Life Leaks In: How the Rest of My World Shapes My Work

I used to imagine the studio as a kind of sanctuary—a separate, sealed place where I could step away from the rest of life and just paint. But it didn’t take long to realise that the boundary isn’t that clean. Life, in all its mess and motion, always finds a way in.

Sometimes that’s a gift. Sometimes it’s a challenge.

The Mood You Bring With You

There are days when I come to the canvas already carrying something—fatigue, restlessness, something unresolved from the world outside. And even if I try to ignore it, that mood shows up in the work. The brush feels heavier. The colours look different. My choices are slower, or sharper, or more cautious.

And on other days, I arrive with clarity. With a sense of stillness, or openness. Those days, the painting flows differently—more like a conversation than a negotiation.

It’s taught me that showing up is only half the story. How I show up matters too.

External Rhythms, Internal Work

When life is busy, rushed, or loud, it can be harder to settle into the quiet attention that painting asks of me. But sometimes the opposite happens: the studio becomes the only place where things do make sense. A painting can give form to something I haven’t been able to say out loud yet. It becomes a kind of processing—not always pleasant, but always honest.

Other times, it’s the small things that shift the process. What I’ve been reading. A song stuck in my head. The colour of the sky on the way to the studio. These things drift in without asking permission, and leave fingerprints on the canvas.

Not Everything Is Useful, But Everything Is Present

I’ve had to accept that I don’t arrive at the easel as a blank slate. The artist isn’t separate from the person who had a difficult conversation yesterday, or didn’t sleep well, or saw something beautiful and unexpected on the walk in. That’s not a flaw—it’s the texture of being human. And I’m starting to think it belongs in the work.

Because when I look back at older paintings, I don’t just see technical stages—I see emotional seasons. What I was carrying. What I was craving. What I was trying to figure out. The canvas remembers, even when I don’t.

Letting the Work Hold What Life Can’t

I don’t always want the outside world in my studio. But I’ve stopped trying to keep it out entirely. Instead, I try to let the painting hold what it needs to hold. Not everything. Not all at once. Just enough of what’s true.

Because sometimes the art I make on the hard days tells me something I couldn’t have learned on the easy ones.

If you’d like to learn more about my creative process or see my latest work, feel free to reach out or check out the rest of my website.

.M.

Be real.

Make art.