There is a particular moment I have come to know well. The suitcase is still in the hallway, there is sand (or at least the memory of it) in the lining of my bag, and my skin is still holding on to the warmth of the sun. I walk into my studio, and everything is exactly where I left it.
The brushes are in their jars. The canvas is on the easel. The tubes of paint are lined up like they have been waiting patiently for me.
And I feel two things at once. Relief and dread, sitting side by side.
The Reassurance of Home
Let me start with the good part, because it is real.
There is a deep comfort in returning to a space that is entirely yours. After days of sunshine, long lunches and a mind that has finally been allowed to wander, the studio feels like an old friend opening the door. The smell of acrylic and paste. The way the light falls across the floor. The paint-splattered corners I have stopped noticing but would miss terribly if they were gone.
This is the place where I know who I am. I do not have to perform here, or explain myself. I can simply be a person with a brush in her hand.
And I come back full. Full of colour, honestly. Holidays in the sun are a feast for someone who thinks in pigment: the impossible blue of the sky against a white wall, the warm terracotta of a rooftop at four in the afternoon, the way shadows turn violet when the day softens. I take it all in without meaning to. My eyes are hungry and my sketchbook, my phone and my heart are all stuffed with reference I did not even know I was collecting.
So there is relief in being back. The work is waiting, and I am ready to give it something new.
The Daunting Part Nobody Mentions
Here is the other half of the truth, and I think it matters to say it out loud.
Coming back is frightening.
When you step away from the work, even for a short time, a small, nagging voice moves in. What if I have lost it? What if the rhythm has gone? What if I stand in front of that blank canvas and nothing comes?
I have been painting long enough to know that the voice is a liar. But knowing that does not make it quiet. It is the same feeling you get on the first day back at school, or after a long weekend when the inbox has grown teeth. Only for me, the thing waiting is not an email. It is a 36 x 36 inch canvas that wants something true from me.
My work is rooted in feeling. I cannot fake my way through it, and I would not want to. So when I have been away, resting, laughing, doing absolutely nothing useful, I sometimes wonder whether I can still reach the place those paintings come from. The tap has been off for a while. Will the water run?
There is also the practical weight of it all. The messages that built up while I was away. The commissions to plan. The deadlines I had pushed gently to the back of my mind. Real life does not pause just because I did.
What I Have Learned About Starting Again
Over the years, I have found a few small ways of easing myself back in. None of them are clever. All of them help.
I do not start with the big piece. The first day back is not for masterpieces. I tidy a little, lay out my paints, and make some quick, loose marks on paper or a small canvas. No pressure, no outcome. Just hands remembering what they know.
I let the holiday into the work. Instead of treating the trip as something I have to leave behind, I let it in. The colours I saw, the warmth I felt, the slowness I finally allowed myself. These are not distractions from the work. They are the work. Often the first painting after a break carries a glow I could not have planned.
I go gently on myself. The first few sessions may feel clumsy. That is fine. Rust is not failure. It is simply what happens when you have been resting, and rest is part of the process, not a break in it.
I trust my intuition. It has not gone anywhere. It was lying on a sunlounger, recharging, and it comes back sharper for it.
Both Things Can Be True
For a long time I thought I had to choose a feeling. Either I was happy to be back, or I was dreading it. But I have come to believe that the most honest answers are usually both.
I can be grateful for my studio and nervous about stepping into it. I can miss the sun and be excited by the colours it left in me. I can feel the fear and pick up the brush anyway.
That, really, is what my work has always been about. Making space for the big, tangled mix of human feeling, joy sitting right next to uncertainty, and letting colour hold all of it.
So here I am, suitcase finally unpacked, a little sun still on my shoulders, standing in front of a fresh canvas. My heart is beating a bit faster than usual.
Let's see what happens.
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If you have ever felt that mix of comfort and nerves when returning to something you love, I would love to hear about it. And if you would like to see what comes out of the studio next, follow along, or get in touch about original paintings and commissions.
Caroline Boff FRSA www.carolineboff.co.uk