Part III — Liminal Layers of Light with Caroline Collom

 

Over the years, I’ve become aware of my tendency to overthink and overwork my pieces, an experience you seem to know well. My current approach is to simply put the tools down and walk away. I’ll return an hour later, sit, stand, and move around the piece, shifting from creating to looking and feeling. I’m still on this journey of discovery, but I’ve found that this slower, more observant process leads to more confident paintings. 

 

I recall the time you reference very well. I must have sat with the painting for about two weeks without making a move. I often compare this stage of the process to a game of chess. I knew the painting held the feeling I was after, but it needed something—just one move to complete it. The wrong move and I lose everything I had gained already. Eventually, I took a deep breath and placed the green line on Suntrapped, then sent a picture to you both. At that moment, the painting felt complete. It was exciting to see if you both felt the same, especially since it was such a small gesture—but in this case, it was enough. 

 

Saltlight is another example where I placed it under multiple light sources and just sat with it. In the end, I did nothing and I’m grateful my mind resisted the urge to keep painting. Had I continued, I might have lost the spaciousness and movement I feel holds well in the piece. 

Are they finished? Well—that’s up to the viewer, I suppose. I’m content for now... but how long that lasts, I don’t know! 

 

The works for this exhibition were developed through layers of light and an enhanced awareness of movement and space. Elements that have always been present in my practice but which I focused on in these pieces. Having the opportunity to work so closely with yourself and Frances gave me the confidence to open my inner dialogue, to share, and to hear other points of view. This has been an invaluable and grateful part of bringing this exhibition together. 

 

When I first ventured into abstraction and my practice became focused on form, line and shape, it felt as though I would never see the world the same way again. My landscape shifted to become my internal thoughts for paintings—I was surrounded by them, living in them, walking through them. When we developed the concept for this exhibition, that experience only intensified. 

 

Like many people, my phone is rarely far from my hand. But I’m the person who’s photographing a rubbed-off graffiti tag on a wall, a line in the pavement next to a patch of grass, or the geometric intersection of a building and the sky. For this show, I found myself noticing shadows in my home like you referenced, capturing videos of dappled light on windows, or simply feeling the light on my skin. Whether it was the clarity of a crisp blue day, or the bouncing shimmer off the sea, I kept being drawn to moments of movement and sensation that I usually overlooked in favour of physical structures. 

 

For this exhibition, I wanted to bring all those observations together—everything I had captured, everything we had shared: the movement, the technique, the fragments—all woven into the series I was creating. It became an act of surrendering and going with it—a lesson I’ve both heard and admired from you and Jenny. 

 

So yes, I continue to refer to a roadmap, but I remain receptive to where I feel the painting is guiding me. I might have the map, but the painting is the vehicle carrying the message. Therefore, I must keep looking and listening. Sometimes I have absolute clarity before I start and other times just a roadmap for the beginning. That usually means identifying the source material and establishing a colour palette. This first step lays the foundation and sets the tone for where the work might go. 

 

While the first layer dries, I often begin questioning the next step. I observe how the paint reacts; how the layers interact. If something unexpected happens, like a texture that charms me (for example, the brushed ochre area on the right side of Suntrapped), it can pivot the entire direction or cause me to abandon the initial plan and let the painting lead. 

 

And then comes the ongoing question: what if another unexpected, exciting moment occurs? Do I keep it? That becomes the balancing act of creating intrigue without losing coherence. I aim to build pockets of interest alongside areas of calm-using solid opaqueness or soft hues, allowing space for both distraction and rest. This negotiation of visual ‘noise’ is difficult to plan. It’s where the subconscious takes over and the painting begins to unfold.