It doesn’t arrive with certainty or clarity. It’s usually subtle—a shift in balance, a relationship between elements that suddenly feels right. The painting stops resisting.
It’s not just focus in the conventional sense. It’s a balance between awareness and instinct. If I think too much, the work tightens and loses energy. If I don’t think enough, the decisions lack structure.
When you explain something to someone else, instinct isn’t enough—you need clarity. You have to break down decisions, articulate processes, and understand why something works rather than just feeling that it does.
There’s a tendency to assume that artworks arrive in a moment of inspiration, but in reality, most paintings unfold over time. Some move quickly, but many require distance—time to step away, return, and see the work differently.
It’s something I’m constantly aware of in my practice. As an artist, you want your work to be recognisable—but not predictable. That balance is harder to maintain than it looks.
Doubt is always present in the studio. It doesn’t dominate, but it’s there—quietly shaping decisions. It forces me to slow down, to reconsider, to push the work further rather than settling too early.
There’s a constant movement in the studio—stepping forward, stepping back, reaching across the canvas, scraping back areas that don’t work. It’s not just a visual activity; it’s a physical engagement with the surface.
One of the most important shifts in my development came through training, not in technique alone, but in observation. Learning to see relationships—between colour, form, movement, and space—completely changed how I approached painting.
For me, the studio is a place of uncertainty. It’s where ideas don’t quite work yet, where decisions are made and unmade repeatedly. There’s paint on the floor, half-resolved canvases leaning against walls, and a constant sense that something could go wrong at any moment. That unpredictability isn’t a flaw—it’s essential to the work.
