Where the Work Begins - On Inspiration, Blue and the First Mark

April 24, 2026

Where does a painting actually begin?

Not the first mark, before that. The thing that makes you pick up the brush in the first place.

For me it starts in observation. Noticing. The way light moves through a window at a particular time of day. The geometry of a city building reflected in glass with a tree caught inside it. The moment a colour does something unexpected.

Creativity has its own rhythm and I've learned to follow it rather than force it.

The Many Places Inspiration Lives

Inspiration is layered and rarely arrives from one direction.

Sometimes it's a song. Sometimes it's the way colours interact in an urban street, the rough texture of concrete against the softness of trees along a city path. Sometimes it's standing on a beach in Wales watching waves move in a particular way.

I'm drawn to contrasts. The meeting point of rough and smooth. The way city structures and wild landscapes exist side by side. That tension - the hard line against the organic form - runs through everything I make.

Why Blue?

Blue has become a constant in my work.

My studio is always filled with jars of blue-tinted water, an evolving palette of soft cobalts and deep ultramarines. Blue carries depth, mystery and memory. It's the colour I return to again and again, not by decision but by instinct.

The Gorm Collection was born from standing at the water's edge in Wales. The movement of the waves, the depth of the colour, the way the sea surrendered to itself over and over. Something in that followed me back to the studio.

The First Mark - A Moment That Changed Everything

I still remember my first painting session.

A small North London living room. As a sculptor, a blank page felt foreign, exciting and intimidating at once. I dipped a brush into red paint and dragged a semi-circle across the page. The paint dried mid-mark, leaving raw scratchy edges that were both frustrating and strangely satisfying.

Ten minutes later I realised I'd been completely absorbed. The kind of deep creative engagement I hadn't felt in years.

That moment shifted something. For the first time I wasn't trying to force meaning. I simply allowed the paint to move.

The materials I purchased when I got back to painting

Water, Chance and the Unexpected Mark

I often use water in my process - it creates marks I could never plan.

There's a balance between guidance and pure chance, between the deliberate brushstroke and what the water decides to do with it. The whisk dragged across wet paint. The wash that removes everything and leaves something behind that couldn't have been planned.

Somewhere in that tension the most interesting work happens.

Starting a new painting, laying the base with some water techniques

Showing Up for the Work

Every mark on the surface reflects how I feel in that exact moment - exhilarated, uncertain, focused, frustrated.

Even when a piece doesn't work out - which happens often - the act of painting is never wasted. The process always clarifies something.

Art isn't about having all the answers. It's about showing up, with or without a plan, and letting something emerge that couldn't have been predicted.