In my last post, I wrote about the experience of painting without knowing quite where it might lead. About allowing things to happen and sometimes discovering something I hadn’t anticipated.

Recently, while working on a series of paintings inspired by the Yorkshire Dales, something happened that made me think about this in a slightly different way.

I began to recognise the landscape in paintings I hadn’t consciously set out to make as landscapes.

And as they developed, they seemed to become something beyond the place that had inspired them.

The experience of a place

The series, Of All the Paths I’ve Walked, grew out of a recent visit to the Yorkshire Dales.

It’s a landscape that made a powerful impression on me.

I remember walking through the hills, the contours of the valleys, the stone walls and the changing weather. And particularly the light.

There were moments when the sky was almost completely overcast, then suddenly a break in the clouds would send sunlight across the landscape, illuminating a distant hillside or valley for just a few moments before it disappeared again.

But when I think back to Yorkshire, I don’t remember just the landscape.

I remember the car journeys, looking out of the window as the hills and fields passed by. The mornings, waking and looking through the bedroom window to see what the weather was doing. The sun rising and setting in the garden, the changing colours as the day came and went.

I remember the trees, the stone walls, the clouds and the wind. The sounds, the tastes, the feeling of the air, the textures of things encountered along the way.

And the paths themselves, of course. The experience of walking, of moving through a landscape rather than simply looking at it.

All these things have become part of my memory of the place.

Some memories are quite distinct. Others are less clear, almost impossible to separate from one another. They overlap and mingle, and I imagine many have stayed with me without my being particularly aware of them.

A place, after all, is never just one view.

It’s an accumulation of experiences, some vivid, some barely noticed at the time.

And I think that’s what I wanted to bring into these paintings. Not a particular view of Yorkshire, but something of what it felt like to be there.

What I began to see

When I started the paintings, I had the Dales very much in mind.

But I didn’t begin by drawing hills or valleys.

I worked intuitively, allowing the first layers of ink and colour to develop, then leaving them to dry.

It was when I returned to the paintings that something unexpected happened.

I began to recognise the landscape.

A sweeping form reminded me of the contour of a hillside. An area of colour suggested a distant valley. Certain marks seemed to carry something of the paths I’d walked.

And there were passages of light that brought back those extraordinary moments when sunlight broke through the clouds and illuminated the land far away.

I found this surprising because I hadn’t deliberately tried to create these references.

Perhaps they were already there, somewhere in the decisions I’d made without thinking too much about them. Or perhaps the paintings prompted me to recognise things I might otherwise have overlooked.

I don’t really know.

Probably a bit of both.

Once I’d begun to see these connections, I responded to them. I strengthened certain forms, introduced glazes, added lines of colour and developed references to the paths I’d walked.

But I wasn’t trying to turn the paintings into recognisable views of the Dales.

I was interested in what was emerging, and where it might take me.

More than a landscape

What I love about working this way is that a painting can begin to suggest so much more about an experience than any single view could.

When I think about my time in Yorkshire, there isn’t one image that captures it.

There are hundreds of moments. The changing light, the movement of the hills seen through a car window, the feeling of the wind, the sound of walking, the warmth of a pub, the colours of the sky at the end of the day.

And so much more that I probably couldn’t recall even if I tried.

I don’t believe all these things appear in a painting as recognisable images. Nor do I think every mark or colour has to represent something particular.

It’s much less literal than that.

But I do feel that something of this complexity can find its way into the work.

And then something else begins to happen.

The paintings start to become independent of the experience that inspired them.

A life of their own

As I progress through the series, I’ve been spending time looking at the paintings together.

And the more I look, the more I see them as having their own identities.

They still bring back memories of Yorkshire. I can recognise something of the place in them, and of my experience of being there.

But increasingly, I see the paintings themselves.

Their colours, their forms, their movement and energy. The relationships between different areas of the paper. The way one part seems to pull against another, or how a line or a passage of colour can change the feeling of the whole image.

They’ve become something beyond the landscape that inspired them.

And I love that.

It’s almost as though the paintings began with the intuition of a place, but gradually became expressions of something much larger.

Something about the extraordinary power of the world, the energy and complexity of everything around us.

I find this difficult to explain, and I’m not sure I could justify exactly what I mean.

But I feel it when I look at them.

I’ve been thinking about the British painter Patrick Heron, whose work and writing have interested me for many years.

Heron was deeply interested in the relationship between the visible world and the independent life of a painting. His paintings, often inspired by the light, colour and landscape around him in Cornwall, became works that existed on their own terms rather than simply representing what he saw.

I’m not suggesting that my paintings are like his. They belong to my own time, experiences and ways of working. But I recognise something in his understanding that a painting can grow beyond the things that first inspired it.

Perhaps that’s one of the things I find so compelling about painting. It can create something that doesn’t quite exist in words, something that has its own presence and can be experienced without needing to be explained.

Of all the paths I’ve walked

Looking at these paintings now, I can see how much of my experience of Yorkshire has found its way into them.

But they’ve also developed their own character, their own energy, their own presence.

And perhaps that’s why the title Of All the Paths I’ve Walked feels right to me.

It refers to the paths I walked in Yorkshire, of course. But it also suggests something about the journey of making the paintings themselves, the unexpected directions, the discoveries, and the places they have taken me.

I began with memories of a landscape.

I ended with a series of paintings that have become something of their own.

And I find that rather wonderful.

When I begin a painting, I haven’t got a clue where it’s going to go.

I usually start with some kind of structure, often a horizontal and vertical line across the paper. It gives me something to work from, although I have no idea whether those lines will still be visible by the time I’ve finished.

But before I even get to that point, there’s the business of preparing everything.

I suppose it’s a bit like cooking. You get your ingredients ready, make sure you’ve got the right pans and utensils, and organise everything so that when you start, you can just get on with it.

Painting is much the same for me.

I like my studio to be organised, with my paper, inks, pencils, brushes, water and sponges all within reach. I usually have other paintings around me too, reminding me of what I’ve done before and perhaps suggesting something about where I might go next.

There’s always a little anticipation before I begin. A slight nervousness, perhaps even a bit of adrenaline.

After all, I don’t know what’s going to happen.

And that’s rather exciting.

I particularly love working with water-based inks because they’re so unpredictable. You can introduce a little water and suddenly the colour starts spreading in a direction you hadn’t expected.

You can tilt the paper, blow the ink across the surface, blot it with a cloth or draw a brush through the wet colour.

Sometimes I’ll leave the ink to dry and then reactivate it with water, wiping some of it away and leaving behind a faint trace of what was there before.

I love that effect. It’s almost as though the paper has a memory.

I’ve recently been thinking about the paintings of Helen Frankenthaler, particularly the way she allowed fluid colour to spread and become part of the surface itself. Her work reminds me that the unpredictable behaviour of materials can be an important part of making a painting, rather than something we always need to control.

Of course, there’s a certain amount of control involved. I’m making decisions all the time.

Should I interfere? Should I leave it alone? Should I introduce another colour? Has something interesting happened, or have I made a complete mess of it?

But the decisions don’t seem to come from deliberate thinking.

It’s more of a feeling. An intuitive response to what’s happening in front of me.

I suppose it’s a kind of conversation between the painting and myself.

The materials do something unexpected, I respond, and that response creates another possibility.

It’s almost like learning a language.

And the curious thing is that I couldn’t really explain how I know what to do next.

I just seem to know.

When the mind gets in the way

One thing I’ve noticed over the years is how inventive the mind can be when you’re about to begin something.

Perhaps the light isn’t quite right. Perhaps I need better brushes. Perhaps I’m not feeling particularly inspired.

Or perhaps I’m simply kidding myself about being an artist in the first place.

There’s no shortage of reasons not to start.

But I’ve learned to recognise these thoughts for what they are.

Just thoughts.

And I don’t necessarily have to listen to them.

So I sit down and begin.

And something rather wonderful happens.

The thinking stops.

Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say that I stop being caught up in my thoughts. That constant internal dialogue seems to fall away, and I’m completely absorbed in what’s happening on the paper.

I’m not worrying about whether I’m making a good painting or what somebody else might think of it.

I’m simply responding to what’s in front of me.

And there’s a feeling that comes with that which I’ve often struggled to explain.

I feel as though I’ve arrived somewhere. As though I’m home.

It’s not really a feeling of excitement or even happiness, although happiness is a rather confusing word anyway.

It’s more a feeling of being at ease. Of being in the right place.

And I don’t mean physically. I mean internally.

I’ve spent much of my life searching for answers to some fairly big questions.

Why are we here? Why is there so much suffering? What’s the point of it all?

Not exactly questions that lend themselves to easy answers over breakfast.

The trouble is that searching can sometimes become part of the struggle itself. We’re always looking for something, trying to understand something, or imagining that the answer must be somewhere else.

But when I’m painting, that need to search seems to disappear.

It’s a little like returning home after a long journey. There’s a sense of relief. You can finally put your bags down.

And perhaps the curious thing is that you haven’t really arrived anywhere at all.

You’re simply here.

This is something I’ve come across in the writings of Eckhart Tolle, particularly his ideas about the difference between being aware of our thoughts and becoming completely absorbed in them. I’ve found that what he describes connects closely with something I experience when I’m painting.

It’s difficult to explain because, ultimately, it’s an experience rather than an idea.

I can describe what happens when I paint, but I can’t entirely explain the feeling that comes with it.

And perhaps I don’t need to.

Knowing when to leave things alone

Of course, things don’t always go smoothly.

Sometimes I become distracted. I start questioning what’s happening, worrying that’s often when things begin to go wrong.

I’ve learned that sometimes the best thing to do is stop.

Make a cup of coffee. Go for a walk. Leave the painting alone.

Sometimes I won’t return to it until the following day, or even several days later.

And something interesting happens when I do.

A painting that looked absolutely dreadful a few days earlier can suddenly reveal possibilities I hadn’t noticed.

Sometimes those paintings become among my strongest.

It’s not always easy to trust that process, particularly when you’ve spent hours working on something and it appears to have gone horribly wrong.

But I’ve learned that I don’t have to resolve everything immediately.

Sometimes the painting needs time.

Perhaps I do too.

Painting and the business of living

I’ve been interested in spiritual questions since I was quite young. I practised Buddhism in my early twenties, and I’ve always been something of a seeker.

During my years in Mexico, I began exploring these questions more deeply, particularly through the writings of Tolle and Michael Singer.

I became increasingly interested in the relationship between thought and awareness, and the possibility of being present without constantly getting caught up in what the mind is telling us.

Looking back, I can see how this has influenced my painting.

I’ve become more spontaneous, more willing to allow unexpected things to happen, and perhaps a little less concerned about knowing exactly where I’m going.

And I suppose there’s a connection with life itself.

We prepare as best we can. We make decisions. Unexpected things happen. Sometimes we intervene, sometimes we have to leave things alone, and sometimes the outcome is quite different from anything we could have imagined.

Of course, it’s much easier to trust that process when you’re sitting in front of a painting than when you’re dealing with the uncertainties of everyday life.

I’m certainly not suggesting I’ve mastered any of this.

Far from it.

But I’m beginning to think that life itself is a creative process.

And perhaps painting gives me an opportunity to experience that in a very direct way.

I prepare carefully, I begin, and then I try to allow things to unfold.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.

But every now and then, when I’m sitting in front of a piece of paper watching the ink find its own way, there’s that wonderful feeling again.

That I’ve arrived.

That I’m home.

There’s something rather curious about the way life unfolds.

We make plans, pursue ambitions, and spend an extraordinary amount of time trying to work out what we’re going to do next.

And then, occasionally, something happens that makes us wonder whether we might have been looking in entirely the wrong direction.

My wife Virginie and I have recently begun a new chapter of our lives in the south of France, after almost twelve years living in Mexico.

And just as we’re trying to work out how to make this next chapter both creatively fulfilling and financially sustainable, something rather unexpected has happened.

I’ve been accepted for a year-long artists’ residency in Sanary-sur-Mer, beginning in 2027.

Sanary-sur-Mer is a beautiful Mediterranean town on the French Riviera, just west of Toulon, where we’re making our new home.

The residency will provide me with a free studio for the year, opportunities to exhibit my work in solo and group gallery exhibitions, and the possibility of organising painting workshops with the local community.

For someone who has spent many years developing an artistic practice largely outside the established gallery world, this represents a significant opportunity.

And one that came as a considerable surprise.

A Rather Unexpected Development

Over recent months, much of my attention had been focused on developing my educational methodology and exploring consulting opportunities as we prepared for our move to France.

After almost twelve years establishing and running The Heart of Learning in Mexico, an independent learning centre built around the belief that education should adapt to the individual rather than expecting every student to fit the same system, it seemed natural to consider how I might build upon that experience.

Painting, meanwhile, has remained an important part of my life, as it has for many years.

I’ve worked across different media, experimented with materials and techniques, and gradually developed an artistic practice that has become increasingly central to how I understand and experience the world.

But I’ve consciously chosen to pursue much of that work outside the established gallery and exhibition world.

When I came across the opportunity to apply for the residency in Sanary-sur-Mer, I decided to put myself forward.

I didn’t have particularly high expectations.

After all, while I’ve been making art for much of my life, I don’t have an extensive exhibition history.

I imagined there would be plenty of applicants with considerably more impressive artistic CVs.

Apparently, someone saw something worth encouraging in my work.

I’m still getting used to the idea.

What excites me most is the possibility of giving my painting a more visible place in my life.

A dedicated studio, the opportunity to develop new work, exhibitions, and the chance to become part of a local artistic community.

And perhaps, at last, fewer excuses for not taking my artistic ambitions more seriously.

Although I’m sure I’ll manage to invent a few new ones.

Twelve Years, Quite an Adventure

When Virginie and I arrived in Mexico in December 2014, I don’t think either of us imagined that we’d still be there almost twelve years later.

We certainly couldn’t have anticipated everything that would happen.

There were extraordinary experiences, wonderful friendships, moments of genuine happiness, and opportunities that changed the direction of our lives.

There were also mistakes, disappointments, difficult decisions, and periods when things seemed to be going spectacularly wrong.

Sometimes all within the same week.

But I wouldn’t change those years.

They challenged us, shaped our understanding of ourselves and the world around us, and taught us things that no amount of careful planning could have prepared us for.

Running The Heart of Learning was a particularly important part of that experience.

Working with young people and their families taught us an enormous amount about education, human development, and the importance of recognising that everyone follows a different path.

Looking back, I suspect those experiences have influenced my artistic practice in ways I’m only beginning to recognise.

But that’s a subject for another day.

For now, we’re looking forward to discovering what life in France might bring.

Beginning Again, Together

Of course, this new chapter isn’t only about my artistic ambitions.

Virginie is also looking forward to returning to the development of her Atelier VBM clothing and accessories brand, something she’s passionate about and eager to devote more of her creative energy to.

We’re both hoping to create a life that gives us greater freedom to pursue our individual creative interests while continuing to build something meaningful together.

Education will remain an important part of that picture.

We have many years of experience as educators, and we hope to continue drawing upon that through online tutoring, consulting, and other opportunities that complement our creative work.

The challenge will be finding a way to make all of this sustainable.

After almost twelve years running a learning centre in Mexico, we’ve decided that the sensible thing to do is move countries and devote more time to two notoriously unpredictable pursuits: painting and fashion.

What could possibly go wrong?

In truth, we’re under no illusions about the challenges ahead.

There will be practical difficulties, financial uncertainties, and undoubtedly moments when we question the wisdom of our decisions.

But perhaps we’ve reached a point in our lives where we’re more willing to accept uncertainty as part of the adventure.

We’ve certainly had enough practice.

And there’s something exciting about the possibility of bringing together different parts of our lives that have, until now, often seemed to compete for our attention.

Planting Seeds

There’s something rather fitting about the way this opportunity has appeared.

I’d been concentrating much of my energy on education and consulting, trying to establish a clear direction for our next chapter.

The residency application was something I pursued almost as an aside.

And yet it may turn out to be one of the most significant opportunities to emerge from this period of transition.

It’s reminded me of the importance of continuing to put things into motion, even when we have no idea whether they’ll lead anywhere.

Planting seeds, I suppose.

Some grow, others don’t, and occasionally something unexpected appears in a place we’d almost forgotten about.

I find myself returning to the relationship between effort and expectation.

We can work hard, make plans, pursue ambitions, and do everything we can to create opportunities.

But we can’t entirely control what happens next.

That doesn’t mean abandoning ambition or simply waiting for life to deliver something interesting.

Unfortunately, I’ve yet to discover a philosophical tradition that successfully eliminates the need to pay the bills.

But perhaps it does mean learning to distinguish between the things we can influence and the things we can’t.

To remain committed to what we’re doing without becoming so attached to a particular outcome that we fail to recognise other possibilities.

It’s a lesson I seem to encounter repeatedly, both in painting and in life.

And, judging by my progress so far, one I may be studying for some time yet.

What Comes Next?

I’m particularly looking forward to the opportunity to develop new paintings during the residency.

Over recent months, I’ve been exploring ideas around memory, the emotional experience of place, and the relationship between intention and chance.

My paintings often begin with a few straight horizontal and vertical lines, followed by spontaneous layers of acrylic ink and water.

From there, the process becomes a conversation between deliberate decisions and unexpected developments.

I never entirely know where a painting will lead.

Which, come to think of it, is probably a reasonable description of our lives over the past twelve years.

I’m curious to discover how living and working in the Mediterranean environment will influence my work, and how the experiences we’ve accumulated in Mexico and elsewhere might find their way into new paintings.

I’m also looking forward to the possibility of organising painting workshops, bringing together my experience as an educator with my artistic practice.

I don’t know what the residency will ultimately lead to.

But I’m grateful for the opportunity to find out.

And perhaps that’s enough for now.

After all, I’ve spent many years making paintings without knowing where they might lead.

And now, quite unexpectedly, they’ve helped open a door.

I don’t know what’s on the other side.

But I’m looking forward to finding out.

And if nothing else, at least I’ll have a studio in which to contemplate the question.

Following the Journey

This is the first in a series of new reflections on painting, memory, uncertainty, and the unexpected connections between art and life.

In the next article, When the Painting Has Other Ideas, I’ll explore how my paintings develop, from their rather orderly beginnings to the unpredictable things that happen when inks, pencil, water, and intuition get involved.

The residency officially begins on 1 February 2027. Until then, I’ll be working from my small studio at home in Toulon, continuing to paint, explore ideas, and prepare for the year ahead.

I’ll be sharing new work, thoughts on my painting practice, and some of the preparations along the way. And once the residency begins, I look forward to sharing how the experience unfolds.

If you’re interested in following along, I’d be delighted to have you here.

You can also find me on Instagram at @adambutcher19.

Thank you to everyone who has followed, encouraged, or taken an interest in my work so far.

Unmoored, 2026 - 14.5 x 20.5 cm - Ink, Crayon, Watercolour on paper

UNMOORED

Spiral through the tide
lines of day
and night, splitting
the mind / unmoored
thoughts mired
in their own 
weather systems.

Let light be the 
grace
anchoring presence
ever trusting
its ability to emerge 
unvanquished
as another storm
gathers its strength.

Painting in progress

I’ve always felt that painting, in its broadest sense, when approached intuitively, can become a process that runs parallel to many spiritual practices. Is that a romantically metaphorical view of the creative act? Perhaps. Yet it is also full of light and hope, if we are willing to remain with the light.

When every brushstroke and mark becomes a leap of faith, there is a trust that something other than ourselves may flow through us, as if the universe is using us as a vessel through which the unseen aspects of experience can be revealed. Painting, at its best, can feel less like an act of making and more like an act of listening.

What I find particularly compelling is that painting is such a profound contradiction when viewed this way. On one hand, it demands years of technical knowledge, skill, planning, and careful decision-making. On the other, a good painting often requires the artist to relinquish certainty, quiet the analytical mind, and take a risk. It asks for both mastery and surrender.

Perhaps that is one way we can recognise a truly successful painting: it holds technical knowledge and mystery in equal measure. It honours both the seen and the unseen, carrying a respect and reverence for each. The painter learns not only how to control the medium, but also how to step aside and allow something unexpected to emerge.

Painting lives in the fertile territory between certainty and mystery, between what is seen and what remains just beyond reach. It is an act of attention, imagination, and faith in possibility. And perhaps that is why I continue to return to it: each painting offers another chance to begin again.

MARK MY WORDS - 25 x 25in - Painted digitally by hand

The Gap

The gap
between where
we want to be
and
where we are.

That distant, flickering light.
A destination
across a misty vale.
A path we compare
to peaks not yet climbed—
envy
that deceives us.

But this desire
can also be
our compass,
if we let it guide us
along the path.

Without the
undiscovered ground
beneath our feet,
there would be
no summit reached,
no moments of elation
defining who we become.

That distant place
we seek,
once reached,
is left behind
like a memory fading. 

Savor the path itself.
Stop chasing horizons, 
and let the rugged ground 
beneath our feet,
be enough—
already everything we need. 

INNER REVOLUTION - 20 x 20 in - Painted digitally by hand

A Mirror We Have Made

What it means to be human
has become fundamental
in the age of AI.

We fear that this technology
will replace us, 
if we’re too complacent.

But the irony is that fear
in itself 
is what drives our instinct 
to seek the comfort and joy
of a mother’s arms.

The very emotion 
we do everything in our power 
to refrigerate. 

Yet by spending every waking moment
dedicated to controlling
the world around us,
we risk becoming like the code 
behind the silent screens. 

Eroding the very essence
of what makes us vulnerable.

We all take our first breath—
then suffer,
then age,
then die. 

Love rises
because we are mortal. 

The ephemeral pulse 
that no algorithm can replace—
those are the things that separate us 
from the most advanced computers.

Technology, knowledge—
neutral tools,
powerless without imagination,
and the weight of feeling.

The heartbeat—that’s it.
That’s the difference—
that living organ 
we leave behind 
even as we try to recreate it. 

Not something to meet with unease,
but something to understand—
a mirror we have made,
searching for the warmth of our hand.

SURRENDER - Painting created digitally by hand

It may seem odd at first

But what depth rises
on deeper reflection.

What a privilege it is
to suffer what there is to suffer
and enjoy what there is to enjoy.

For is it not our one
ultimate purpose on earth
to fully experience?

If we are an expression of creation,
then we are blessed with these
momentarily limited senses.

Then is not living,
with its wear and tear,
with its worries and what-ifs,
with its creature comforts
and with its matters of the heart,
our birthright…
our reason for being…
the perfect balance of what is?

HOLDING ITS BREATH

medium: Ink, Watercolour, and pencil on paper

If We Let It

Often,
the mind 
weaves tales spun from doubt, 
fragile cobwebs
taken to heart,
crafted to deceive.

Yet, if we let it,
hidden from sight,
the forgotten window
of presence that never left
opens.

An opportunity 
for deeper breath
now 
soaked in quietness.
A timeless breeze, 
an empty space,
the silent voice of knowing.

No purpose,
no beginning or end,
no reason,
just peace.

EXPOSURE

Medium: Painted intuitively by hand using the iPad Pro

Soulform

Just then, that exotic bird alighted briefly at the window,
then vanished,
and darted back again.

A pause 

then fluttered once more. 
Each time tapping gently 
until I took notice.

What brought it so close?

An urge to connect
from another plane,
a sacred glitch,
a silent messenger 
unaware of its true purpose.

This beloved presence
in feathered form,
a thin veil of wings and glass
between the seen 
and what watches,
between
this world
and beyond.

I felt it.
I wasn’t daydreaming.

What brought it so near?
Why so persistent?

My grandfather’s quiet 
brushstrokes 
on old canvas.
My father’s invisible strings,
still resonant.

How could I know?

Perhaps not just one spirit,
but many familiar souls
taking their turn,
stirring up distant memories
which made me want to reach back too.

Then as I leaned forward,
it slipped away into silence…
the kind that doesn’t look back.

Reminding me of 
that forbidden touch,
of the moments 
that shimmer and vanish,
before the mind can catch them.

Still, I felt it.

The heart remembers…
and that is enough.

NOT KNOWING

Medium: Painted intuitively by hand using the iPad Pro

If the universe had been trying to send me a clear message, this was it. Louder than usual. Practically handwritten in bold.

Years ago, a job interview pushed me to the edge of something I wasn’t ready for, and that’s where I began to ignore fear and trust life’s timing.

My line manager at the time was a big part of why I started looking at new opportunities. She’d supported me from the beginning and was more than happy to provide a glowing reference. And in the teaching world, where everyone in senior leadership seems to know everyone else, that kind of name-drop carries serious weight. A recommendation like that doesn’t just get your application read, it gets you plucked from the bin and placed delicately on the headteacher’s desk.

But after that, it was all down to me.

I was confidently nervous, if that’s possible. Like a firm, sweaty handshake before the interview.

I had to prepare. Rise to the challenge. Put on a blazer and tie that didn’t feel like a costume.

And walk into what turned out to be one of the most surreal interviews of my life.

At the time, it was a gritty inner-city school in Clapham, South London. Still raw around the edges. But it was already starting to have a reputation for positive change, thanks to its formidable headteacher, Dr Margot Everstone, or Mimi, as all those in her inner circle eventually called her. She had the kind of presence that made people straighten up when she entered a room. Not through fear exactly, but through something harder to describe. Command. Vision. A refusal to waste time on nonsense.

Years earlier, she’d helped the school gain one of the first “Visual Arts Specialist” statuses in the country. It came with serious funding. And she’d poured much of that directly into the art department.

I didn’t know any of that when I arrived for the interview.

What I did know was that I was about to be interviewed for the Head of Art role at a specialist arts school with a national reputation. That should’ve been enough to rattle me.

But what really shook me was the tour.

It began with a guided walkthrough of the department, led by Tess, the technician, who was clearly one of the last remaining torchbearers of a once-glorious department. Dyed red hair, black T-shirt and jeans, burgundy Dr Martin boots, Tess looked like she’d never left art school. She had clearly lived through the good years of the department. There was pride there. Quiet respect from the other staff annd students. And also… fatigue.

From what I gathered, the department had once been a real force within the school, even before the arts funding came in. But for reasons never quite explained, perhaps a government initiative to renew an ageing workforce, much of the original team had taken early retirement. Including, crucially, the former Head of Art. I always suspected this was partly Mimi’s doing. The old art team were successful, yes, but they weren’t exactly easy to influence.

Since their departure, the place had slowly come undone.

Despite all the funding, the facilities were chaotic. Student work was everywhere: unfinished, unsupervised. Materials were left out, wasted. I saw hundreds of neglected paintbrushes, left out to harden; stuck to palettes and beyond saving. That actually made me so angry; it was one of my pet peeves. When no one cared to rinse a brush, that spoke a thousand words.

There was no structure. No clear system. Just a slow erosion of purpose.

Just breathe, I told myself… Half of me wanted to walk away and the other half wanted to stay and fix it.

The rest of the school felt even more austere to me. Groups of students clustered in shadowed corners, hoodies up, eyes locked on visitors. There were areas I instinctively knew to avoid. The atmosphere was tense, like something waiting to go wrong.

And already, in my mind, I’d begun drafting my polite exit speech.

Something honest but self-effacing, because, truthfully, I felt out of my depth. I wasn’t sure I had the experience, the resilience, or the authority to step into something this complex.

The interview process began with six shortlisted candidates and a two-part timed assessment that felt more like a policy pitch to the Department for Culture, Media and Sport. How would I raise the department to its full potential? How would I engage the community? Build links with primary schools, run artists-in-residence programs, lead local commissions, create international exchanges?

I had little idea.

I did my best. But I didn’t finish the second half in time, and I walked out of that session convinced I’d blown it.

Then came the panel interview, an actual panel, with governors, deputies, specialist teachers, and of course, Mimi. I sat there expecting to drown. But what came out of me was something simpler and more real: my love for the arts, and the small but real transformation I’d led at my last school. I told them about the trips: St Ives, Paris, New York. The impact on students. The impact on me. And they listened. They leaned in.

Still, over lunch, I knew. I knew I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to fake it or push myself through a door I wasn’t meant to open.

So I did something that surprised even me. I wasn’t sure why, I just knew I had to.

I asked to speak to Mimi.

She invited me into her office, serene, commanding, and looked at me like someone about to receive news she already suspected. In the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a large tea mug with Mimi printed in bold, and a sweet picture of what must have been her two daughters.

With a hint of motherly disappointment, and looking at me straight in the eyes, she spoke softly, “Help me out, Adam. What can I do for you?”

I told her it wasn’t for me. That I wasn’t qualified. That I didn’t want to waste anyone’s time.

She asked if I was sure. I said I was. I thanked her. And I left.

As I stepped through those heavy security gates, topped with barbed wire, which I’d assumed were to keep students safely in, but later learned were there to keep local intruders out, I felt strangely at peace.

A few days later, back in my comfort zone, quietly wondering if the real purpose of that interview had been to show me what was possible. Maybe I could apply for arts status in my current school. Maybe I could raise my own funding. Maybe I didn’t need a new job, just a bigger vision.

The days passed. The silence suited me.

Then the phone rang. It was Mimi.

“Adam,” she said, “I want you to reconsider.”

She told me they hadn’t appointed anyone yet. That despite the other five candidates completing the process, they still were not sure and she thought I could be the right fit. That she wanted to talk through my doubts, face to face.

It wasn’t what she said that changed my mind. It was the timing. The strange synchronicity of it all.

By now, I’d learned to pay attention to moments like this. When something unlikely shows up twice, once as fear, then again as a kind of invitation, I’ve learned not to ignore it.

So I said yes. Yes to meeting with Mimi once again and yes to her renewed offer.

Not because I was ready.

But because I wasn’t.

I didn’t walk into it alone.

Virginie was with me every step. When my current line manager and her husband (who’d by now become a significant influence and support in our lives) heard I’d turned it down, they were stunned. Somewhere between disappointed mentors and parents watching their child run from a really good school. I think they reserved a kind of reluctant admiration for my honesty, or, depending how you look at it, a kind of naïve bravery that could easily be seen as stupidity.

But here’s the thing: had I not walked away, I don’t think I would’ve had the strength to walk back in. Saying no gave me the clarity to say yes on my own terms.

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THE FINE LINE

medium: Painted by hand, intuitively using the iPad Pro

“This post is a reflection from From London to Mexico, a book in progress about the quiet signs that guide us into unexpected change.”

My teaching career kicked off with an explosion of blue paint and the sudden realization that I was right in the middle of a broken department.

Barely out of teacher training, I walked into my very first real post: a state secondary school in Kingston-upon-Thames, South West London.

I remember my first day so clearly.

Picture a young, freshly trained teacher standing in front of his first official class. More than thirty students crammed into one room. Apparently, this was the “fast track” group; the most academically able kids in the school. Bright, sharp, quick to react. I introduced myself, doing my best to sound confident, and for a moment, things seemed… passable.

And then it happened.

A loud thud cracked across the room as a projectile slammed into the side wall. A full litre bottle of blue paint, brand new from the store cupboard, and which I now realise might as well have been a grenade, had been hurled with remarkable force.

Laughter exploded. Chaos unfolded. Brushes and palettes followed. It was like one of those distressing performance art pieces. The kind you walk into at the Tate Modern, pretend to understand, and then quietly edge away from while looking for the exit.

My teaching career was approximately seven minutes old, and it felt more like a fast track to early retirement from the battlefield, due to a serious injury to my ego.

It took months, long, humbling months, to build even a shred of respect, routine, or order in that department. I was quickly informed that the previous Head of Art, whose place I’d been asked to fill, had gone on leave due to stress. Serious stress. What I didn’t know, but would soon find out, was that the department had been in decline for some time.

One of the students, someone I eventually built a good relationship with, told me quietly one day that their old teacher had more or less given up.

It was tragic, and deeply unsettling. The department was broken. And nobody seemed to believe it could change.

The turning point came in the form of Liz, my line manager.

Liz was one of those rare people you hope to meet once or twice in your life, though she’d absolutely hate being described like that, and probably raise one unimpressed eyebrow at the sentiment. She had a drier wit than me (which is saying something), a no-nonsense presence, and a talent for cutting through wildly complicated problems in one sentence flat, usually while stirring her tea like a surgeon preparing for a transplant.

She was a formidable presence in the school: revered, respected, and, between you and me, quietly feared by the headteacher himself. The senior leadership team often tiptoed around her, even as they prepared to invite her into their fold. It was only a matter of time.

But she wasn’t just sharp. Liz was also an inspirational English teacher, beloved by her students, fiercely loyal to them, and quietly dedicated in ways that most people never saw. I later found out she had a passion for amateur musicals and had lovingly stitched and kept hundreds of costumes from years of performances. That was her world. Her magic. And maybe that’s why she understood mine. She could feel the pull of the arts. The mess, the meaning, the making. It’s what connected us.

It was Liz who said yes when I suggested the unthinkable: a week-long residential art trip to St Ives, the very place my grandfather had taken me all those years ago. The spiritual heart of my own journey into art. The colony that shaped my earliest creative memory.

It did feel a little unrealistic at the time, and I’m sure others thought I was a little naive to think I could pull off a trip like this, or to believe a bunch of inner-city teenagers would find meaning in a Cornish art colony. But deep inside, I had to believe that art mattered to them, and to me.

Liz didn’t hesitate. She insisted on coming with me, and that sealed the deal. I had the passion, expertise, and vision in my subject, and Janet had the experience to ensure the trip ran smoothly.

We brought twenty-five students of mixed ages to Cornwall. We stayed in a youth hostel. We sketched and painted en plein air, and back in the studio, we developed ideas inspired by the surrounding landscape, the hills, ancient buildings, harbour, and seascapes. We visited working artists in their studios, and the students were always shocked to discover that some people actually made a living from it.

For many of them, it was their first time leaving London. Something happened that week, something no Ofsted inspector’s framework could measure. We became a community. We created something real.

Those students came back different.

I came back different.

The ones who were with me on that trip stayed loyal. And suddenly, a shift: respect. Trust. Space.

Once I had that, the rest was just time and effort.

At the end of that year, Liz sat me down. She told me the old Head of Art wouldn’t be returning; he’d taken early retirement due to his health. The senior management team wanted me to stay. And not just stay, they wanted to offer me the official role.

I’d done it. Head of Department. After one year.

It usually took five, minimum. I had no idea how it had happened. But there it was.

And from that point on, something started to build. Over the next five years, the department went from chaos to clarity. From instability to strength. We earned an ‘Outstanding’ rating in our Ofsted inspection. Not because I was brilliant. But because I’d stayed. Because I’d listened.

Looking back, that residential wasn’t just a turning point; it was a quiet declaration of faith in the invisible threads between us. The ones that form when we show up fully, create something real, and trust what arises.

Thank you for reading Listening to the Light.

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DEVINE BREATH

Medium - Painted by hand intuitively using the iPad Pro

that buried fear

so heavy…

out of control.

flooding my mind,

my whole person.

drowning any truth,

or way of perceiving

that noisy illusion.

until I meet it

breath after breath…

as cold panic loosens.

drifting through like thunder

thick with quiet dread…

waiting for the space to widen,

between the strike and what follows.

then,

just as it had arrived, uninvited…

now, leaving only peace.

I remember the warmth of silence

that holds me.

UP THE GARDEN PATH (After Patrick Heron)

Medium: Sketched by hand, intuitively using the iPad Pro

I used to think that surrender was about relief, about finding a deeper peace. But now I know it can show up disguised as jumping headfirst into the deep end, hands and legs tied up.

But if you listen to that deeper voice, you’ll know the feeling: life handing you an impossible challenge you didn’t quite sign up for, yet something inside you whispers, this is mine to face.

There’s a parallel in my painting, too. Letting go often begins with a mess: marks that feel pointless, chaotic, or wrong. As the painter Patrick Heron once said, “The act of painting is not a process of building, but of discovery.”

If my teacher training had taught me anything, it was to be careful what you wish for. But as I soon learned, it’s just as important to be careful how far you let go, as the universe often provides what’s essential for our long-term growth, rather than our immediate desires.

It was the summer of 1996, and I’d just passed the PGCE (Postgraduate Certificate in Education) with the rest of my cohort, twenty or so of us in all, we scattered like anxious bees, hunting for our first teaching jobs.

In the UK, you couldn’t gain QTS (Qualified Teacher Status) until you’d completed a full year of school-based teaching. So the pressure was on. Everyone was scrambling to find the easiest position, the nicest school, the one with the best mentoring, the gentlest students, the fewest reasons to cry in the supply cupboard.

I was no different.

I applied endlessly. That year, for reasons no one quite understood (possibly karmic payback for my earlier smugness), the job market was tighter than usual. It was a bit like submitting my portfolio of paintings to a gallery: a burst of hope, followed by a black hole of silence, and, if you were lucky, a rejection letter to cheer you up.

Looking back, those many rejections were what eventually shifted the way I approached the creative process, not as a means to gain approval or control outcomes, but as something else entirely. A practice of presence, risk, and surrender. And most importantly, learning not to take it personally.

Some of my peers didn’t find placements at all. I started to wonder if my applications were being used as scrap paper in the school office. Something I later realised, when I was on the other side of the table as Head of Art, wasn’t very far from the truth. The competition for art jobs was always through the roof. When you’re faced with fifty applications for a single teaching post, there’s no choice but to be brutal. At least two-thirds go straight to the scrap pile before you even begin narrowing down a viable shortlist.

Then came the phone call…

A warm voice on the other end explained that a position had suddenly opened up. It was late August, schools must have been desperate, and no one else was available. A Head of Department had taken medical leave, and they needed someone to cover immediately. A six-month temporary position. Full responsibility.

“Head of Department?” I asked, stunned.

I was barely out of training. I hadn’t even fully mastered writing a decent lesson plan, let alone taking on an entire department, its curriculum, and the hopes and dreams of the senior leadership team. There was absolutely no way I was qualified to lead anything. Unless leadership now included mild panic and a blank stare.

For a moment, I wondered if they’d confused me with someone else entirely. Or if this was some sort of administrative prank the agency staff played to keep themselves entertained in the slower months of August.

I genuinely didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. In the end, I did a bit of both.

And then I said yes… not to the job, but to the universe. Who, by this point, I’d learned wasn’t to be messed with, bargained with, or casually advised about career planning. If anything, she seemed to enjoy watching me squirm just long enough before handing me exactly the thing I was trying to avoid.

Thank you for reading Listening to the Light.

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HEAD IN THE CLOUDS

Medium - Painted intuitively by hand using the iPad Pro

“This post is a reflection from From London to Mexico, a book in progress about the quiet signs that guide us into unexpected change.”

If Chapter One ended with a whispered beginning, the next stage of life came in loud and unrelenting.

Teacher training was the formal entry into this new world, and while I approached it with earnest intent, nothing could have prepared me for the reality.

On paper, I was doing well. I absorbed the theory of pedagogy with enthusiasm. I was, at least in observation mode, full of articulate commentary. Watching other teachers from the safe distance of the back of the room, I had no shortage of opinions: some thoughtful, some naive, most delivered with the confident detachment of someone who didn’t yet know what he didn’t know. I could speak about lesson structure, pacing, and classroom management. From the sidelines, I was a model trainee.

But standing at the front of the room? That was another matter entirely.

Let’s be clear, I wasn’t short of passion for my subject. I was determined to inspire, to share something real. But that ideal met hard reality with the subtlety of a slap. And my first placement pulled no punches.

The school was a small Christian state secondary in the heart of the Oval, South London. Inner city. Multicultural. High energy. I walked in on the first day and very nearly turned around and walked back out again. The corridors buzzed with a kind of sharpened edge; the students were streetwise, self-possessed, and, from the look in their eyes, clearly already clocking me as fresh meat. The staffroom wasn’t much safer. I’d never felt more like prey in my life.

But then I reached the art department, and everything changed. Or so I thought.

I stood in the doorway, amazed. A full class of GCSE students, quietly working behind easels, stood like painters in a 19th-century atelier. A still life was arranged at the front, a vase, some cloth, and they were all painting it in silence. It was eerie. Beautiful, but eerie. The Head of Art was a cheerful man with a bohemian air, dressed in a blue blazer and jeans, with long silver hair immaculately groomed and a stripy, double-length, multicoloured scarf.

He wandered the room like a benevolent ghost, occasionally stepping up to a student’s work, taking their brush, and casually painting on their canvas. Not a single protest. They just nodded and carried on.

“This,” I thought, “is going to be a breeze.”

Right up my street.

But it turns out, not all classes are arranged like 19th-century ateliers.

My first class wasn’t even officially mine. I was more of an assistant, floating in the background while the real teacher held the reins. And yet, those early tastings of what teaching actually required were enough to shake me. I began to see just how little I understood. How could I, or anyone really, have been so shortsighted as to judge a teacher? We’ve all been students. We’ve all known the impact of a great teacher, and the damage of a bad one. You’d think that would give us more empathy. Instead, I had walked in with theory, idealism, and about five minutes of experience. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, everything.

Ever walked into a room and instantly known you were out of your depth?

My first real attempts to engage a class were, frankly, pathetic. I had no authority. No connection. In their eyes, I was just another trainee, one of many who would come and go. They weren’t cruel, exactly, just quietly strategic. They ignored me at first. Then, slowly, they began to test me.

And they were cunning about it.

The bolder students didn’t hesitate to go personal. They’d lob inappropriate questions, prying into my background, my life, even my relationship status. Anything to rattle me. They wanted to see what I was made of. Was I just another adult talking about rules, or would I actually hold my ground? Did I know my subject? Did I walk my talk? Or was I full of the kind of empty phrases they’d heard a thousand times before?

I fell right into the trap.

I assumed, rather sweetly, as only someone with no practical experience could, that if I just made friends with them, they’d naturally respect me. I soon learned otherwise. Students don’t want friends. They want boundaries. Clarity. Someone who can hold the space so they don’t have to.

It took me a long time to see that.

It’s interesting, now, looking back on those early days, how easy it is to misread what makes a great teacher. From the outside, it can all look very simple. You see someone standing at the front of a classroom, delivering knowledge with quiet authority while a room full of students listens in obedient silence. You assume they’ve got it sorted. That this, somehow, is what good teaching looks like: command, control, compliance.

At first glance, that’s exactly what I thought I saw in that art department. The one with the GCSE students painting still lifes like they were in a Parisian studio. The Head of Department seemed to move through the classroom with such ease, brushing over student canvases without protest, directing the space without tension. It looked like complete mastery.

And in a way, it was. But not the kind I first imagined.

That environment wasn’t a product of strict control or fear-based discipline. It wasn’t about asserting dominance or demanding silence. It was something else entirely. A more complex, nuanced web of trust, expectation, consistency, and respect. It had been built. Not imposed.

At the time, I didn’t yet understand how much more was going on. I thought the atmosphere was effortless. I hadn’t yet learned that effortlessness is almost always the result of invisible effort; of long hours spent building rapport, shaping boundaries, and establishing trust. It wasn’t about power. It was about presence.

My understanding of teaching began to shift, not through theory, but through raw, lived experience. Slowly, painfully, and then all at once.

I started to see that true authority wasn’t about volume or control, but about something far quieter: consistency. Presence. Integrity. I had to build trust, not demand it. I had to form relationships, genuine ones, and pair them with boundaries I could stand by, no matter what. That wasn’t something you could fake. Students could sniff out inauthenticity faster than a Buddhist can sense ego in a retreat centre.

Even though I didn’t realise it at the time, what I was learning would eventually come to fruition when I founded my own learning centre. But back then, I was just trying to stay afloat. Bit by bit, I knuckled down. I began to lead a few small projects on my own. By the end of my training year, I was managing select classes by myself. Just a few. But enough to taste what real teaching demanded.

If you’ve ever worked with teenagers, you’ll know exactly what I mean.

It was the toughest personal challenge I’d ever faced. Because here’s the truth: your class, their energy, their behaviour, their flow, is a direct reflection of your inner state. You can’t hide behind clever ideas or theory. You’re the weather system in the room. And if you’re stormy inside, your students will bring umbrellas.

In that way, teaching became a kind of spiritual boot camp.

Forget the hours I’d spent chanting. Forget the retreats and the workshops and the lofty masterclasses in self-awareness. If you want to fast-track your personal growth, stand in front of thirty teenagers who don’t yet trust you. You’ll meet every part of yourself, fast. And the only way to earn their respect is to deserve it.

They were, without a doubt, the best spiritual teachers I’ve ever had.

Thank you for reading Listening to the Light.
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SURRENDER

Medium - Painted by hand, intuitively using the iPad Pro

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what it means to feel rejection as a creative.

We pour ourselves into making something deeply personal and vulnerable, then take the risk of sharing it with the world.

Why does it so often lead to suffering?

What is it really about? Why do we feel rejected? And how can we face it, or even use it, as part of a spiritual process?

These are the questions I’ve been quietly turning over in my mind.

It’s difficult to pinpoint one clear experience from my early years, but like most of us growing up, I craved recognition to shape my sense of self.

As a boy, I experienced the opposite of rejection; there was constant encouragement from my parents and grandparents. My close family always made a big deal of my drawings and paintings.

Naturally, I loved the attention. It gave me a sense of creative identity and validation.

And as someone who was shy and didn’t socialise easily, that meant everything.

As we mature, we begin to understand that validation needs to come not from the external, but from an internal source, if we are to be truly at ease.

Carl Jung observed that, “Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakens.”

I can see now that my whole process as an artist, a mirror of my wider journey, has been, step by step, to let go of tying my happiness to the quiet approval of others. To push instead toward finding a deeper validation in the process itself.

Every day, I have to renew my path. To stop trying to control the external world so that it validates who I am.

And let’s be honest, it’s pretty exhausting, don’t you agree? I mean, why does the mind think it can control the whole universe? It’s been perfectly evolving without us for millions of years!

As Michael A. Singer reminds us, "Life rarely unfolds exactly as we want it to. And if we stop and think about it, that makes perfect sense. The scope of life is universal, and the fact that we are not actually in control of life's events should be self-evident."

And yet, no matter how exhausting or humbling it is, the pull to create remains. Even when recognition fades. Even when no one’s watching.

As Brené Brown puts it, “Unused creativity is not benign. It metastasizes. It turns into grief, rage, judgment, sorrow, shame.”

I’ve felt that. The restlessness. The low-level frustration when I haven’t made space for something to flow through. When I start to carry around emotions I can’t quite name, simply because I’ve shut the door on expression.

And so, I keep returning. Not to be seen. But to witness. Not to be approved of, but to participate in something deeper.

Letting go of observational work began when I started painting on my iPad. I used to experiment with different painting applications, and in those experiments, I’d be trying out new brushes and just playing with all the different types of marks, layers, and textures I could achieve.

These doodles were fun and particularly freeing for me at a time during a time of personal stress and anxiety. In any case, I kept these secret and carried on painting en plein air. But those private scribbles had already had a big impact on me, and I couldn’t stop connecting the process to those St Ives abstract painters I’d visited all those years ago.

At the time, I was also listening to teachers like Eckhart Tolle, and these were the beginnings of breathing into surrender. I found that, as a parallel, I could start painting intuitively, and the feeling was like nothing before.

To stop controlling felt liberating. Trusting the marks as they appeared on the canvas, and allowing the creative mess to unfold until something deeper started happening. Until the arrangements of elements started to resonate with an inner voice.

It wasn’t observational work anymore, but a response to feelings, memory, and experience. And of course, all those years of traditional training were absolutely necessary for me to be able to refine a balanced composition and create a harmony of marks and colour.

It existed in that in-between space, neither fully abstract nor strictly observational.

As Patrick Heron wrote, “Merely to observe is to subscribe to the heresy of realism; and merely to project a rhythm is to subscribe to the opposite heresy of non-figuration. Great painting lies between the two and performs the functions of both.”

Looking back, I can see that this shift in my process didn’t just change how I paint, it changed how I experience rejection.

I’m no longer painting for others or to sell commercially. There was vulnerability in that choice, and subsequently, a growing sense of resilience.

For the first time, I felt that these paintings were honest, authentic expressions that came from a deeper place in me.

That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy someone’s positive response or compliment. When a viewer connects with something, it still thrills me. Or that I’m never going to sell something I make in the future. But I’m less bothered by rejection now, because it’s no longer about manipulating an outcome to achieve recognition.

It’s more about staying true to the process itself.

I think that if you're feeling rejected, I’d encourage you to see it as part of the ongoing process of finding your creative voice. And whatever that voice is, at some point, you have to turn inward and start listening to it, instead of endlessly scanning the outside world for signs of approval.

And when that connection is real, even rejection begins to lose its weight. It becomes part of the path, not the end of it.

Thank you for reading Listening to the Light.
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Beginning - 23 x 29 in

Medium: Painted digitally by hand using iPad Pro

“This post is a reflection from From London to Mexico, a book in progress about the quiet signs that guide us into unexpected change.”

This is a story about how everything began: my teaching career, my relationship with Virginie (we’ve now been married for 27 years), and the quiet thread of trust that would eventually guide us halfway across the world. At the time, I thought I was just recovering from a creative dead end. I didn’t know life was about to reroute me completely. Looking back, it all makes perfect (and slightly hilarious) sense.

In September 1995, I began my teacher training and suddenly found myself facing classrooms full of students. It was the opposite of the cold, solitary studio I’d grown used to over the previous few years. And it forced me to grow in every way imaginable.

That summer, just before I was accepted at Goldsmiths College, Virginie unexpectedly reappeared in my life.

Technically, we’d met once before at a student Buddhist meeting I was leading. She was a beautiful young French woman, striking and stylish, with that magnetic mix of elegance and unpredictability I’d always assumed came as standard for Parisians. I greeted her in what I considered rather flawless French (having spent my early childhood in Clermont-Ferrand), but she gave me the kind of polite smile usually reserved for shop assistants offering you something you clearly can’t afford. Needless to say, I didn’t make much of a first impression.

It was a particularly glorious summer afternoon when we crossed paths again many months later at a Buddhist garden party. I was newly single, finding a strange peace in the unraveling of what had felt like an emotional and professional collapse. I wasn’t looking for anything. I’d decided to stop chasing, to let go, to focus on myself…

But as I should’ve guessed by then, life had other plans entirely. Like my wonderful grandfather, when my grandmother used to scream across the house for him to fetch something, it seemed that life, too, had selective hearing.

When I think of that sunny afternoon, I can still vividly remember that background hum that only those who live in a city like London understand: the smell of newly cut grass, the intense scent of flowers in full bloom, sausages grilling on the BBQ, glasses clinking, laughter, and animated voices. Virginie overheard me speaking French (not something you’d expect from the quiet British guy in the corner) and was intrigued enough to come and investigate. This time, we sparked up a conversation and, against all odds, her eyes didn’t glaze over or drift to the next more exciting distraction. That’s usually the point where people politely excuse themselves, somewhere around minute two of me launching unapologetically into one of life’s big questions.

Oddly enough, I’d done my very best to look unattractive that week, having spontaneously shaved my head down to a number one after years of shoulder-length locks. It was a defiant move, following the abrupt ending of a long-term relationship.

I looked like an extra from the film Trainspotting, minus the Scottish charisma. That was just as well, since I wasn’t trying to sound charming.

But something bigger had shifted. One brief introduction became hours of connection. The garden emptied, but we stayed, talking through dusk.

Virginie was unlike anyone I’d ever met. Impulsive, unpredictable, striking. Everything I wasn’t. She’d grown up in Paris with a challenging childhood and had carved her own path entirely from scratch. Nothing had been handed to her. She didn’t waste time. She knew what she wanted and what she didn’t. Beneath her bold presence was a deep spiritual grounding. Her Buddhist faith was strong. That thread of shared practice was the ground we both stood on.

Virginie had been given my number by what I now know to be two conspiring Buddhist friends who had long been trying, unsuccessfully, to set us up.

Shortly after, she called and invited me to see Fame: The Musical in Soho. That was the last thing I would’ve chosen to see, but as if on autopilot, I agreed, and we started dating. In any case, Virginie had made her decision, and that was that.

After the show (which, to my surprise, was actually rather good), we went for a drink in a nearby café. Minutes into the first real opportunity to get to know each other, Virginie, mid-sip, half swallowed her chewing gum, and nearly choked on the spot. I was terribly phlegmatic and mostly introverted. She was sanguine, the center of the party. I haven’t had a boring moment since.

By early 1996, midway through my teacher training year, we decided to move in together. We found a cheap apartment in South London and made it work. I was studying full-time, and Virginie took a full-time job as a nanny. She was still learning English at the time, but already had experience in childcare and as an animatrice in France. She adapted quickly. She always did.

That was the beginning of everything.

If you had told me then, on that summer afternoon in a South London garden, that one day we’d be living on the shores of the Mexican Caribbean, running our own private learning centre, I’d have assumed you were out of your mind. Or perhaps more accurately, that I’d eventually have to be out of mine to make it happen.

We came together through the most unexpected of moments. Our lives were different. Our upbringings are opposite. But we shared something essential, a spiritual path, a hunger for truth, and a quiet belief that life was always calling us toward something more aligned.

Over the years that followed, through the late 1990s and 2000s, our life unfolded slowly and deliberately: two decades as educators in London. Two children. A series of homes, bought and sold, until we finally settled into a small cottage in Wimbledon. A place we loved. A place we thought we’d stay.

But even then, I think the whisper was still speaking. Quietly. Patiently. Waiting.

It’s only now, looking back, that I can see what it was guiding me toward, not just away from a quiet sense of stagnation, but toward presence. Toward a life built not on force, but on flow. A life of trust.

Thank you for reading Listening to the Light.
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In Your Mind’s Eye - 25 x 25 in - Medium: Digital painting, created by hand in Procreate

Am I?

What if…

my words and paintings aren’t for interpretation?

What if…

they’re just here to create a field,

something quiet and truthful,

that others might fall into for a moment?

Could it be they’re not meant to prove anything…

just help me stay connected to something deeper?

To honor the process itself:

that quiet, intuitive rising from my center.

That inner knowing…

That flicker of light..

Those moments of sublime alignment.

What if that’s sufficient?

Not beauty explained, but beauty felt.

Maybe this is why I create.

Not to gain attention,

but to honour what echoes through me,

an imprint of what matters.

At least to me.

But then there’s doubt:

is this my ego in disguise…

its reason for being..

clinging to its own illusion,

disguised as honesty?

Or is it another deeper part of my self…

a softer voice,

not needing recognition.

What if…

I am.

WHAT IS IT TO BE ALIVE - 27 x 27 in

Medium: Painted digitally on iPad Pro

“This is a reflection from From London to Mexico, a book in progress about the quiet signs that guide us into unexpected change.”

Looking back to early 1995, after a few intense years of making art, I remember reality inevitably catching up with me. I could no longer cover the rent for my studio and had reached a complete dead end: physically and emotionally. I had to find a job… any job.

I ended up in a central London kitchen, and after a while, I was promoted (if you can call it that) to a sandwich delivery boy. I was paid on commission: if I didn’t sell, I didn’t earn. My friend, charming, relentless, and apparently born to flirt with PAs over chicken tikka baguettes, did brilliantly. I, on the other hand, lacked the gene for small talk and couldn’t bring myself to compliment someone’s tie in exchange for a tuna melt. Most of the office workers treated me like malfunctioning background music: annoying, vaguely in the way, and best ignored.

One day, after coming back to the shop with zero sales and a heart full of defeat, the manager must’ve seen something in my face. He took pity on me and moved me behind the sandwich counter, where at least I’d get a steady wage. I accepted the lifeline, but it wasn’t a fit either. The pace, the pressure… it wore me down. It all ended one day with a slip of the hand. I was slicing a baguette, midway through a customer’s increasingly absurd list of sandwich demands, when the knife slipped and carved a clean line through the palm of my hand. It was the most meaningful mark I’d made in months. Ironically, I’d spent years carving stone and shaping form with care and intention, only to have life make its own statement: right there, in flesh. Looking back, it felt like a line being drawn under that chapter of my life. A cut, yes… but also a quiet full stop.

That was it. The sign I needed. I handed in my notice and walked away.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that low point was a gift in disguise.

At that point in my life, I was practicing Nichiren Buddhism. I remember chanting with all the strength I had: desperately, determinedly, calling out for something to shift. The practice was simple but profound: chant every day, take action, and then let go. Trust that the right causes would bear fruit.

But trust didn’t come easily. My mind was chaotic. I was full of doubt and shame about the situation I’d landed in. Still, the teachings reminded me to stay awake to life—to notice signs, synchronicities, openings. To expect them. And to move when they appeared, even if they didn’t match my ideas of what life should look like.

Around that time, I happened to speak to an old friend of my then-girlfriend: someone I hadn’t spoken to in a long while. We were catching up briefly over the phone when she mentioned she’d recently completed a teacher training course at Goldsmiths College. She described it as intense but incredibly rewarding. “You should really look into it,” she said, with surprising conviction.

At first, I laughed. Me? A teacher? I’d made it very clear to everyone around me that teaching was not for me. My own school experience had been complicated. There were a few wonderful teachers, but also many who taught through fear and control. No one would guess nowadays, but I was shy at heart, quiet by nature, and the idea of standing in front of a classroom full of kids was nothing short of terrifying.

And yes, part of me still carried the old belief that art teachers were just failed artists: those who’d missed the last train to greatness and decided to settle in the staffroom instead. I couldn’t help but think of my old grammar school art teacher—a cool, clearly talented young guy who seemed far too gifted to be trapped in that chaotic classroom. Most of the students didn’t want to be there, and he spent more time managing behaviour than teaching. Every lesson was reduced to basic observational drawing—no concepts and minimal movement, zero creativity, and no paint in sight. It was the ultimate insult to art. And to him, really. That memory sat in the back of my mind like a warning sign.

Eventually, I made a single phone call. Just to inquire.

One phone call. That’s all it took. After all my tortured artist soul-searching and noble struggle, they booked me in for an interview the next day and practically welcomed me aboard on the spot.

I was, understandably, thrilled. And by thrilled, I mean silently pissed off and totally petrified at the thought of the huge blunder I’d just made.

Just as you’d expect, the course was fully funded by the government, and I’d also receive support with housing and living expenses. As if on cue, every door opened at once.

I didn’t have many other options. But I was beginning to learn something deeper: that life hands you exactly what you need to grow—paying very little attention to your grand plans. And if you’re able to let go and trust, things can shift in ways you never imagined.

This was my first real experience of not just listening to the chatterbox in my head, and surrendering to life. And it changed everything.

Looking back, I can see the signs were there long before I admitted them.

I had built up this story—this myth, really—that in order to become a “real” artist, I had to suffer for it. Work long hours. Push through isolation. Make sacrifices. And eventually, someone would discover me and I’d receive the recognition I deserved. But the truth was, I had drifted far from anything that felt alive. And while I don’t regret those years (I truly gave it my all), I can now see that I wasn’t listening. I was forcing.

What finally broke me wasn’t the lack of money or the rejection. It was the loneliness. The aching absence of energy, collaboration, and connection. By the end of it, I made a vow: Whatever happens next, I want people in my life. I want noise. Movement. Presence.

If this moment speaks to something in your own life, a breaking point, or a strange, quiet persistent voice nudging you to change direction, I’d love to hear about it. Feel free to share in the comments or just sit with it. Sometimes the most meaningful shifts begin where things fall apart.