NOVEMBER 2025 - THE SPACE BETWEEN SEASONS
As the year edges toward summer, I find myself in a time of reflection — clearing space, opening windows, letting in a different, brighter light. It’s a season that invites patience and observation: noticing what draws my attention in film, music, books, and the world around me. In the studio, these stirrings often take shape through my hands — in the quiet rhythm of arranging, stitching, or working with natural materials such as vines, wool, and paper, and in the collage pages of my sketchbooks where I can play freely with composition. It is a way of learning through making, as new ideas begin to take shape. Closing this chapter on the year, I look forward to what will be revealed in the months ahead — new insights, a different rhythm, and hopefully some work that takes me into fresh and exciting terrain.
OCTOBER 2025 - THE LIFE OF AN EXTRAORDINARY WOMAN AND HER LEGACY
I am very saddened to learn of the passing of Dr Jane Goodall — ethologist, advocate, activist, institutional leader, global messenger, author, mother and grandmother (to name some of her achievements). I was fortunate to meet her twice — a true life-highlight and privilege. She radiated goodness and serenity, and you knew instantly you were in the presence of someone exceptional.
Jane’s legacy has always resonated deeply with me, especially her message that small, daily actions matter. She reminded us that, “You cannot get through a single day without having an impact on the world around you. What you do makes a difference, and you have to decide what kind of difference you want to make.”
Her influence shaped my decision to found Planting Hope, an initiative I began nearly a decade ago, where I plant a native tree on our rural property for every artwork sold. Meeting Jane deepened my motivation to continue this project and reminded me that even modest, consistent acts can add up to meaningful change.
The world has lost a remarkable force — fearless, brilliant, and unwavering in her dedication to animals, people, and the planet.
I mourn her loss and thank her for a life of purpose, sacrifice, and impact — and for always imparting hope.
Jane’s legacy has always resonated deeply with me, especially her message that small, daily actions matter. She reminded us that, “You cannot get through a single day without having an impact on the world around you. What you do makes a difference, and you have to decide what kind of difference you want to make.”
Her influence shaped my decision to found Planting Hope, an initiative I began nearly a decade ago, where I plant a native tree on our rural property for every artwork sold. Meeting Jane deepened my motivation to continue this project and reminded me that even modest, consistent acts can add up to meaningful change.
The world has lost a remarkable force — fearless, brilliant, and unwavering in her dedication to animals, people, and the planet.
I mourn her loss and thank her for a life of purpose, sacrifice, and impact — and for always imparting hope.
SEPTEMBER 2025 - ON PAINTING LARGE & SMALL
A look at some of the recent large-scale paintings in the studio.
Working on a large painting feels almost orchestral. There’s a physicality to it — arms reaching, stepping back and forward, letting gestures build into something expansive. The scale carries a sense of immersion; you almost enter the work as though it’s a place you can stand inside.
By contrast, small works feel like solo performances. More flutist than full symphony. Their intimacy demands precision, each mark weighted with importance. There’s less room to sprawl, and that containment is both a challenge and a gift.
I love small works for their versatility — they can be moved easily, displayed in different ways, seen up close or arranged in conversation with each other. They’re also a place to experiment, to try something out quickly and see where it leads. But that doesn’t mean they’re necessarily quicker to make. Often they take longer, because every brushstroke counts in the composition, and there’s nowhere to hide.
Large works, on the other hand, offer freedom — space to test scale, rhythm, and movement. They can feel unruly at times, demanding boldness, yet there’s a thrill in letting them unfold.
Both sizes play a role in my practice. Large works allow me to stretch out, to create an environment that feels immersive. Smaller works are concentrated — like distilled notes — that carry their own intensity. Moving between the two keeps the studio alive, a shifting balance between orchestra and soloist.
AUGUST 2025 - LESSONS FROM THE GARDEN & STUDIO
Lately I’ve been noticing how much the garden and the studio speak to each other. Both are spaces where I pay close attention — to what’s working, what feels off, what needs time. In each, I’m guided by a particular taste for colour, structure and texture. I lean toward unexpected combinations, soft edges, and a bit of wildness.
Some things thrive. Others don’t. And that’s part of it.
There’s rhythm in both places — seasonal shifts, growth, small bursts of joy. Both hold room for surprise and moments of beauty that catch me off guard.
Neither space is static. They’re always changing, always teaching.
And I think that’s why I return to them — again and again.
Some things thrive. Others don’t. And that’s part of it.
There’s rhythm in both places — seasonal shifts, growth, small bursts of joy. Both hold room for surprise and moments of beauty that catch me off guard.
Neither space is static. They’re always changing, always teaching.
And I think that’s why I return to them — again and again.
JULY 2025 - FORM AND REFLECTION
Collected moments from dusk and from painting
Winter has brought a certain clarity — the light has been unexpectedly vivid. Evenings have tipped toward lilac and soft gold, with the trees becoming striking sharp silhouettes, almost black, against the sky. I’ve been collecting these moments in photos and in the studio.
I’ve been drawn (quite literally) back to drawing. There’s a pull toward mark-making that’s more immediate and direct. Some of the charcoal I’ve been using was made from branches near the studio — a kind of grounding, both in material and in place.
In recent work I’ve been noticing how these winter tones — pale pinks, warm whites, deep umbers — are slipping into the surfaces. Not always planned. They arrive on their own, especially in the quieter phases of the day.
A few details above from what’s currently on the walls — small fragments, not yet whole. There’s ease in letting things unfold slowly, and in paying attention to how winter, too, has its own kind of bloom.
“An artist must be a seer — not a camera. The winter light reveals things not visible in the blaze of summer.”
— Charles Burchfield
I’ve been drawn (quite literally) back to drawing. There’s a pull toward mark-making that’s more immediate and direct. Some of the charcoal I’ve been using was made from branches near the studio — a kind of grounding, both in material and in place.
In recent work I’ve been noticing how these winter tones — pale pinks, warm whites, deep umbers — are slipping into the surfaces. Not always planned. They arrive on their own, especially in the quieter phases of the day.
A few details above from what’s currently on the walls — small fragments, not yet whole. There’s ease in letting things unfold slowly, and in paying attention to how winter, too, has its own kind of bloom.
“An artist must be a seer — not a camera. The winter light reveals things not visible in the blaze of summer.”
— Charles Burchfield
Earlier glimpses into the surroundings that shape my work
