MY STORY

My first exhibition; picture the scene:

The art was carefully arranged. The finishing touches in place. A final check… and then the Grand Opening. Guests arrived… pondered.... chose. The heady delights of multiple sales.

Thus was my first experience of being an artist. The problem with this scene of idyllic success was that I was about five years old, the only guests were my parents, and the exhibition took place at home, with my art propped on sofa and chairs.

(Next time you display your kid's work, be thankful you didn’t have to pay for it. My parents did.

But I confess I'm secretly proud of my fledgling entrepreneurial spirit.)

Why mention this? Because it’s one of the first questions I'm asked, “When did you get started as an artist?". Creativity has always felt as natural as a smile, and my dream of a professional art career is almost as old as I am. Sadly, that dream was almost ripped away.

My school did everything possible to discourage my love of art, in favour of academia. (Apparently creativity and intelligence were incompatible. Who knew?) "No one makes a living at that.”, they scoffed, "You can't go to university with an art qualification. Art doesn't count." Studying Art at GCE level was only permitted after grovelling to the fire-breathing headmistress. Not even the art teachers suggested that careers in art were possible. A likely candidate for Shyest-Girl-on-the-Planet award, I had neither the knowledge nor confidence for confrontation.

After showing all the skill in my Physics exams that you'd expect from an art student, the school's plan that I be an engineer wilted like a daisy in a desert. A compromise was reached between their insistence for me to renounce art, my parents' requirement for my future to include gainful employment, and my own determination to be creative. I landed at Medway College of Design, studying Design (Modelmaking), where creativity was a serious business, courses I'd never heard of (or even imagined) were normal, and I felt like a jigsaw piece slotting into place.

The course resembled an extended Foundation course, but primarily working in 3D instead of 2D. Railway models it wasn't. Rather an exploration of materials and methods: wood, metal, plastics and fibreglass. Out went academia; in came scalpels, saws, drills and lathes. Calligraphy, spray painting, gilding, photography

and casting spiced the mix. Besides practical skills, the course gave me an appreciation of quality and an understanding of design. Three years well spent.

But I still wasn't an artist.

I freelanced during the day and painted at weekends and in the evenings after work. Finally, when I was between jobs, and heartily sick of living out of a suitcase, the break came.

A new museum and art gallery opened, a few miles from my home, and their collection was heaven-sent.

Art inspired by nature.

In my wildest dreams, I couldn't have planned it better. They were seeking a part-time education officer, and I jumped at the opportunity. My role was working with school parties, teaching art and nature activities, and providing informal learning opportunities for all ages.

Aside from inspiring others through creativity - a mission I still hold dear today - my job brought me in contact with other artists from different disciplines. I revelled in viewing their work and practices, and sharing arty chats. A programme of exhibitions widened my awareness of what wildlife art could be.

The job was full time in the summer and part-time in the winter, which allowed me to build my art experience without relying on it for income. My plan was to stay for five years, which soon turned into fifteen.

Being at Nature in Art encouraged my field sketching practice. I used watercolours in the field, and worked up the sketches in acrylics. Over time my wildlife paintings were increasingly about camouflage. Repeating patterns and shapes. An evolution that foretold a future shift.

My art practice grew in tandem with the demands of the job. Evenings and weekends proved insufficient for my art, and when I found myself painting at daybreak I knew that the two roles were becoming incompatible. The time had come for change.

I handed in my notice, rented a studio, and plunged into the life of a professional artist.

Painting, illustrating, demonstrations, talks, and workshops filled my days. I took part in my local Open Studios and in group and solo exhibitions. I became a tour leader, and wrote and illustrated The Wildlife Artist's Handbook. I revelled in it all and felt alive and fulfilled as never before.

And then came Covid.

Over three days I watched helplessly as the next three months' work evaporated. As the days progressed, more events were cancelled; opportunities disappeared; workshops were postponed. Even when lockdowns ceased, workshop bookings were slow to recover. The business I'd strived to build was dying before my eyes.

Yet a small spark within me held hope. What if this is a chance for change? What if this is not a trauma, but an opportunity for a reset?

I would never deny the horrors of Covid, but it brought the biggest gift too. Never before had I had weeks alone in my studio to revel in art materials. Events were gone and the tyranny of administration and numerous other time stealers much reduced. Finally I had both time and freedom.

I made a deep dive into acrylics - determined to discover exactly what they could and couldn't do. Gels, pastes and additives lost their mystery, and instantly a whole world of creativity was open to me. I'd been stumbling around in a fog and the sun had suddenly broken through. Production of gallery paintings dropped but my knowledge and experience of acrylics went stratospheric.

And so to the biggest question. With all this new found knowledge, what was I going to create?

I still loved wildlife, but traditional paintings weren't giving enough creative scope any more. I sat down with pens and paper and started to explore what really resonated. Not just what I liked, but what gave a physical gut reaction when I looked at it? What was my body telling me that my mind couldn't yet articulate? Specific themes recurred: pattern, texture, lustre. There were sub-sections too: layers, erosion, discovery, mystery, communication and ancient history.

The answer, when it came, was simple: Pattern in Nature.

A small shift from wildlife to nature, but a massive one in widening my horizons and giving scope for almost unlimited creativity.

My latest work has concentrated on taking inspiration from geology, born of the need for an exhibition focus. Pattern in nature is, after all, a vast subject, and too much for a single show. Even limiting subject matter to minerals, rocks and fossils, I can still be inspired by pattern, texture, lustre, colour, erosion, transparency, layering, and ancient history. More than enough to keep me busy.

Which brings me to today. A professional artist, fully inspired and loving my work, exactly as I dreamed all those years ago. Who says dreams don't come true?