Some weeks, painting feels like a celebration. Other weeks, it feels like a lifeline.
I’m writing this from the studio on a day when the light is doing that very Manchester thing—soft, grey, a little undecided. And honestly, my nervous system has been a bit undecided too. Not in a dramatic way. More in the quiet, human way: the kind where you’re “fine” on paper, but your body is carrying something you can’t quite name.
That’s usually when I reach for colour.
Not because colour fixes everything (it doesn’t). But because colour gives me a way in. A way to translate what’s happening inside me into something I can see, touch, move around, and—if I’m lucky—transform.
The moment before the first mark
People sometimes imagine the beginning of a painting as this confident, cinematic moment. Big brush. Big gesture. Music playing. The artist knows.
The truth is, the beginning is often tender.
I’ll stand in front of a blank canvas and feel a little exposed. Like the canvas is asking me to be honest. And I’ll do the small, practical things first: lay out the acrylics, choose a few colours that feel like they’re speaking louder than the rest, mix water, wipe my hands, move things around. It’s a kind of quiet ritual.
Then there’s usually a pause—this tiny breath where I ask myself:
- What am I actually feeling today?
- What do I need to say that I haven’t said out loud?
- What would “relief” look like in colour?
Sometimes the answer is bright and unapologetic. Sometimes it’s a bruise of ultramarine. Sometimes it’s a soft, warm peach that feels like someone putting a hand on your shoulder.
Texture as a way of telling the truth
If you’ve seen my work up close, you’ll know I love texture. Paste, tissue paper, unexpected bits that build a surface you can almost read like a map.
Texture is where I put the complicated feelings.
Because emotions aren’t flat, are they? They’re layered. They snag. They ripple. They sit under the skin and then suddenly rise.
So I’ll build the surface first—almost like I’m giving the painting a body. And then I start letting colour move through it. Acrylic is perfect for this because it responds so quickly. It meets me where I am. It doesn’t demand I be patient when I’m not.
There’s something deeply comforting about that.
Bolton, New York, Granada—three kinds of energy
I often think about the places that have shaped my inner palette.
Bolton is grounding for me. It’s where I learned resilience in a very real way—where you get on with it, but you also feel things deeply (even if you don’t always have the language for it). When I’m painting from that place, I notice I reach for earthy tones, strong shapes, a kind of steadiness.
New York is electricity. It’s movement and noise and ambition and possibility. When New York is in the room with me, the colours get bolder. The marks get faster. There’s a sense of yes, more.
Granada is warmth. It’s sun on skin, history in the walls, and that feeling of being held by beauty. Granada brings in the glowing ochres, the pinks that feel like late afternoon, the blues that remind me of tiles and shadows.
And the funny thing is, I don’t always choose these consciously. They just arrive. Like old friends.
Mental health, honesty, and why I keep painting
I’m open about the fact that mental health matters deeply to me—not as a “topic,” but as a lived reality. I’ve supported mental health causes because I know how isolating it can feel when your inner world is loud and you’re trying to look normal on the outside.
Painting is one of the ways I stay connected to myself.
It’s also one of the ways I stay connected to other people.
Because when someone stands in front of a painting and says, “That feels like what I couldn’t explain,” something shifts. There’s a kind of recognition that happens. And recognition is powerful. It’s not a cure, but it’s a relief.
That’s the heart of it for me: not perfection, not performance—relief. A little more room to breathe.
For collectors (and anyone who lives with art)
If you collect art, or you’re thinking about it, here’s something I want you to know: you don’t need a “clever” reason.
You’re allowed to choose a painting because it makes you feel braver. Or softer. Or more alive. Or because it changes the atmosphere in your home in a way you didn’t realise you needed.
Art is not just decoration. It’s company.
And colour—real, intentional colour—can be a daily kind of medicine. Not in a clinical sense. In the human sense.
A small invitation
If you’re reading this and you’ve been feeling a bit tender lately, I want to offer you a gentle question:
What colour feels like support to you right now?
You don’t have to paint it. You can wear it, place it in your home, notice it in the world, let it find you in small ways.
And if you’d like to see what I’m making in the studio this week—the layers, the mess, the moments where the painting surprises me—I’ll be sharing more behind-the-scenes soon.
Until then, I’m sending you warmth from Manchester, and a reminder that you’re allowed to seek joy without earning it.