Inside the Studio – How I Create My Southern Highlands Paintings
People often imagine an artist’s studio as a mysterious place, but mine is everywhere. From the first blush of dawn to the fiery glow of a sunset. My creative process usually starts long before I touch a brush – on a morning walk, a drive in the lush and beautiful countryside of the Southern Highlands or to the beautiful south coast, central west of NSW.
I collect impressions first. Sometimes that means quick photos on my phone: fog hugging the ground, a stand of trees catching late light, a country lane disappearing into shadow. Other times it’s a scribbled sketch or just a mental note of a particular colour. Back in the studio, I print out these photographs, spreading all the components out – on a table or pinned to an easel – and begin to see patterns. Certain shapes and moods start calling to me, asking to be explored on canvas. I have been known to simply stare at these images alongside a blank canvas for days before I formulate the picture and how I am going to render it.
Choosing materials is very deliberate. I love the feel of paint on linen or canvas – the slight texture underneath the brush, the way it grips and releases the pigment. Some pieces want the quick-drying versatility of acrylics, especially when I’m working in layers and want to move fast. Others ask for the richness and depth of oils, where I can push and blend colours a little longer to achieve those soft Highlands transitions in sky and land. My palette shifts with the seasons: cooler blues and greys in winter, warmer rusts and golds in autumn, fresh greens and clear light in spring.
A painting usually begins with a loose, gestural underpainting. I block in big shapes first – sky, land, tree lines – working quickly so I don’t overthink. Then I start to refine: softening edges, introducing structure, adjusting tones until the atmosphere feels right. Often, the most important decisions are about what to leave out. I’m not trying to record every fence post or blade of grass; I’m trying to capture the feeling of being there, breathing that particular air at that particular time.
Knowing when a painting is finished is a quiet instinct. There’s a moment when adding more would mean I’m painting over the original spark rather than nurturing it. When that moment comes, I put the brush down and step back. If I feel that familiar sense of recognition – “Yes, that feels like a Highlands morning” – then I know it’s ready to go out into the world and, hopefully, into someone’s home.
