I’m often asked, “When on earth do you find the time to paint?” The honest answer is - around life. Most mornings I rise between 4 and 4:30 a.m. to steal a quiet hour in the studio. Sometimes I get a couple of hours in the afternoon, squeezed between feeds, naps, and the ebb and flow of family life. Because my painting time is limited, paying attention to light isn’t just a preference - it’s essential.
Motherhood definitely hit the brakes on my process, and I’ll admit, it was frustrating in the early days. But over time, this slowing has become a source of depth. Every pause and interruption teaches me to observe more closely, notice subtle shifts in natural light, and layer colours with intention. What once felt like “lost time” is now an integral part of creating work that is considered, tactile, and reflective.
Today was one of those rare, blessed afternoons when both my girls napped at the same time. I sprinted to the studio, fully aware that light waits for no one. Morning sunbeams, afternoon glows, shadows shifting across the canvas - all of it shapes how a painting evolves. Each brushstroke has to respond to these subtle changes: the hue of a green, the warmth of a shadow, the intensity of sunlight.
Recently, I was working on a small landscape study on our sun-drenched verandah. With only a short window during the afternoon nap, the sunlight was changing constantly. I had to adjust colours and intensities as I went, making each mark count. Those moments sharpen the senses, teaching you to see more deeply, respond faster, and embrace the fluidity of light.
Working in small pockets of time doesn’t limit creativity, it enhances awareness. It teaches observation, patience, and responsiveness. This week, I invite you to watch the light carefully. Notice how it transforms objects, colours, and moods throughout the day. See how it shapes not just how you see art, but the everyday moments you might otherwise overlook.
This mindful approach guides everything I create. Each original painting is made with the same slow, intentional process, ensuring it feels at home in the spaces it inhabits. The pieces I’m working on now - layered, earthy, and abstracted - emerge from this rhythm: patience, observation, and quiet focus, all while only a few metres away from sleeping babies.
Over the last couple of years, I’ve come to realise that slowing down doesn’t mean stopping (even though it felt like it at first). It means noticing and responding. Light completely changes the way colours and shadows appear - a green that feels warm and rich at 6 a.m. can seem cooler and muted by mid-afternoon. When your painting time is limited, awareness of these shifts is everything. I watch, I respond, I adapt, letting the light shape how I work, moment by moment.
Here’s to embracing quiet pockets, observing the light, and letting it guide our work and our days.
If this resonates, subscribe to my Studio Letters to explore the process behind each painting and see how these small moments shape every brushstroke.
Warmly,
Terri