I started painting in my 40’s and had shied away from even taking art classes. You see, I failed elementary art class because I didn’t adhere strictly to the teacher’s instructions (and drew the tree from underneath rather than the side and other such things). I had a fear then, of exposing a vulnerable piece of my soul to the often-cruel tendencies of teenagers. Instead I channeled my need for self expression through my clothes and from quite a young age a lot of what I created was from the intricate beauty I found in the natural world around me.
I spent my childhood exploring the outdoors, sitting in the fields watching the light around me reflect up into the clouds that hurried by, in contemplating the light and shadow that danced around my feet as I quietly explored the forest floor, and in the studying the constant shift and change in energy and flow when the wind whispered across the landscape before me. Every time that I sit down to create a new painting a flood of memories of smells, of sounds, of colours, gently pool at my fingertips. My brush becomes an extension of all those years that I spent reveling in the magic of it all.
I am so grateful that I wasn’t caught up in the need to paint my world onto canvas when I was younger, because I was able to soak up every bit of wonder without ever worrying about what it’s greater purpose would be.