Things I’ve Noticed…
For a long time, I called this journal Studio Notes — a place to share glimpses into my painting process and the stories behind my work.
Over time, I realised that the beginnings of my paintings often happen long before I enter the studio. They begin with noticing: a shift in light, the colour of a field, the sound of birdsong, the texture of a hedgerow, or a fleeting moment in the landscape.
This is a place to gather those observations — the small things that catch my attention and, sometimes, find their way into a painting.
I’d love for you to join the conversation — if something here sparks a thought, makes you smile, or inspires an idea, drop me a comment! It’s always a joy to hear from fellow creative adventurers.
Field Notes: A September Morning
September mornings have a particular light.
Low and golden, glowing through the branches, catching on the grasses which are lying flat and heavy with dew.
Blackbirds calling to each other.
Crows arguing somewhere amongst the treetops.
I stop and scour the usual haunts for deer and hares.
Nothing.
Field Notes: Books That Changed the Way I Notice…
I've found myself returning to The Living Mountain by Nan Shepherd.
It's one of those books that seems to reveal something different every time I open it. Not because the words have changed, but because I have.
As I was reading, a long distant memory floated to the surface…
My mum once told one of my teachers that she couldn't understand why I kept rereading books. "Surely," she said, "once you'd read a book, you knew how it ended."
My teacher smiled and replied that each time we return to a book, we bring a different version of ourselves to the reading.
I've never forgotten that.
Field Notes: Being Watched
The morning began beneath a cotton-wool shawl of cloud draped across the landscape.
Everything felt muted.
The light was soft, the colours subdued, as though the fields hadn't quite woken for the day.
As I emerged from the copse, two crows were strutting across the stubble ahead of me. They hopped and skipped with exaggerated confidence, keeping just enough distance between us before finally taking to the air, deciding I'd come a little too close for comfort.
I smiled.
It always feels as though the birds make these decisions long before I realise I've interrupted them.