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I’ve always been a creative person, although it took me a surprisingly long time to realise it.
When I was seven, I drew a picture of Kate Bush playing the piano. My mum secretly entered it into a Blue Peter competition, and I won a bookmark and a coveted Blue Peter badge. I didn’t think much more about art after that. I performed, played music and found other ways to express myself, but painting quietly disappeared from my life.
It came back almost by accident.
Years later, I went along to a local art class simply to accompany a friend and have a bit of fun. The first thing we were asked to draw was a pepper. The next day I drew an apple at home.
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"I paint the Scotland I feel, rather than simply the Scotland I see"
Something had shifted.
I loved art immediately. I wasn’t thinking about becoming an artist. I didn’t have a grand plan. I simply discovered that when I drew or painted, I felt completely absorbed.
The moment that made me believe I might actually be able to do something with it came when a friend bought one of my seascapes. Someone else had looked at something I had made and wanted to live with it. That gave me the confidence to keep going.
Today, Scotland is at the heart of my work. It is home, and I feel incredibly lucky to have such extraordinary landscapes within reach. I love the obvious drama of the mountains and coastline, but I’m equally drawn to the quieter things: hazy light, grey skies, changing weather, distant hills and the way the landscape can suddenly make you stop and look.
Some people complain about the Scottish weather. I can’t really understand that. Even the greyest days can be beautiful.
Skye particularly fascinates me. It is vast and exposed, with few trees and an extraordinary sense of space. It can be bleak, but its drama is undeniable. There are places in Scotland that make me feel as though my heart opens slightly when I look at them. That is what I’m trying to paint.
Not simply what Scotland looks like, but what it feels like to be there. Sometimes that feeling is calm. Sometimes it’s awe, joy, melancholy or hope. Sometimes it is simply the pleasure of seeing something beautiful. And sometimes there is a little humour in it too.
That is where the sheep come in.
I’ve always loved them. They are part of the landscape, but they also have such distinct personalities that they are impossible for me to ignore. They can be curious, stubborn, funny, vulnerable and quietly resilient. Sometimes I paint them because they make me laugh. Sometimes they are simply part of the landscape.
And sometimes, without quite intending to, I recognise something of myself in them.
A sheep standing alone by the sea might be looking for the same calm that I find in painting. A little figure walking through snow towards the light might carry the hope that there is always somewhere to walk towards. Two sheep standing together might become my own small way of saying something about how I see the world.
I don’t want to explain everything. I’d rather leave enough space for the person looking at a painting to find something of themselves in it.
Because that is ultimately what I hope happens when someone takes one of my paintings home.
I want to give them a little bit of me, yes. But more importantly, I want to give them a little bit of the feeling that Scotland can provoke.
Perhaps a memory of somewhere they’ve loved.
Perhaps the feeling of standing beneath a huge Scottish sky.
Perhaps a moment of calm.
Perhaps a smile.
Perhaps hope.
For me, painting is therapy, respite, a creative outlet and a mindful escape. It is the way I make sense of things and the way I make my little contribution to the world.
I paint the Scotland I feel, rather than simply the Scotland I see.
And if someone finds a little piece of themselves in it, then that’s even better.
