Why I Paint: Searching For Calm

When I paint, I follow instinct. It’s a deeply intuitive process, driven not by logic or planning, but by a feeling - an excitement that pulls me forward. I don’t always know where it will lead, but I trust it. That sense of curiosity and emotional charge is what motivates me to pick up the brush, again and again.

I’m not interested in replicating a specific place with geographic accuracy. My landscapes are emotional rather than literal. They’re born from memory, mood, and atmosphere. They’re expressions of how a place feels rather than how it looks. The goal is connection - not only between me and the canvas, but between the artwork and the viewer. I want to give form to what can’t always be said, to translate a feeling into something visual and tactile. If my paintings help someone feel something they didn’t have words for, then I’ve done my job.

At the heart of everything I create, there’s one central pursuit: calm. I’m searching for quiet moments, for balance, for grounding. The kind of stillness that exists in wild, unspoiled places - in the whisper of mist over a mountain ridge, the crash of waves on a deserted beach, the golden silence just before a storm. These are the moments I want to bottle and bring into my studio. They steady me, soothe me, and help bring order to the noise inside my mind.

That’s where it all began - with the need to find calm within myself.

I’ve always found painting to be one of the few things that settles my thoughts and brings me back to centre. There’s a meditative rhythm in the process: mixing paint, dragging a palette knife across the surface, making bold marks and subtle adjustments. Time slows down. Hours pass unnoticed. It’s not just about the outcome - though, of course, the outcome matters. It’s the act of creating that holds me. It’s a kind of therapy, a quiet dialogue between myself and the work.

That said, I do care deeply about sharing my art. There’s something powerful about putting your work into the world and seeing how it resonates. When someone connects with one of my paintings - enough to want to live with it - that means more to me than awards or accolades. Sales give me not only validation but also freedom. The freedom to spend more time in the studio. The freedom to keep exploring and pushing my creative boundaries.

Yes, I am always chasing excellence in my work. I’m curious to see how far I can go, what I can uncover within myself, and how my skills and voice will evolve over time. But I’m also balancing that with the reality of sustaining a creative business. I enjoy that part too - the strategy, the marketing, the logistics of making a living from something I love. There’s an art to that as well, and I’ve learned that creativity and business don’t have to be at odds. In fact, they can support and fuel one another.

When I reflect on why I’m so drawn to calm, I think it stems from earlier chapters of my life - years spent in a state of inner unrest. It wasn’t necessarily visible from the outside, but it was real nonetheless. Torn between different paths, different countries, different versions of myself, I often felt unanchored. There was always a pull in two directions. Art gave me a place to land.

These days, I strive for simplicity. A slower, more intentional life. My paintings are a reflection of that minimalist mindset - a distillation of colour, form, and feeling. They offer space to breathe, to pause, to reconnect. That’s what I want them to do for others, too.

Sometimes my work takes the form of soft, contemplative seascapes or tranquil coastlines. Other times it’s more energetic - abstract, expressive, textured. These paintings catch the wildness of weather, the drama of light shifting over water or rock, the way mist clings to a hill in winter. I’m especially drawn to the colours of Tasmania - muted greens, ocean blues, warm neutrals, soft greys, and the earthy tones of the bush. These tones have become central to my palette and feel like home to me.

At its core, my practice is about feeling. The feeling of a place, the feeling of a moment, the feeling of quiet contentment when something clicks. That’s the art that feels right to me. That’s the work I want to keep creating.

And maybe - just maybe - it feels right to others too.