Anxiety is a part of my life. I think it’s a part of most of our lives but some of us experience more of it than others. To be honest I’m not really too far along the scale and what I cope with is pretty manageable but there have been times in my life when it has become unmanageable. I have often catastrophised situations in my head and it has sent me spiralling into panic mode. A lot of the time, all I wanted was for things to return to ‘normal’ so I could feel safe again. As long as everyone around me was safe, I could feel safe, and relaxed. But what happens when the situation is not going to return to normal? What happens when I am faced with difficult situations that go on and on?
About 14 years ago, I had a revelation about ‘rest’. I created a whole body of work about the need for us to spend time doing nothing. I bought a series of household objects with an obvious purpose, like a colander, dustpan and brush, clock. Then I painted them. By doing this, I rendered them ‘useless’. They still held their form but looked brighter and more interesting and creative but they couldn’t ‘do’ anything. They were resting from their need to be useful. The exhibition I created around this brought some viewers to tears as they realised their need to ‘be’. That our existence alone is enough. We are enough.
Over the following decade I discovered a number of ways to allow stillness into my life. I have practiced many different things and found several that work well for me. Some of these have become habits, embedded in my being but that doesn’t mean I have it sorted. I still feel anxious, and I’m glad about it because I think it runs alongside sensitivity. I’m not saying you have to be an anxious person in order to be sensitive but I know mine are definitely linked. I’m still in the process of making friends with my anxious self but I rather like her ability to sense things others may miss.
I am a painter of the sea and land because I find such peace when I am out in natural places. Feeling the wind, the rain, the sun and smelling damp earth as well as the salt of the sea and the sounds of crashing as well as gentle waves brings me such equilibrium. Creating art is my language and my way of making sense of the world and my place in it. I can’t always tell you exactly what my work is about, it just is. But I can say that when I looked at one of my latest series’ of ‘abstract’ gestural paintings on paper like the one above, I felt as if I was looking at the storm ahead. I can see the vigour and intensity and it looks dramatic. The wonderful thing is, though, that I am standing firmly rooted, looking and observing without being drawn in. The storm rages but I am still. Even if I don’t feel like this most of the time, the least I can do is stop every now and then and look at these images as a reminder that for now, in this moment, the storm will not swallow me.