Each year I set myself new goals – small markers that encourage me to keep moving forward. I set deadlines and imagine ideas that may not always be reachable, yet the act of striving towards them is what drives the work forward. I cannot paint without purpose; there is always something I am trying to say, something that needs to find its way into the world. The question then becomes – who is the audience for this conversation?

For the past few months I have been finishing a series of paintings in preparation for Fusion Art Fair, Chester. It feels good to be painting again, to return to the rhythm of making. As Fusion is a new event, there are some levels of apprehension – who the audience might be – what kind of work will resonate etc. Alongside the creative drive is the practical reality of exhibiting. Taking part in an art fair requires commitment – time, preparation, a level of professionalism and, of course, financial investment. Materials, travel, food, parking, the countless small costs that gather around an event. 

At the end of the day, I need to cover these costs and hopefully, make a profit to be able to continue painting, and yet beyond the practicalities, remains the deeper motivation: the need to continue making the work and sharing it. Trusting that somewhere it will connect with someone who recognises something of their own experience within it. Because of this, I became increasingly aware of a quiet need to ‘anchor’ the work to particular sites — places that hold personal resonance, where memory becomes a thread of connection. Even in the smallest remnants — fragments that persist within the landscape — there is a sense of continuity. It felt important to respond to these passing elements, to acknowledge a terrain so deeply layered with history and significance within my own environment in the North West.

The semi-abstract paintings emerged as sensory impressions of being within the landscape itself — an attempt to trace the marks we leave behind, both visible and intangible — forming compositions that carry an energy, yet remain held within a quieter, more poetic register.

Quote; “Art is a vocation in life. It’s not a job. It’s not a career. It’s not about money. It’s something you feel you have to do and you can’t stop yourself from doing it”.  – Tracey Emin

Some experienced advice would be, when applying to events, be selective, be picky! The reality is you have to do your homework on where your work sits best. I have learnt this the hard way and by understanding the possibilities of acceptance, but also, by accepting there are no guarantees your work will be noticed within the diverse world of competitive art.

The whole preparation and commuting to exhibitions is exhausting, I could not do it without moral and physical support. The work involved in participating in an event takes commitment alongside running a studio. Not to mention the effort it takes applying to relevant galleries, hoping to be noticed. After years of rejection and celebratory successes, I have come to terms with – not everyone gets that BIG break – you need continued self belief. Keep doing what you do best – continue being creative-stubborn-different-driven-compassionate-emotional and unique, but above all be authentic.

I am represented by an Art Gallery in the centre of Liverpool, Dot-Art which has brought different opportunities to my practice. Art galleries need us equally as much as we need them- without us artists, there would be no galleries or exhibitions etc. https://dot-art.co.uk/product-category/amanda-oliphant/

So, I close this journal with a moment of self-observation. There are quieter days — times shaped by reflection and doubt — yet they are outnumbered by those that lift and reaffirm, reminding me why I continue making art, regardless of frustrations, uncertainties, or feelings of being misunderstood. All I can hope for is the satisfaction in trying with elements of daring to fail continue to inspire me.

As Henry Moore once said: “There’s no retirement for an artist, it’s your way of living so there’s no end to it.” That sentiment resonates strongly with me I think because I see myself as that crazy lady in a large floppy straw hat painting at the bottom of my garden – it is a vision I often have! – it makes me smile.

Artists are often portrayed as somehow ‘privileged’, dismissive of reality or as creative do-gooders and time-wasters – people who are avoiding getting a ‘proper’ job. This is a grey area I wrestle with. Even today, I am questioned as to what I do and why I do it. I know these concerns come from a place of care – because choosing to be an artist can mean living with financial uncertainty and rejection, but that’s my choice, my identity. 

The concept of being a creative person applies to all art industries, music, acting, writing – none are for the faint hearted as rejection can be brutal. Surely, in the end, it is for each individual to remain true to themselves and to follow their instinct – their calling – if they are able.

Quote; “The artist’s job is to be a light in the darkness and a voice in the silence.” – Oscar Wilde

The probability is that I will never “make it big” – at least not in my lifetime – but that’s not something I think about. But art is the first thing I think about when I wake in the morning, and the last thing I try to quieten in my mind when sleep eventually comes. Often, of course, it is the very thing that keeps me awake.

My work shifts and evolves as I do – it is a constant process of searching and uncovering, like excavating something long hidden. Often it feels as though I am digging towards the unknown, towards something that has not yet been said, not yet been made. Only recently have I begun to recognise that in this process I am also unearthing fragments of my own identity. The sense of who we are is built from the quiet archiving of memory. Many of these memories are vivid in childhood, later settling into the fabric of our personal history. They remain there, waiting to be revisited, reflected upon, and gently drawn back into the present.

Poem; The Mosaic of Me 

Not just the label they placed on my skin, But the depth of the world that I carry within. Caught between echoes of what used to be, And the unfolding, untamed, present-day-me. – Yashwitha Yadav

History is complex, and my own experience of displacement takes me back delving into memories – a ‘self portrait’ of oneself. Memory is always subjective because it records how we feel, they are not facts, just fragments of identity.

When I paint a landscape, I feel as though I am delving into the subconscious – an archive of images quietly stored away. Fragments begin to surface. I am never quite sure where they come from, only that I recognise a connection to the landscape itself. Something underpins the brushstrokes – the colours, the tones – a process of probing, questioning and searching that happens almost unconsciously across the surface.

I carry vivid memories of thick woodlands, giant trees and mountains of fallen leaves – I can still recall the smell of the undergrowth. Yet today it is the wide open spaces that captivate me: vast skies and the freedom of land stretching out into the distance, allowing me to become lost in the moment.

For me, paintings rarely work as literal representations. Instead, they become dreamlike, unresolved landscapes that gradually draw me in. What emerges is my experience of a place – something personal, yet shared with the viewer. Through the act of painting I hope to invite you to pause, to look, and to reflect.

Perhaps this is sometimes stirred by old photographs that I return to – searching for a connection, a trace of somewhere I feel I remember… yet somehow never truly knew.

Whether held here in my studio or within a particular landscape or organised venue, leading a session filled with enthusiasm and passion for the arts brings its own quiet energy. There is something special about a group of people gathering simply to explore, observe and create.

I often say that I am not teaching a workshop but leading one – a small distinction that removes the pressure of expectation. What matters most is not taking home a finished masterpiece, but embracing the process of making. It is about curiosity rather than production, allowing the act of painting itself to become the reward.

Quote; “No great artist ever sees things as they really are. If he did, he would cease to be an artist.” — Oscar Wilde

Last year, while working on location, I ran small workshops on Hilbre Island, a Site of Special Scientific Interest (SSSI) status, situated in the Dee Estuary. They formed part of the launch of the Creative Arts Programme connected to the Liverpool Independent Biennial. It felt a privilege to share such a unique landscape with others in this way, even if there were some levels of apprehension and doubt. 

Of course, working on an isolated island brings its own practical considerations. Access to and from the Island is dictated entirely by the tides, so careful planning becomes essential. That said, the enthusiasm for the workshops remains positive, and participants seem to embrace the sense of adventure that comes with painting in such a remote and ever-changing environment.

Because of the unusual location, I had to be mindful of what materials I could transport to and from the venue. Particularly when working within historic buildings where there is no lighting or running water. Limited equipment encourages a certain simplicity in approach, but it also reminds me that practical considerations are an important part of presenting any workshop proposal and to whom can access such a location – thus limiting your audience.

Being realistic and transparent when developing ideas – carefully considering time, costs, and, above all, the health and safety of participants (as well as my own as described in Journal 006) may seem less inspiring than the creative process, but it is an equally essential part of the work – if there’s a will there’s a way!

Quote; “Don’t think about making art, just get it done. Let everyone else decide if it’s good or bad, whether they love it or hate it. While they are deciding, make even more art”. – Andy Warhol

What I will say is that if  you have the opportunity to work in challenging environments, with different people, in different media – beyond painting – I encourage you to take opportunities whenever you can. Every creative path you explore becomes part of your visual language as long as there is a coherent thread throughout. 

As previously mentioned, last year I consciously moved parts of my art practice beyond the studio environment. A residency that involved researching and responding to a landscape on my doorstep. It opened up new and varied ways of exploring and working. This shift felt both right and challenging, ultimately culminating in a series of new collaged pieces that I am still developing further.

During this residency, I came across some forgotten historic writings, poems by an 18th century woman which I referenced within my body of work. This culminated in an installation of very large pieces and small sculptural forms. This discovery would never have happened if I had not been open to exploration beyond my studio, it has also encouraged me to continue writing my own poems..

So, by embracing openness, different opportunities organically evolve – with the prospect of expanding the work further, hopefully leading to an exhibition that shares the outcomes with everyone involved.

Living on the Wirral in the North West of England, a peninsula surrounded by three different waters – the River Dee, the Irish Sea and the River Mersey brings a sense of belonging, calm and purpose. The unique geography presents endless inspiration with its dramatic skies, turbulent tides, rising sandbanks and deep silted ravines – all part of the challenging and ever-changing layers of coastal living.

The landscape never stands still. Light shifts quickly across the wide estuary skies, tides redraw the shoreline, and weather moves in long sweeping patterns across the water. Observing these constant transformations inevitably filters into my work, shaping how I see colour, space and atmosphere within the landscape.

These layers are what inspire my creativity of place and provide endless ideas and exploration. Not only do they exist along the edges where land meets sea, but also within the old woodlands and winding pathways that retain the footprints of time, guiding us inevitably toward the coastline. These contrasting landscapes hold traces of mystery, evolution, and environmental change, each offering its own quiet narrative. My aim is to capture some of these elements within the constraints of a canvas or on paper, hoping to do justice to my thoughts, memories, and ideas, responding to what I see and feel. 

Whether working on one of the archipelagoes in the River Dee or back on the mainland in my studio, it is invariably the changing light that captivates me – I reimagine how Turner must have felt when presented with such a landscape – the vast, sweeping skies, moody storms, weather approaching, senses that captivate the soul. But it’s also the deep shadows cast between trees, the reflections stretching across puddles – elements that draw me in. Often it can just be the sudden brilliance of light itself. All of these are symbiotic layers within the edges of land, each shaping how I respond, observe, and interpret the world around me.

Quote; “It is only when we are no longer fearful that we begin to create.” – JMW Turner.

Whether I’m working on a large scale or on small intimate pieces, I am driven to explore the very essence of connecting (or re-connecting) to a place. Maybe this comes from deep within my memories of not feeling like I belong to somewhere. I could easily paint exactly what I see – but that’s not me – that’s not my purpose – nor my true response! So I battle with ‘capturing’ fragments of light, air, movement, and memory – the very essence of the landscape.

When I do work on paper, I sometimes tear up fragments and reposition pieces to reimagine the landscape through collage. This act of layering allows for undiscovered compositions but still, the original concept remains. It also becomes a metaphor of my displaced childhood – moving from one country to another – never feeling ‘connected’ to place, only grasping fragments of my being. 

Although my practice now centres mainly on painting, I often think back to a time when I worked across many different forms – from sculpture to video installation and printmaking. Each of those experiences carries a thread that runs through my work today. They are all part of me, a sense of my identity. Only now, with the benefit of distance, do I fully appreciate how valuable that period of play and experimentation was. 

There is still a burning desire to reintroduce 3d elements to my work. It feels like the right time to do so. I feel my work is shifting to a more ‘personal’ level – becoming a part of my own personal history. Looking back, everything I have tried and tested now quietly supports my practice and forms the foundation of the artist I am today.

More than observation, however, painting outdoors is for me, a way of reconnecting. It returns me to the source of my palette and to the physical experience of place – the air, the colours, the sounds that move through a space. How do you hold the vastness of nature within a frame? How do you distil distance, atmosphere, the weight of a horizon, without losing its essence? The scale magnifies every brushstroke, every decision, exposing your ideas.

Quote:  “In nature, light creates the color. In the picture, color creates the light” — Hans Hofmann.

Painting en plein air continues to be a practice I frustratingly don’t do often enough but this year, I intend to return to it more wholeheartedly – to step back into the elements and allow the landscape to lead. The intention is to continue working out on Hilbre Island, a unique Local Nature Reserve of three tidal islands, where land, sea and sky exist in constant negotiation, continuing responding to a landmark that is fragile, humble and  slowly disappearing.

There is something profoundly clarifying about working out there. The isolation from the mainland is unnerving, the tidal waters cutting you off until once again, the sea retreats. Shifting tides dictate time; the wind interrupts comfort; the horizon refuses to sit still. It is a place that demands attention and rewards patience. 

Beyond its natural beauty, Hilbre has evolved into a place where creativity, art, science and sustainability converge through the work of CASS – a meeting point for ideas as much as for wildlife. It is somewhere I have returned to for many years and, more recently, a landscape I feel fortunate to be part of through my involvement with the HCLT (Hilbre Community Land Trust). Supporting projects and open days that raise awareness of this fragile environment has become an important aspect of my connection to the islands. Alongside this, my role as a Trustee for BADA (British Art Design Association) allows me to help support the arts more widely – encouraging creative opportunities while remaining mindful of the responsibility that comes with nurturing these spaces and communities as they continue to grow organically. HIlbre will undoubtedly pop up often in my journals.

I can say that I am the kind of artist who needs to be surrounded by images – or, ideally, the landscape itself – allowing a visual field of ideas to gradually take shape. Working in this way naturally leads me towards a series rather than focusing consciously on a single finished piece, removing some of the pressure from both myself and the work. Not everything I produce will resonate, but the process often becomes the opening chapter of another body of work.

Because observation is so central to my practice, I often create a ‘storyboard’ to support emerging ideas – a small space I can return to whenever I need inspiration or a gentle nudge through moments of procrastination. I fill it with photographs taken while walking or researching a new site: fragments of landscape and fleeting moments, rough sketches, notes scribbled on location, poetry that resonates, references to artists who inspire me, and small colour experiments. Having everything gathered in one place allows me to dip in whenever doubt or distraction arises, often sparking ideas I didn’t realise I was searching for.

I hope that some of what I have written resonates with you, or offers reassurance that the creative mind is something to be cherished and allowed the freedom to wander. I will end this journal entry with an extract from the poem ‘Hoyle Lake’ by Anna Seward, written in 1794, taken from the book Romance of the Wirral by A. G. Caton, a poem I worked with on Hilbre.

The peopled lake, of song and lively cheer,
And boatwain’s whistle bears the joyful sound,
While rosy pennants, floating on the air,
Tinge the soft seas of glass that seep around.

The journey of making should remain visible – traces, markmaking, asemic writing, (a wordless, open-semantic form of writing I favour that fuses text and image, using lines and symbols that resemble writing but lack conventional meaning) and gestures – a lived conversation between surface and self. Describing nature creatively and honestly. Quote: “In all things of nature, there is something of the marvelous” – Aristotle

For some time now, I have found myself writing poems and diaries that sit quietly alongside each body of work. The poems tend to arrive unannounced – descriptive phrases forming in their own time, like written paintings. They become reflections, critical responses, rhythmic compositions that attempt to reveal the hidden layers within each piece. Where paint holds mood and gesture, poetry traces thought and feeling.

I am deeply inspired by poets such as John Clare (1793 – 1864), whose understanding of landscape and place feels instinctive and tender. In The Ramble he writes of breathing “the cool sweet air” and marking “the blue sky and all the nameless beauties limning morn” – rhythmic sensitivity to the natural world that resonates profoundly with my own way of writing. Likewise, the words of William Wordsworth (1770 – 1850) carry a timeless sincerity. In I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud, when “my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils”, there is a purity of feeling – soulful, raw, yet beautifully restrained – that continues to move me.

I am never quite certain what I will do with my poems. They remain mostly hidden, tucked between sketchbooks within studio walls. I would not call myself a writer and certainly not a poet – only someone who occasionally needs language to speak more soulfully about a painting. Yet including fragments of these writings beside my work feels instinctively right. They offer another layer of meaning, a quiet undercurrent running beneath the surface of the paint.

My diaries on the other hand, are small snippets of observation caught in the moment, fleeting ideas, notes to self, rough sketches, references to artists I admire and ISBN numbers of books I suddenly feel I must own. They are layered with timelines, records of years passing, glimpses of thoughts, a sentence overheard, and a name circled twice so I do not forget to look it up later. 

Because my art diaries are not created for anyone else to read, in truth, they will likely remain closed to the world, and I am entirely at peace with that. They are companions rather than declarations. They hold the unpolished thoughts, the doubts, the sparks of excitement – the scaffolding behind the finished work. Perhaps they are more significant than I realise. They steady me, support me, and quietly shape the paintings long before the brush meets the canvas. The Guardian quotes; “Diary-writing is the most private form of literary creation because you are both the author and (for the present at least) the sole reader”.

I love stumbling through an artist’s journal or diary and I have a particular affiliation for discovering an artist’s book that resonates with myself – that quiet thrill of finding one unexpectedly, the indulgence of bringing it home, holding its weight, turning the pages slowly. There is something deeply rewarding about that tactile exchange – paper, ink, pictures, texture – a conversation across time. To flick through and feel inspired is a kind of nourishment.

Extract from one of my own poems;

Rhythms of Colour

“Textured gestures sweeping in
Sienna Morning breaks my dreams,
A tinge of dew kissed grassy verge
Nature’s canvas connecting our means”

2025 @ Amanda Oliphant

Scroll back to late 2024, while working on location on Hilbre Island in the Dee Estuary, off the coast of the Wirral, that physical commitment was abruptly interrupted. Whilst gathering materials across uneven silt covered ground, I fell badly and fractured my right wrist – my painting arm – in two places, and, as an added complication, also broke my shoulder. What followed was more than eight months of recovery: pain, immobility, physio and the deep frustration of not being able to paint.

This unforeseen interruption was difficult. Art is not simply what I do; it is how I process and understand the world daily. To have that taken away felt disorientating. Yet, within that enforced stillness, something quieter emerged. Although the studio initially felt out of reach, it gradually became a place of refuge. I was brought there simply to sit, to think, to read. I began writing with my left hand – tentatively at first – tapping into a different rhythm, perhaps even a different part of my brain. Ideas gathered. Plans formed.

Now, at around eighty-five per cent rehabilitated, I have returned to the canvas with renewed appreciation. The freedom of movement feels extraordinary – something once taken for granted now deeply valued. The experience has not diminished my ambition; if anything, it has sharpened it. I am working again, pushing small boundaries, but thinking big – with a heightened awareness of just how precious the act of painting truly is.

Stamina alone is not the only consideration when scaling up. There is also the practical cost of working large – the materials, the space, (as previously described, the commitment to a larger studio) and the simple fact that there is no endless supply of money. To continue, the work must sustain itself. Selling one painting becomes the quiet enabler of the next – the cold reality of an artist’s life! 

Now, I am back in the studio, constructing my own stretchers and able to host workshops. It is demanding work, but profoundly grounding to paint upon a surface I have physically built. The act embeds another layer of intention before the first brushstroke is even made. Of course, scale brings its own practical choreography – manoeuvring canvases around the studio, lifting them, hanging them, (aspects that I still find difficult) transporting them to exhibitions. It is a physical negotiation with space. 

Canvas is the obvious choice when scaling up as using boards would be unmanageable and working on unstretched canvas is also an option, easier to roll up and store. 

A painting evolves much like a life – absorbing what has come before, shifting as it moves through space with you and balance remains the daily challenge. Maybe a metaphor of one’s own life. Layers organically accumulate within my work, sometimes unconsciously. Paintings sit beneath paintings; unresolved surfaces are reworked, buried, and resurrected – I never throw old work away as one day, I may decide to repurpose it. Being thrifty is wise not foolish!. Texture builds not only through material, but through time. If the balance is not right, the work resists being finished. You cannot simply walk away from it. It lingers, unresolved, asking for more – until something settles and the surface finally holds its own quiet resolve. Quote: “Fine art is that in which the hand, the head, and the heart of man go together.” ~John Ruskin

As mentioned previously, style does not simply appear; it reveals itself slowly, once you begin to understand your own drives, inspirations and quiet motivations – all intertwined with your personal quirks, habits and preferences. Over time, you begin to recognise your ‘you’. 

What feels natural. What feels necessary. What rises instinctively from somewhere deeper, and when that alignment happens, there is a sense of contentment – a quiet knowing that what you create is honest and true.

I often find myself questioning why I became an artist. It has been a long journey of discovery, and only now do I realise—it wasn’t a choice I made; it chose me. Cliche or not, that is all I know. I believe I see things differently, accused of daydreaming as a child, I now know I was ‘deeply looking’!. I can’t imagine not doing this. How I choose colour, how colour chooses us—or perhaps, in truth, whether we ever truly choose it.  Quote: “If you hear a voice within you say ‘you cannot paint,’ then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced” – Vincent Van Gogh

Perhaps this pull to express what I see lies somewhere deep within my subconscious – an instinctive search for steadiness, for something to anchor me. Having lived abroad for all of my childhood, I absorbed different languages, customs and landscapes, yet often carried a quiet sense of displacement – as though my identity was constantly in transit.

Only recently have I begun to feel content without the persistent urge to look elsewhere. I no longer search for belonging in distant places. Inspiration surrounds me daily. I simply need to pause, to look, and to truly feel the landscape before me. That said, I still relish the occasional artist residency – the warmth of a shared creative environment, the gentle shift of perspective that comes from stepping away, if only for a while.

It has taken me years to recognise that the colours I favour are not accidental, but deeply aligned with mood and feeling. I would not describe myself as a ‘colourist’. I instinctively return to a natural palette, drawn time and again to earthy tones that feel honest and uncontrived. These muted hues carry a quiet warmth. They steady a space, soften its edges, and offer a gentle sense of connection to the land. Blue, which threads its way through much of my previous work, moves slowly – contemplative and expansive. Red, by contrast, rarely enters my paintings. It carries heat, urgency, even anger – emotions that seldom find a place within my visual language. 

In many ways, my palette reveals more about my inner landscape than any subject matter ever could. There is something deeply grounding about an earthy palette. These are the tones that seem to let us exhale as we cross a threshold – colours drawn from soil, trees, seas, stone and sky that feel timeless, steadying, and quietly restorative. They do not clamour for attention; instead, they hold space.

On reflection, I’m not seeking to describe the landscape, whether in an intimate sketchbook or a vast canvas, but to distil it through process. To translate sensation rather than scenery. To allow the act of painting itself to become a quiet conversation between land and self. Quote:  “When you go out to paint, try to forget what objects you have before you, a tree, a house, a field, or whatever. Merely think, here is a little square of blue, here an oblong of pink, here a streak of yellow” – Claude Monet

The failures are as important as the successes. Gradually, I reached a place of understanding – not just of technique, but of my own understanding of the way of thinking and seeing. It took time (a long time!), but that journey was essential. Finding my style was not about choosing from what was available; it was about uncovering what was already there.

When I chose to focus seriously on painting and set other distractions aside, I found myself always drawn to vast landscapes – not just from memory or observation, but from a deep sense of connection and a compelling need to express what I truly see and feel. Quote: “the aim of art is not to represent the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance” – Aristotle

I started out using acrylics, but my approach evolved after taking an oil and cold wax course in 2019. Now, I switch between both mediums depending on the series I’m working on. Acrylics give me the freedom I need, especially on a larger scale. I appreciate their responsiveness – I can work quickly, build layers, and adjust as I go. They are adaptable and facilitate running painting workshops but also make practical sense, as they are far more affordable than oils.

Over time, I have introduced drawing materials, asemic writing and some collage into my work. Stabilo pencils became a regular feature, and more recently, oil pastels. These additions allow the surface to gain depth and texture. Lines often emerge instinctively, suggesting movement, pathways, or quiet journeys across the surface. When I work with oils and cold wax, that sense of depth becomes even more pronounced, with subtle hints of underpainting seeping through to the surface. Being selective with materials, and working with intention and purpose, has become an essential part of everyday studio life.

In my paintings, I am not trying to describe the landscape literally, whether on a small or large scale, but to distil it through process (a subject to discuss further). I have always worked in series, allowing atmosphere to unfold gradually – each piece carrying an echo of the last while hinting at the next. It’s as if I don’t want that moment of exploration to end. I feel a poetic sensibility underpins much of what I do.

Analysing your own style is difficult as it emerges naturally rather than being consciously chosen. I rarely think too hard when standing in front of a blank surface – I surround myself with research material, sketches and a story board. I simply begin, knowing a landscape will emerge. Sometimes it begins from memory, sometimes from photographs I’ve taken. 

Often, I start with charcoal or a dark Stabilo pencil, making large gestural marks across the surface. Most of these will eventually be covered by layers of paint, only some surviving the process. The composition evolves as I work until I feel anchored within it, able to push it further. But often enough, if the balance isn’t right I have to walk away and return the next day. It is always a matter of knowing what to include and what to leave out – constantly asking myself, what am I trying to say, and, have I said it?

In the end, the landscape becomes inseparable from my own sense of self – an intertwining of external environment and internal reflection. In my smaller studies, I search for a sense of vastness within pieces measuring just 11 x 11 cm. I am trying to capture that fragile moment of simply being within a place – a quiet wonder that mirrors the feeling of standing within the immensity of land, light, and air. Quote: “Art is not what you see, but what you make others see” – Edgar Degas

My studio life has travelled through many incarnations. It began humbly in an outhouse in my back garden, then migrated into my spare bedroom. Later came the opportunity to occupy a converted industrial space in the heart of Liverpool, full of atmosphere and promise, until it too was reclaimed by redevelopment – a familiar rhythm of loss and relocation. I then found refuge in a town by the sea in what had once been a furniture restoration workshop. It carried its own character, but the damp and persistent mould slowly crept in – not ideal for art materials. A memorable experience but once again I retreated back home before temporarily settling into the attic of a friend’s garage – a kind of creative sofa surfing. 

Now I am at Wood Street, a dry and spacious purpose built studio. The high ceilings, expansive walls and good lighting invites me to work at a scale that feels both liberating and slightly intimidating. It is a space where workshops unfold, paint is allowed to roam freely, and there is even a small social corner where conversations and pauses comfortably settle – something I am grateful for.

For me, the blank canvas always carries a quiet tension. Whether small or monumental, the white surface hums with possibility and uncertainty in equal measure. When working large, that silence can feel overwhelming. My instinct is to soften its starkness as quickly as possible. I begin by applying a warm wash to the surface  – usually a diluted Burnt Sienna – drawn to its earthy resonance, this first veil of colour feels like an invitation. Only then do I feel able to move across the surface, allowing marks to emerge and compositions to slowly reveal themselves. There is no right or wrong in personal expression. Quote: “an artist cannot fail; it is a success to be one” – Charles Horton Cooley.

In truth, I would paint outdoors every day if I could, but the British climate has a way of testing that devotion – the cold settling deep into my hands and bones. Painting in isolated landscapes can also bring a heightened awareness of vulnerability. I recall one day in a remote woodland when an unshakable feeling of being watched settled around me. Nothing happened, yet the sensation was enough. Since then, I prefer painting plein aire in company – shared presence offering both reassurance and companionship within the landscape.

Nature remains the pulse beneath everything I create and in these winter months especially, the world feels distilled – pared back to its essential gestures. Bare branches sketch their own calligraphy against shifting skies; weather passes like breath; light slips in quietly and disappears before it can be held. I gather these fragments constantly – photographs of unsettled horizons. I am drawn to the subtle language of colour within the land: the muted earthy tones of dusk, the blue-grey hush of cold skies, the quiet warmth hidden within shadow. In my miniature paintings I collect moments before they fade, storing them like seeds, knowing they may surface again in larger paintings, transformed yet still carrying the pulse of where they began. Quote: “like painting your own reality” – Frida Kahlo

In the studio, these collected memories transform, sometimes into assemblages of nature. They are no longer direct translations but become something quieter and more introspective – recollections shaped by time and distance. Removed from their original setting, I am free to edit, simplify and transform. What is left unsaid often carries equal weight to what remains visible. 

Working on a large scale continues to challenge and excite me in equal measure. It asks constant questions – what marks to hold onto, what to release, what to allow to dissolve into suggestion. Light remains my most persistent guide, often leading me towards unexpected discoveries along the way but also, the marks I apply nearing the end of its creation.

My intention is for the work to exist within an abstracted language rather than pure abstraction – an attempt to hold onto the essence, memory and emotional residue of landscape, rather than its literal form. I hope the viewer is invited to travel alongside me – to pause, to look more slowly, feeling ‘comfortably numb’ and to inhabit that same space of quiet immersion where memory and place gently converge.

For this second journal entry, I thought I’d share a little more about my artistic influences, processes and the thinking behind my work – so you can better understand what I do, and why I do it. I haven’t always painted, but I’ve always drawn. Sketchbooks have been constant companions – you know the kind, the ones you don’t really want to share because they feel like an extension of yourself.

My early practice was rooted in sculpture and 3D relief work. I was drawn to manipulating natural materials and influenced by artists such as Chris Drury, Anselm Kiefer, Andy Goldsworthy and Eva Hesse – all of whom create work that encourages us to see the world differently. From tree bark to 18th-century books, I would spend hours constructing tactile assemblages that became metaphors for ‘re-looking’ at the world and highlighting the fragility of nature and the unseen. Sadly, many of these works no longer exist, victims of limited storage and the delicate nature of the materials themselves.

That’s one thing that always has to be considered – the storage and management of large, fragile sculptures and paintings. Some days I wish I’d held on to a few of my finest sculptural works, but I’ve learned that as long as the process and the outcome are properly documented, that in itself is an achievement. My kids have often joked, “What will we do with all this stuff when you’re gone?” I’d love to think they’ll cherish it, though reality may suggest otherwise.

Throughout this time, drawing and documenting my processes in sketchbooks underpins everything I do (including notebooks and writing poems). Looking back, this remains a vital part of my everyday practice. Over time, as my fingers took a beating from using manual tools, I felt an increasing pull towards painting. I wanted to dive deeper, rather than skim the surface of what painting could offer. Influences such as JMW Turner, with his expressive landscapes, and more recently Joan Eardley, with her powerful visual language, drew me towards ideas of capturing expansive atmospheres, paintings that tell a story.

Around 2015, I made the decision to just paint. It’s taken ten years to feel truly comfortable with that choice and to confidently call myself a contemporary artist who paints. I’m still pushing boundaries and searching for what I want to say, through subject and the materials, but I know that when the searching stops, so should I. There has to be passion, drive and purpose – a need to keep discovering the new and the unsaid/unseen.

Some days a painting resolves itself effortlessly, reaching a point where you instinctively know it’s time to stop. On other days, it becomes a quiet struggle between thought and material. It’s always a question of balance – what to leave in, what to take away – until it finally feels ‘right’ and you’re able to walk away

That said, I do miss the physical act of ‘making’. Sculpture will always be part of who I am as an artist, and I still create small assemblages, including 3D concertina books, dotted around the studio – quiet comforts and small satisfactions. These collections of ‘things’ continue to inspire and support my current work. In time, I may reintroduce sculptural elements that sit sympathetically alongside my 2D paintings, but only when they feel meaningful. After all, you don’t have to do just one thing – as long as the body of work remains coherent and strong. Quote: Don’t think about making art, just get it done. Let everyone else decide if it’s good or bad” – Andy Warhol

Getting motivated after a long break is hard. We all know the pull of winter blues – short, dark days and those long evenings that somehow make you feel guilty for not being wildly productive. Add to that the small mystery that it’s often colder inside my studio than outside (how is that even possible?), plus taking a good hour to warm it up, and motivation can wobble. Even then, I wouldn’t say it’s ever warm – more… tolerable. Throw in, the uncertainty of a change of ownership of the building can make one feel very insecure (the realities of life), but it remains my happy place. Frustrating at times but a second home, a sanctuary.

A reason for renting a purpose built studio is the ability to make large work. Nothing worthwhile comes easy, and choosing to run a studio is exactly that – a choice. People often say, “You’re so lucky to have a studio.” But it isn’t luck, it’s a risk. A risk that requires consistency, accountability and turning up even when it’s freezing. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve questioned myself plenty of times – what am I doing this for? But I know I can’t work from home. I’ve tried and failed. I know I can’t do anything else. Art is what I do – it’s who I am.

Making the studio work for me meant thinking carefully about storage and flexibility. I have a fantastic purpose-built art storage rack, plan chests, desks on wheels, material trolleys, fold-away tables (perfect for workshops) and a large painting wall. Old rugs have been a game changer for my back – artists stand far longer than we realise – and a second-hand adjustable swivel chair on wheels has been a lifesaver, especially when tackling the dreaded admin. My favourite thing though is my ‘procrastination chair’ – an old upcycled nursing chair that brings me back down to earth with a hug. We all need one of those.

Distraction is one of my downfalls. I’m inspired by other creatives, admire many art forms and love being outdoors, so when curiosity creeps in, motivation can quietly slip away and procrastination takes its place. Perhaps it’s a good thing I work alone – being an artist is a solitary vocation after all – but it’s also important to share space, meet up, and run workshops. Signing up for workshops and going on residencies has been how I’ve expanded my practice. Art is, after all, about exploration, experimentation and discovery. Along the way, I’ve learnt the value of setting reachable goals.

The studio is now wonderfully adaptable – a space for painting large or small, showing clients work, running workshops and hosting creative gatherings. It’s somewhere to hide away, or to share with like-minded people. The first half of January has been about planning the year ahead – confirming dates, filling diaries and sending off applications to Art Opens and Galleries. I won’t lie, it’s not my favourite pastime, but it’s essential and needs doing if I want my work out there in the big, bad world. So far, I’ve secured five events for 2026, which is a big achievement for me. Now I just have to deliver.

On that note, I really must get back to picking up a paintbrush – submerging myself in abstracting the landscapes that inspire me and meeting those looming deadlines. On reflection, I do work better under pressure. A deadline has a way of focusing the mind, pulling me into the studio and reminding me to do what I do best – be creative. Quote: “Creativity takes courage” – Henri Matisse