Some days in the studio feel like a party. You know the ones—music on, paint flying, colour doing that thing where it almost lifts you by the ribs.
And then there are the other days.
The days when I stand in front of a blank canvas and I can feel everything I’ve been carrying—quiet grief, old fear, that strange modern overwhelm that doesn’t always have a name. On those days, I don’t paint because I’m “inspired.” I paint because it’s the most honest language I have.
The truth about my process (it’s not tidy)
People sometimes imagine painting as this calm, elegant ritual. Like I’m floating around with a delicate brush and a serene expression.
I mean… occasionally.
But most of the time, it’s messy and physical and a bit like wrestling with myself in colour.
I work in acrylics because they respond quickly—like a conversation rather than a lecture. They let me move fast when emotion is fast. They let me layer when life is layered.
And I build texture the way we build resilience: one imperfect layer at a time.
In my studio you’ll find:
- Texture paste (because flatness rarely tells the truth)
- Tissue paper and unexpected materials (because life is made of scraps and surprises)
- Golden and Liquitex paints (because I’m obsessed with pigment that sings)
- Mod Podge glue (because sometimes you need things to hold)
There’s something deeply comforting about that—about taking what’s fragile and making it part of something stronger.
Bolton, New York, Granada: three places that live in my palette
I often talk about Bolton, New York, and Granada because they’re not just “influences.” They’re emotional climates.
Bolton is grounding. It’s the part of me that knows how to keep going. It’s grit and tenderness and the kind of humour that gets you through hard seasons.
New York is electricity. It’s intensity, ambition, noise, possibility. It’s colour that doesn’t apologise.
Granada is warmth. It’s the soft glow of late light and the reminder that beauty can be both ancient and immediate.
When I’m painting, I’m not trying to recreate a street or a skyline. I’m trying to recreate the feeling of being there—what it did to my nervous system, my heart, my sense of what’s possible.
Sometimes a painting begins with a memory from one of those places. Sometimes it begins with a mood. And sometimes it begins with one colour that won’t leave me alone.
Why joy matters (especially when it feels hard)
I’ve said before that my mission is to alleviate suffering and spread joy through colour and paint. That might sound lofty, but it’s actually very practical.
Joy is not a fluffy extra. Joy is a nervous system reset.
Joy is what helps us breathe again.
And I think we need that—especially now, when so many people are quietly carrying so much.
When someone brings one of my paintings into their home, they’re not just buying “something colourful.” They’re choosing an atmosphere. They’re choosing a daily reminder that feeling deeply is not a flaw.
I’m always moved when collectors tell me that a piece makes them feel calmer, braver, more alive. That’s the whole point.
A note for collectors (and anyone who’s curious)
If you’re thinking about buying art—whether it’s your first piece or your fiftieth—here’s the most honest advice I can give you:
Choose the work that makes you feel something.
Not the work that you think you should like.
Not the work that matches the sofa perfectly.
The work that you keep coming back to. The piece that makes your chest soften, or your eyes widen, or your mind go quiet.
Because that’s the work that will keep giving to you.
Art is a relationship. It’s something you live with. It meets you on your best days and your worst ones.
And if you’re ever unsure, I’m always happy to talk it through—whether you’re looking at an original, considering a commission, or simply wanting to understand what might work in your space.
What I’m working on this week
Right now, I’m in a very textured phase—lots of layering, lots of scraping back, lots of colour that looks like it’s moving even when it’s still.
I’m chasing that feeling of relief.
Not perfection. Not polish.
Relief.
The kind you feel when you finally tell the truth. The kind you feel when you let yourself be human. The kind you feel when colour reminds you that you’re still here.
If you’d like to see what’s happening in the studio as it unfolds, keep an eye on my Instagram, or sign up to my newsletter if you prefer something quieter and more intimate.
And if you’re reading this and you’re having one of those “other days”… I see you.
May something bright find you today—even if it’s just a small thing.
With love, Caroline