There are times when art quietly becomes the second thing.

Not because I have decided it is less important, but because everyday life is very good at making itself feel urgent.

There is always something that needs doing. A room to rearrange. Something to clean. An email to answer. A job I suddenly remember while doing another job. All perfectly legitimate things.

And sometimes, I suspect, perfectly legitimate ways of avoiding the studio.

Making art is different. There isn't always a clear starting point or a job that can be crossed off a list. You have to turn up without necessarily knowing what is going to happen. Cleaning the kitchen is much easier to understand.

The strange thing is that the longer art sits in second place, the harder it becomes to return to it.

I get distracted easily. I struggle to start. I move between things before finishing them, and sometimes become completely absorbed in something that wasn't actually what I intended to be doing. A whole day can be busy without me getting anywhere near the thing that matters most to me.

So I am trying something different.

Not becoming more productive. Not creating another elaborate timetable that I will abandon after three days.

Just giving art its place back.

For me, that means putting it near the beginning of the day, before everything else has had a chance to become important. It doesn't have to result in a finished painting. I don't even have to have a plan. I can make a few marks, add some colour, sit with something unfinished, or simply spend time looking.

The point is to return.

I have also started thinking about the little things I write to myself in the studio. Thoughts, reminders, sometimes just a feeling. They are not instructions about how to make better work. They are small ways of finding my way back when my attention has wandered elsewhere.

Perhaps that is what a practice really is.

Not managing to stay perfectly focused.

Just learning how to come back.

Long before the first brush touched the paper, I'd spent a lot of time thinking about this workshop.

Not the schedule or the materials, but the feeling I hoped people would leave with.

A space where there was no pressure to get it right. Where curiosity mattered more than perfection. Where people could slow down, explore, and perhaps reconnect with a part of themselves that had been quietly waiting. As it turned out, I don't remember whether everything went exactly to plan.

What I remember is the moment the room changed.

Not silent, but settled.

People stopped looking around for reassurance and started trusting their own decisions. Brushes moved a little more freely, colours became bolder, and conversations drifted naturally between painting and life.

It reminded me that creativity isn't something we can teach in the traditional sense.

We can share techniques, introduce new materials and offer guidance, but the real shift happens when someone gives themselves permission to explore without worrying whether they're doing it "right."

One comment has stayed with me ever since:

"It made me realise that I can paint."

I don't think that sentence was really about painting.

I think it was about confidence.

About rediscovering something that had been quietly waiting beneath busy lives, self-doubt, or the belief that creativity belonged to other people. That's what these workshops are really about.

Not producing perfect paintings, but helping people find their way back to creativity.

As an artist, it's easy to think the artwork is the most important thing.

Last week reminded me that sometimes the most meaningful thing we create isn't a painting at all.

It's a space where people feel safe enough to begin their own journey.

Creativity Was Never the Problem

After two days of Bucks Art Weeks, one thing keeps staying with me.

I had countless conversations about art. Some were about paintings, techniques, colour, texture, and meaning. Many circled back to the same idea: art is subjective.

For the artist, a piece might hold a memory, a feeling, a season of life, or simply a moment in time. For the viewer, it might mean something entirely different. Especially with abstract art, there is rarely one right answer. We each bring our own experiences, emotions, and stories to what we see.

But the conversations that stayed with me weren't really about art.

They were about creativity.

Again and again, people told me they used to draw, paint, write, make things, or dream about being creative. Then somewhere along the way, someone told them they weren't good enough. Maybe a teacher. Maybe a parent. Maybe a passing comment that lodged itself deeper than it should have.

Years later, many still carry those words.

It's heartbreaking.

Not because they stopped making art, but because they stopped believing they were allowed to.

We seem to have created a strange idea that creativity belongs only to artists. That if you're not naturally talented, professionally trained, or producing something worthy of praise, then creativity isn't for you.

I don't believe that's true.

Creativity is not a reward for being good at something.

It's part of being human.

Children don't worry whether they're talented enough to draw. They draw because they want to. They make things because they're curious. Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, many of us learn to judge ourselves before we've even begun.

Perhaps the real challenge isn't learning how to be creative.

Perhaps it's remembering that we already are.

If there's one thing I've taken away from these conversations, it's this:

Creativity doesn't disappear.

It waits patiently until we're ready to return to it.

Preparing for Bucks Art Weeks

Rain all day. Paintings everywhere. The website still needs tweaking. Labels need printing. Artwork needs packing. There are moments when the whole thing feels far too big and mildly ridiculous. Then I remember that in a few days people will be walking through the garden, looking at the work, and somehow it starts to make sense again.