're sitting. Badly is fine. Weirdly is fine. It doesn't have to be anything. Just move your hand around and see what happens.
That's all a sketchbook really is: permission to see what happens.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go find the sketchbook I left somewhere yesterday. Again.
What about you? Do you keep a sketchbook? Are you afraid of yours? I'd love to hear about your relationship with sketching in the comments below.

When I set up to paint, I don’t reach for every tube of colour I own. In fact, I’ve found that the fewer colours I use, the better my paintings hold together. A limited palette keeps things simple, but it also gives the work a natural sense of harmony.
Because so much of my painting features the sky, I always begin with my blues. They set the mood of the piece, and everything else flows from there.
My “Can’t Paint Without” Colours
There are a few paints I rely on every time I work:

• Payne’s Grey – I use this as my “black.” It’s soft and natural, without the harshness of true black, and I can mix it into any of my colours to create depth, drama, or shadow.
• French Blue – fresh and luminous, it’s often the first colour I mix when I start a sky.
• Cerulean Blue or Ultramarine Blue – depending on the mood. Cerulean gives me the clear, airy feel of an open sky, while Ultramarine adds richness and atmosphere.
• Titanium White – to lift the lights and soften the sky and build the fluffy clouds.
• A Red – I like having just one red in my kit, which I can mix into Burnt Sienna for warmth or with blue for moody purples.  The red depends on what I want to achieve on the particular piece. 

I don’t really think of Payne’s Grey as a colour — it’s more of a foundation tool for me, a way to create structure and contrast. My real palette begins with the blues.

Adding Warmth and Earth Once the sky is set, I bring in a couple of warm companions:

• Burnt Sienna – earthy and versatile, perfect for mixing into Payne’s Grey to create natural shadows, or grounding a landscape with warmth.
• Yellow Ochre – soft, muted, and ideal for sunlit earth or mixing gentle greens.

Together with my blues (and the touches of red and white), these create a palette that covers nearly every mood and scene I want to paint.
Why I Love a Limited Palette.
Working with fewer colours has taught me to really know my paints. I’ve discovered how Payne’s Grey shifts Ultramarine into rich, stormy tones, or how Burnt Sienna and French Blue together create subtle, atmospheric greys. Instead of overthinking, I can just paint — and that freedom shows in the work.
It also ties everything together. Even when I create a green, it comes from Yellow Ochre and one of my blues, so it always feels like part of the same family.
Try This Simple Exercise:
Next time you paint a sky, challenge yourself to use just:

• Payne’s Grey
• French Blue
• Either Cerulean or Ultramarine Blue

Play with how Payne’s Grey changes the mood of the blue. Then add Titanium White to lighten, and a touch of red to shift the atmosphere. Finally, introduce Burnt Sienna and Yellow Ochre for the land beneath your sky — and notice how naturally it all comes together.
I don’t see a limited palette as a restriction; I see it as a foundation. By choosing my blues with care and keeping my other colours few but purposeful, I give the whole painting a sense of unity. And honestly, there’s something freeing about realising I don’t need every colour in the paintbox to create a landscape that feels alive.

Featured Art: Echoes of the Distant Light

There’s something about living here in Victoria that keeps me endlessly inspired. Maybe it’s the way the weather can turn in a second—one moment, the sky is a gentle wash of blue, and the next, a wild wind sweeps in from the coast, churning up the clouds and sending the light dancing across the landscape. For me, these shifts aren’t just background noise; they’re the heartbeat of my creative process.
Lately, I’ve found myself drawn to painting those moments when nature feels especially alive—when a storm is brewing, or the air is thick with the promise of rain. Pieces like “Nothing Like a Bit of Rough Weather” and “We’re Heading for Dirty Weather” came straight from afternoons spent watching the sky change over the bay, feeling that electric energy in the air. I love the challenge of capturing not just what I see, but what I feel in those moments: the anticipation, the movement, the sense that anything could happen.

When I’m in the studio, I reach for my favourite acrylics and mixed media tools—sometimes layering in texture with palette knives, sometimes letting washes of colour bleed and blend like rain on glass. I’m always experimenting, trying to find new ways to evoke the atmosphere of a place or the mood of a particular day. Some days, the work comes easily, as if the painting is painting itself. Other days, it’s a bit of a wrestle, but I’ve learned to trust that the weather (and my own mood) will shift again, and with it, the art will find its way.

One thing I’ve noticed is how much emotion can be carried in a landscape, even an abstract one. The colours I choose, the direction of my brushstrokes, the textures I build up—all of it is a kind of language. I hope that when someone looks at my work, they can feel a bit of that energy, that sense of place and possibility. Maybe it reminds them of a stormy walk along the beach, or a quiet moment watching the clouds roll by.

I’d love to know—how does the weather or the landscape around you affect your mood or creativity? Do you find yourself more inspired on wild, windy days, or when the world is calm and still? Feel free to share your thoughts or even a photo in the comments. I’m always curious to hear how others experience the world around them.

If you’re interested in seeing more of my weather-inspired pieces, you can [browse my latest collection here]  And if you have a favourite local landscape or a weather story that’s stuck with you, let me know—I’m always looking for new inspiration.  Leave your comments below.

Thanks for reading, and for sharing this creative journey with me.
Featured Artwork: Nothing Like a Bit of Rough Weather 

​​Once a month, I host a group of local artists for a plein air painting session in the open air. The group varies in size—sometimes it’s as few as three or four, other times up to eight. Each artist brings a different level of experience, and for some, it’s their first taste of creating art outdoors.
This month, we explored a new location. Before heading out, I made sure to pack my usual kit, but added a few extras—acrylic paints, a panel, and my trusty easel, always stashed in the car. Upon arrival, I was relieved to have brought the extra supplies. The wind was brisk, but the view was breathtaking. From Mentone, the bay stretched out, with the cliffs of Beaumaris rising in the distance. The sky kept shifting, sunlight flickering through clouds and changing the colours of the water.
Everyone found a spot that inspired them. I set up slightly apart from the rest, and occasionally the breeze carried scraps of conversation my way. The chatter would ebb and flow depending on how deeply each person was absorbed in their work, but mostly I lost myself in the landscape and the panel before me.
What makes these monthly gatherings special isn’t just the act of painting outside. It’s the shared conversations, the exchange of tips, stories of creative bargains, memories, and the promise to meet again soon. There’s a warmth in the camaraderie—a blossoming of new friendships and a chance to be fully present. Art has a magical way of bringing people together in unexpected places, and for a couple of hours each month, everyday worries melt away. For those brief moments, we’re simply artists, painting in the fresh air, united by creativity and the beauty before us.

On Friday night, I experienced something I never quite saw coming, opening night for my series, “A Land of Sweeping Plains,” at Art Lark Gallery.
It’s wild to think that just two weeks earlier, this event wasn’t even on my calendar. Suddenly, I was in the thick of it, considering what on earth I could pull together for an exhibition—no time to overthink, just pure action.
The plan had originally been modest: a window display and  a Saturday morning three hour demonstration. Next thing I knew, I was curating a full-fledged exhibition. Did I have enough finished work? Not quite. So I dived in, unearthing half-completed series, finishing up, varnishing, stringing—working late into the night to make each one ready for the walls. And then there was the star of the show, my largest piece. It needed to be perfect, so I threw myself into those final touches while also switching hats to become a promoter, spreading the word about the opening.
Art Lark is a brand new space, and as much as this was an opening for my art, it was also an opening for the gallery itself. There was a certain shared excitement and a quiet hope that everything would go smoothly for both of us.
After the artwork was hung and the demo wrapped up, my focus shifted to all the “little” details: catering, drinks, those countless bits that make a night memorable but run so easily amiss.  I had help from my husband during the two weeks as he ran around and picked up different supplies.  On the night, a friend helped set up and ensured everyone was greeted and offered a refreshment. 
I chatted with a few artist friends along the way—they were convinced I was mad. “These things take months!” they said. But somehow, the intensity of that short timeline worked in my favour. Now, sitting here two days later, I can honestly say it couldn’t have gone better.
Sometimes, having no time to overthink is a blessing. Roll up your sleeves, trust your instincts, and let it all unfold. That’s exactly what I did—and I wouldn’t change a thing.
Photo: Lee featured with Sweeping Plains from the A Land of Sweeping Plains Series

I was thrilled to share a few weeks ago that I had been accepted into the City of Kingston's Magnify Artist Residency Program.  
Since then I have been asked what’s an artist residency and what are the benefits.  An artist will have dedicated creative time free from daily distractions, allowing for deeper exploration of ideas.  Working with other artists, there is access to new networks, connecting with the fellow artists, curators, and art communities.  A residency creates opportunities for growth, through collaborations, and exhibition possibilities.  With all these benefits it is also a  chance to magnify my practice—experimenting, evolving, and pushing boundaries in ways that everyday studio life may not allow.
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Most importantly, the residency offers a platform to share my work on a broader stage and contribute to a rich dialogue within the contemporary arts community.
I’m truly excited to embark on this journey, and I look forward to sharing insights, works-in-progress, and reflections from my residency experience as it unfolds.
Stay tuned—April 2026 will mark the beginning of something very special!
It’s a question I get a lot—what is an artist residency, and why do it? For me, a residency is a welcome break from everyday routines, offering uninterrupted creative time and the freedom to dive deep into new ideas. It’s a chance to experiment, play, and try out things that just wouldn’t happen in a regular studio day.

One of the best parts is connecting with other artists, curators, and art lovers. Being around people who are just as passionate as you opens doors—to collaborations, new friendships, and even fresh opportunities to show your work. The energy in these communities is inspiring and often stays with you long after the residency ends.
Residencies encourage stepping out of comfort zones, taking risks, and discovering new directions. They’re also about sharing—putting your work on a bigger stage and joining conversations happening in the wider art world.

I can’t wait to start this journey and share the process, the ups and downs, and the things I learn along the way. April 2026 is right around the corner, and I’m looking forward to bringing you along for what promises to be an exciting adventure behind the easel.