A secret concert, and the courage to create

The windscreen wipers battled against the July rain as we wound our way down a narrow country lane. We were following the tail-lights of a friend’s yellow truck, which was leading us to a mystery destination.

Finally, we pulled over on a farm track, and emerged from the car into winds that whipped my hair around. The three of us walked past banks of billowing wildflowers, until we came upon a tiny village church that looked as though it belonged in a children's book illustration. I even remarked that I fully expected to find squirrels and field mice inside, dressed in Edwardian clothes, making tea and toast.

Our friend knocked on the door, and a moment later, it slowly opened. A face appeared. The figure put his fingers to his lips, and then waved us inside.

I didn’t see any costumed squirrels or mice, but the scene inside was no less charming. The church interior flicker ed in the warm glow of candlelight, and wildflower posies were tied with ribbon to the end of each pew.

The place was packed already – evidently, we were late – but we managed to quietly squeeze ourselves into some seats at the back. We were then treated to a gorgeous concert. A pianist, violinist, double-bass player, and singer performed a collection of exquisite and delightful tunes.

Later, when we were all packed into the neighbouring pub, I shouted my congratulations to the singer. I learned that he had only begun singing earlier this year – mere months ago. I was a little blown away by the audacity of his bravery. To finally, quite literally, give voice to a long-held dream, and to share it with friends.

Afterwards, I thought about the courage it can take for people to give themselves permission to first dream, then create, and then to share.

But I’m so glad for every person who has managed to do this. For as you spread your wings, you give permission for others to do the same. And who knows what magic we could discover, with everyone flying?

Slaying The Dragons Of Perfection

I’m not really a festivals person – I’m more than happy to leave the whole port-a-loos thing to hardier souls than I. But due to the happy circumstance of a neighbour gifting me with a spare ticket, I found myself at the Love Supreme festival, in a hot field full of colourful tents, street food vans, and sun-burnt people in sandals. But it wasn’t until July’s ‘Buck Moon’, a massive, shining orb, rose up into the drifting clouds, that it seemed a magical spell was cast over the darkening countryside.

In a sudden blaze of strobe lights and roaring bass reverb, none other than the inimitable Grace Jones – one of my absolute favourite muses – appeared on the main stage. Wearing some sort of skull mask festooned with black feathers, Jones stared us down, stalked and strutted on her mile-long legs, and exhorted us all to sing along with her. There was a costume change for almost every track. It seemed to me that her outrageous headdresses had been created from the kind of random crap you might find at the back of the garage, and yet they conveyed some kind of raw, powerful bewitchment that anything more polished would have missed.

‘I’m in the English countryside, like Alice In Wonderland!’ she cried, in between tracks. ‘With the mushrooms, you know? Making my heels grow taller! I’m sure of it! And I’m looking at that moon!’

As someone accidentally elbowed me in the face, I thought to myself, this is art. Through the context of our careful, brand-conscious, algorithm-courting world, I was thrilled to watch someone expressing their creativity with such riotous abandon, and to see how elated the crowd were. She was giving them permission to shuck off the shackles of affirmation-laden acquiescence.

Today, I picked up a sketchbook and a pen, and I made a mental note to myself. Imperfect joy trumps perfection, every time.

Lighting The Stars

I feel that December, as a month, really lucked out with the whole ‘seasonal holidays’ thing. 

The nights may be dark and cold, and rain and sleet may be flinging itself at the windows while an icy wind snatches at your hat - but, at this time, we are granted brief permission to believe in magic.

And I love how much people love this. 

The wonder of Christmas encompasses glittering lights that brighten the streets, gingerbread lattes to warm up cold fingers, and thrilling fireside ghost stories. We pass on tantalising legends about flying reindeer. We enjoy nostalgia. We indulge in treats. We dress our homes in sparkling ornaments, and put out messages of love and good wishes from friends and family who have sent cards. 

And then there is January. With all the holiday enchantment stripped away, we are suddenly confronted with a naked, sombre, deep mid-winter. And exhausting exhortations for a ‘new year, new you’, complete with the annual round of joy-thieving new year’s resolutions. 

Well I say, no more! Don’t leave January out in the cold. This is not a time for donning the lycra and pounding yourself at the gym. This is still a time for magic - a time for dreaming, for going gently. For wonderful encounters with the frosty, shimming fairies of winter. For making yourself a hot chocolate, lighting some candles, and sowing the seeds for your hopes and wishes. 

There is so much beauty to drink in at this time of year. Bare, black branches against a pale pink sky. Fiery winter sunsets. Foggy mornings that cloak the world in mystery. And when the nights are grim and cloudy, remember, the stars are still there. 

My new painting, ‘Lighting The Stars’, is a celebration of wintry magic. When we believe in ourselves, and have faith in our dreams, and hold our loved ones in our thoughts, I feel that we are lighting our own stars. 

24” (61cm) x 18” (46cm). Acrylic and gouache. £695 plus packing and shipping. Payment plans available.
Contact me here to purchase. 

The Wasp and The Spider

The other night, I went to close the blind on my studio window.

Somehow, the strings got tangled, and the blind jammed. So, I snaked an arm past my pot-plant Fred to try and unravel the snarl-up. Unfortunately, my sleeve caught my mannequin Lisa’s wig, and knocked it to the floor. I reached down to pick it up, and as my fingers curled into the nylon locks, I felt something sharp. I recoiled in time to see a dozy-looking wasp emerging from the wig.

Amazingly, I’ve never actually been stung by a wasp before, and I don’t even think this one got me properly, because it didn’t hurt much. I figured he must have been either dying or hibernating, as he didn’t look very lively, so I thought I would leave him for a bit and deal with removing him later. I went back to the painting I was working on.
 
A short time later, I heard the unmistakeable drone of wasp wings. I turned around and saw that the wasp had now truly woken up, and appeared to be on the hunt for revenge. I backed out of the studio and hovered in the doorway, wondering what to do. I watched as the wasp rose up to the ceiling, and buzzed around in furious, whirling circles. It knocked into the light fitting and, to my fascinated horror, got caught up in a spider’s web.
 
Briefly, the wasp struggled against the sticky strings, but then the spider darted out from its hiding place. It rushed across to the wasp and attempted to clasp it in its long, spindly arms, but the wasp fought back. In the next moment, the pair of them fell from the light fitting and hit the floor with an audible thump.
 
As they tussled on the rug, I looked around for my spider-catcher – an indispensable instrument that allows me to scoop up unwelcome guests and deposit them outside, unharmed. But on this occasion, it was not in its usual place. Then I spotted it – on my desk, on the other side of the studio.
 
I embarked on a journey across various table-tops, like Indiana Jones on his rope ladder, afraid that the wasp would break free of the spider and somehow fly up my trouser leg (happened to a friend).
 
I swiped the spider-catcher. By this time, the spider had vanished – perhaps having decided that this particular dinner wasn’t worth the effort. I dropped the spider-catcher over the wasp and kicked shut the little trapdoor. After I’d released the wasp out of the window, I had to go and make a cup of tea and have a little sit down.

Despite his crabby demeanour, I had to admire the wasp for his fierce tenacity. I know a lot of us are battling with challenges at the moment. But, maybe you can keep this wasp in mind, and know that everything will be alright in the end.

The Magic of Rest

Having managed to dodge our friend Covid 19 for almost three years, I was quietly, and perhaps somewhat smugly, coming to the conclusion that maybe I was somehow magically immune.

But no... the virus finally caught up with me, and I spent most of October strung out on a journey of enforced rest and introspection.

As a natural introvert, training myself to be more 'out there' has been an interesting cocktail of experience – the main ingredients being a mixture of discomfort, reluctance… and joy.

So to be honest, I didn't relish my 'gift' of time and space, and having to cancel everything. But it turns out that revisiting a place of inner contemplation has been quite magical. I just had to let go of expectations, and relinquish the constant march of productivity that our culture prescribes. I’m grateful for the trees outside my window – I enjoyed watching their leaves turning, the sunsets glimmering through their branches, and the stars sparkling in the sky, high above their reach. I did a lot of journaling, reading, sketching, and 'big picture thinking'. I was able to scoop up an armload of inspiration, which has been shaping my work in terms of mood, colour, character, and meaning.

I’m pleased to report that I’m now well again, and I have just finished my first ever book illustration commission! The story has been written for 3–6-year-olds, so the artwork is quite different to what I normally create, and it was a lot of fun. I think the plan is to get it published before Christmas, but I’ll keep you posted. I can’t wait to share more with you.

Meanwhile, I’ll leave you with my newest piece – ‘Fallen Angel’, inspired by the fabulous London Town.

Keep believing in wonder,

A Change Of Scene

I've been slightly taken aback at the speed with which the season is turning.

Just a moment ago, the evenings were golden and balmy. And now, barely a blink later, I am reaching for a wool pullover.

And it's not just the seasons that have been galloping past – at least, in the United Kingdom. I saw a post on social media the other day that said, 'I've got a carton of milk in the fridge that's seen two prime ministers and two monarchs. Mad!' Hot on the heals of the pandemic, it seems, change is all around us.

It was Professor John Allen Paulos who famously said in 1945, 'Uncertainty is the only certainty there is, and knowing how to live with insecurity is the only security.'

Wise words indeed, but the question is, how do we live with it?

For me, creativity is the answer to so many of my questions. Working with my paints and brushes is like having a conversation with a crew of tried and trusted friends. My Chinese brushes are challenging but insightful. My inks are fun but opinionated. My acrylics are extrovert but not well-read. Although my tools and I don't always agree, we can count on each other to always be there (except when I've left a paint tube cap unscrewed), and we usually come up with a result that we are all happy with. Teasing through a certain quality of magenta, diving into the luscious depths of Prussian Blue, or refining the angle of a nose are all things that help me to align my thoughts and feelings, and come back to a place of everything's going to be ok.

And if these results can then go out into the world and help other people to feel such things as inspiration, reassurance, joy, or connection – then that makes me very happy.

A Chandelier I Can Swing From'. Prints available, sized 30cm x 42cm (11.7inches x 16.5inches)

Pretty in pink

I've been revelling in pink this year.

I couldn't really tell you why, but somehow, from the blush tones of a strawberry milkshake to the fiery fuchsia of sunset skies, pink has been stealing my heart. Perhaps I've been picking up on something in the zeitgeist. I've been noticing pink in the high street and in the logos of trendy brands – and not just girly ones, either! It seems to me that men are getting on board with pink, too.

Needless to say, I've been reaching for pink colours when stocking up at the art store. Dogwood Pink. Wild Rose Pink. Pink Starburst. Pop. Paris Pink. All of them sound delicious.

It's a cooling, fun colour. And a comforting one, too. Perhaps we could all do with wrapping ourselves up in a flurry of pink giggles after the past couple of years we've had.

I found myself at a fancy bar in London not long ago, meeting up with other artists and writers. The space was at the top of the building, and the pink-hued evening light streamed in through the high windows. I took a moment to slip away, sipping from a glass of something sparkling and cherry-sweet. I gazed out at the city skyline, watching as the hot pink sun slid languorously behind the buildings. Little moments of magical joy, soaked in pink, could be just what we need.

Pink Cocktail - click here for more details

The Wonder Dome

I recently had the immense pleasure of talking with Andy Cahill, founder of The Mindful Creative. Andy hosts a podcast called The Wonder Dome, in which he 'explores the mystery, beauty, and complexity of life through conversations with an array of incredible practitioners – all of them working at the edge of what's possible for humanity. This is a place for big dreams, bold creativity, and fierce hope.'

If you're intrigued, you can listen to our discussion here — it’s about an hour long, and I hope you’d enjoy it:
https://mindfulcreative.coach/the-wonder-dome/2021/4/6/49-pearl-bates

“Pearl Bates is an incredibly talented visual artist. John Cleese, of Monty Python fame, has referred to her art as some of the most original work he's ever seen. That's no understatement. It takes inspiration from all kinds of places: street style, haute couture, music, film, theatre, dance, nature. These incredible ingredients come together in Pearl's work to produce sensual, atmospheric, magically real paintings, drawings, and illustrations that evoke emotion, intensity, and aliveness.

Pearl has exhibited her artwork all over the world, from fashion illustration, to children’s works, to city murals. As you’re listening, I highly encourage you to check out Pearl’s incredible portfolio. As you hear her discuss her devotional approach to creativity, you’ll also be able to see and feel the aliveness that comes through her art. Truly special stuff.”

Thanks Andy!

One touch of nature

Trees are beautiful, magical, giants. Whatever the season, they are a wonderful source of inspiration and solace. As Shakespeare wrote, ‘one touch of nature makes the whole world kin.’ 

I always feel moved to see buds emerging on the trees at this time of year. It makes me realise that even during the darkest, coldest days of winter, the trees were still there all along — staunch and steadfast, sleeping and dreaming. 

Recently, I visited one of my favourite spots; a shady corner in a peaceful graveyard, surrounded by gently nodding snowdrops. From the other side of a flint wall, I could hear horses munching. For the first time in months, I could feel actual warmth in the rays of sun that showered down between the twisted branches that hung overhead. 

Later, I read a Charles Dickens quote online: 

“It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.”

Well, of course, I couldn’t have put it better myself. I thought we had turned a corner.

And then, the following day,  I woke up to heavy, dark skies, hanging low like a leaden frown rolling out across all the land. Mean-spirited rain spat against the window and the black, naked trees outside clawed at the clouds.

‘Can’t find any willpower today,’ posted a friend on Facebook. ‘Only won’t power.’ I smirked, and nodded in agreement. 

We are — we hope — exiting a turbulent winter that has been extra tough for many. We can feel the sap is rising, and yet it is still not quite here. 

But then I look up from my desk and see that the cherry tree outside my window is already frothing with early-flowering blossom. As the sun illuminates the delicate petals, I can almost hear them singing, ‘spring always follows winter.’

Stay faithful, friends! 

‘Starry Hill’. Click on image for more info.

‘Sun Trees’. Click on image for more info.

Liminal Veils

Happy new year, one and all. If you are reading this, then you have successfully made it into 2021 (high five, high five) - congratulations!   

 

I was recently commissioned to write a piece about the transition of Autumn into winter, for a new magazine called Belles Misadventures. You can purchase the magazine here (digital or physical,) but I'm sharing the piece that I wrote with you here. If you're feeling a bit 'January', then hopefully this might help to warm you up. 
 

As 2020 steadily spins its way towards the winter months, our global neighbourhood of humanity faces the kind of uncertainty that none of us will have ever experienced before. With communities fractured by social distancing measures and familiar routines overturned by the ambiguous, dark threat of the virus, many of us will have been clutching at fragments of reassurance and comfort.

The balm of September's Indian Summer drew me out into the countryside, which is where I found some shining threads of serenity. It seems that nature — even with all of her fierce might and storms — will always whisper to us the answers we are looking for if we become still enough to listen. Despite the discordant din of Covid-19, I discovered that nature was still turning over each new day with quiet assurance. The sun continued to rise and set amid blazing blushes of pink skies. Shadows grew shorter throughout the mornings and drew long again into the afternoons, just as they always have done. The trees were peeling back the lush robes of the green summer months with russet, scarlet, and amber colours while shoals of starlings swooped around the rooftops.

As the flowers and leaves around us curl and wither away at this time year, I always feel that they are ushering in a new energy, and 2020 has been no different. Many of us feel it – a sense of easing out from the bright, impulsive drive of summer as we move towards something altogether more languid, more gentle. More... sensual. The rich, heady smells of ripe apples and cool mornings will soon give way to bone-bare branches, sparkling frosts, and evenings cloaked in starry darkness. And during these winter months while the earth is apparently sleeping, I like to turn myself over to dreaming. To unshackle myself, as much as I can, from the relentless march of busy productiveness that has most of us collared, and tune into the rhythms of nature as they slow down. The short, glimmering days and long nights of winter feel like the right time to drop into a liminal space of harvesting inspiration, nurturing ideas, and engaging with the imagination.

The winter festivals seem designed to help us towards these exact ends. All Hallows' Eve is a Christian celebration that was superimposed over the Pagan festival of Samhain, the original New Year's Eve. New beginnings were thought to start with planting seeds into the dark earth, where they will germinate throughout the winter, dreaming in the shadows. Samhain was seen as a time when the veils between this world and the Otherworld became thin, which meant that the Gods, nature spirits, and souls of our departed ancestors could more easily come into our world. It was traditional to leave offerings of food and drink outside for them, or to set a place at the table for the visiting souls of the dead. Even today, when gaudy green plastic witch masks nestle amid pumpkins and gingerbread in the supermarket aisles, I feel excited that people are acknowledging magic on some level, albeit a ghoulish, mischievous kind.

And then there is Christmas. Despite the garish commercial pageantry that it can sometimes become, the beating heart of Christmas is still that special sense of magic and wonder, igniting luminous childhood memories.

So it seems to me that these months of diminished light are the time for allowing yourself to fall back into the arms of your daydreams and fantasies, and weave your own fairytales.

Here are some ideas to help you get started:

Burn candles and incense

Gather up some old magazines and create a vision board

Make your favourite hot drinks and add spices

Invest in a cosy throw blanket

Meet with friends to sit (socially distanced, of course) around a crackling fire and tell stories

Watch nostalgic movies

Listen to beautiful music that uplifts you

Give yourself permission to rest

Mashed potatoes

Listen to the robins who sing at night this time of year

Have a hot bath with essential oils

Go for walks during the brightest time of the day

Appreciate winter sunrises on sunny mornings

Spend more time in your PJs (not so difficult in lockdown)

Take time with your journal to record your dreams, ideas or notions of inspiration

And practice gratitude, to remind yourself that magic really is real…

Luminous

Welcome to another edition of my supposed-to-be-monthly-but-actually-more-like-six-monthly newsletter – but I guess we've all had quite a lot going on, right?!

How are you doing?

November is upon us, and England is about half-way through our second lockdown. I think it's fair to say that The Glums had descended. However, inspired by the Indian tradition of Diwali, which celebrates light triumphing over darkness, I cleaned the flat, strung up fairy lights, and lit candles. And then it hit me: we have to create our own light in our lives.

With galleries, theatres and cinemas all closed, I turned to my bookcases for inspiration. I pulled out my Aubrey Beardsley book from the Tate Britain exhibition that was mounted earlier this year, and poured over the illustrator's genius penmanship. Next was the painter Schiele, and his fabulous fusion of the grotesque and the beautiful. I also revisited fashion designer Alexander McQueen, and sat back to drink in some of his stupendously awe-inspiring creations. I leafed through a book about The Rolling Stones, and studied their rockstar audacity (when oh when will we have real rockstars again?). Finally, I watched the film Paris Is Burning on YouTube, which documents the underground 'ballroom' scene of 1980s New York City, in which marginalised cultures gathered to dress up as their fantasies.

I am fascinated by 1980s New York. I think it is because I am inspired by the way that this abandoned, crime-ridden city -- filled with decay, poverty, and deprivation, still managed to radiate with creativity. The spirit of the New York people refused to be crushed, and this defiance was channelled through their imagination, vision, and resourcefulness.

And so maybe, in these dystopian-pandemic times, we can take a cue from the likes of NYC and Diwali, and celebrate light triumphing over darkness.

Dream Walker. Acrylic, gouache, and appliqué on deep-edge canvas. Click here for more details.

The Chrysalis

Dear friends.

So here we are. Three weeks into the strangest reality that any us will have ever experienced. Some of you will be OK, and some you won't be. I am sending love to all of you.

Personally, I have decided to rename this whole experience 'the Chrysalis'. Because, one way or another, we will all be changed by it. And while not everyone will have the luxury of time and space that can be filled with reading, contemplation and personal development, we will all be asked to turn inward – if not spiritually, then certainly physically.

I tend to associate this 'inward', dreaming kind of being as more of a winter thing. So it seems garishly at odds to wander through the blooming, empty countryside, and to feel warm sun on my skin and watch butterflies flit past, without the usual sense of reawakening and community that comes with spring. Without the drive to 'put the pedal to the metal' – to rev things up and get going. Nature bustles on without us.

Instead, we humans have been suspended in a surreal, almost trance-like ambience, where the hours slip by like treacle.

I know that right now, things can be hard, scary and stressful. But transformation is often not easy. Day by day, we can find ways to move things forward until we are ready to join those butterflies in the fields. Maybe have a think about what kind of wings you'd like to have.

Hunting midwinter magic

A very optimistic tree lives outside my studio window. Every winter, at about this time of year, I'll look up one day and find that it has suddenly burst into blossom, like a shower of giggling popcorn rolling about in the gusts of wind and rain.

At the foot of the tree, snowdrops, crocus and daffodil shoots are bravely peeping out from the cold, dark, water-logged earth.

But February can catch you off-guard. Just when you think the first fresh lungfuls of spring might be creeping upon us, this last snatch of winter can throw thundering storms at us, lash us with rain and breathe biting frost across the fields.

So, yeah. It's still winter.

However, in recent years, I've come to relish the gift of introspection, the gentle nourishment of rest, and the magical dream-time that winter brings. As an artist – in fact, I'm sure for anyone – it's very important to restock the well of inspiration, and winter is the perfect time to do this.

Here are some things you could try...

Burn candles and incense

Make your favourite hot drinks, add spices

Invest in a cosy throw blanket

Meet with friends to sit around a crackling fireplace and tell stories

Watch nostalgic movies

Listen to beautiful music that uplifts you

Give yourself permission to rest

Mashed potatoes

Listen to the robins who sing at night this time of year

Hot baths with essential oils

Going for walks during the brightest time of the day

Appreciate winter sunrises on sunny days

Spend more time in your PJs

Take time with your journal to record your dreams, ideas or notions of inspiration

Practice gratitude and generosity to remind you that magic is real… and let me know how you get on.

Pearl

Prints are available here

Hallows' Eve

Halloween... All Hallow's Eve... Samhain. The original New Year's eve. where new beginnings were thought to start with planting seeds into the dark earth, where they will germinate throughout the winter, dreaming in the shadows.

In the supermarket aisles, amid the scents of pumpkin spice and gingerbread, the glint of green plastic catches my eye.

A witch's mask, complete with straggly black hair and a wart or two.

It's the time of year when society at large seems to acknowledge magic on some level, albeit a ghoulish, mischievous kind. I've seen such fabulous costumes – amazing creativity and inventiveness.

There really should be good reason to dress up all year round, in my opinion!

Meanwhile, here's something I've copy-and-pasted from Wikipedia, about the origins of Halloween..

Samhain was seen as a liminal time, when the boundary between this world and the Otherworld could more easily be crossed. This meant the Aos Sí, the 'spirits' or 'fairies', could more easily come into our world. Most scholars see the Aos Sí as remnants of the pagan gods and nature spirits. At Samhain, it was believed that the Aos Sí needed to be propitiated to ensure that the people and their livestock survived the winter. Offerings of food and drink were left outside for them. The souls of the dead were also thought to revisit their homes seeking hospitality. Feasts were had, at which the souls of dead kin were beckoned to attend and a place set at the table for them. Mumming and guising were part of the festival, and involved people going door-to-door in costume (or in disguise), often reciting verses in exchange for food. The costumes may have been a way of imitating, and disguising oneself from, the Aos Sí. Divination rituals and games were also a big part of the festival and often involved nuts and apples. In the late 19th century, Sir John Rhys and Sir James Frazer suggested that it was the "Celtic New Year", and this view has been repeated by some other scholars.

*Definition of 'liminal':
1. relating to a transitional or initial stage of a process
2. occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold

Treasure haul

Dear friends, firstly – apologies for the absence. I'm sure you managed just fine without me but nevertheless, I did feel guilty about taking some time away from the blog. It seems I'm not the only one who felt the pull of winter's sparkling dark magic this year, and with it, the need to turn inward.

It seemed the right thing to do – to take some time to drift through the dreaming darkness, working on refilling the well of creativity. To cast an enchanted fishing net into books, magazines, films, music and nature, and see what treasure might turn in it. It felt important to take time to gather ingredients for ideas... for stories, paintings, drawings, projects.

Just in the past week or so, I've been seeing the emergence of those bold trailblazers – the snowdrops and crocuses, sending out the welcome signal that change is in the offing.

And so, as we all begin returning to the light, it's time to take a look at the haul of winter's gifts in your net...

Pearl

The magic of January

'If you want to have a creative output, you need a creative input.' I remember spouting this little gem of wisdom one January while at college to a fellow art student. Truth be told, it was my reasoning behind reaching out for another piece of cake.

The seasonal celebrations are behind us, and, it seems to me, we cannot wait for spring to arrive. The supermarket is full of unnaturally forced daffodils and hyacinths and – God forbid – Easter eggs.

Yet we are still in the middle of winter. And it seems to me that there is a lack of appreciation for it.

I don't believe in dragging yourself out of bed (in the dark!) in order to thrash yourself at the gym, or restricting your diet to kale smoothies in January.

Poor old January, so misunderstood.

This is still the time for dreaming. For inner journeys. For silence in the sparkling darkness. For the quiet kind of magic.

Fiery winter sunsets that blaze behind black, naked trees. Silvery moons riding high through the night. Fireside fairytales. Candles. Heavy, mysterious mists in the mornings. A low-hanging sun, shining with a delicate, pinkish light. Steaming mugs of tea. The gentle unfurling of what we would like to see happening in the months to come.

And yes. Maybe cake.

Pearl

The magic of Mid-Winter

Here we are, at that mid-winter tipping point, all of us wrapped in a blanket of stars.

I write about looking for magic, and finding it hidden away in the nooks and crannies of the every day. Or even, realising that it's so massive and all engulfing, we just don't always see it right away.

But at this time of year, I sense a spark of wonder, mystery and enchantment dancing through communities.

Beautiful pictures appear on the internet - sleeping trees standing against a blood-red winter sun, or a snow-white hare sprinting through a glittering, moonlit field of snow. Windows are dressed in lights, like fairy-beacons shining through the darkness. Friends are meeting for steaming hot-chocolates in cafes, surrounded by buoyant chatter. There are evenings full of cheese, bubbles and conversation in front of a hearth. Or people are giving themselves permission to take time alone and wander in their dreams.

Wishing you wintry magic, my friends.

Pearl

The magic of defying darkness

The darkness was that mid-winter kind of blackness. There was no moon to gild the night and the stars were hiding. The heavens above me were a huge, aphotic void.

The town was deserted. As I walked through pools of light from the street lamps, the crunch of my footsteps echoed off silent buildings.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and shrunk down into my scarf as a bitter-cold wind skipped and twisted through the roads, rattling Christmas wreaths on front doors and clattering bin lids.

And then I became aware of a beautiful sound. Like sparkling aural diamonds, it was coming from the tree branches.

I stopped to listen. Birdsong!

What kind of creature has a heart big enough to sing with such joy and hope when the world around it has withdrawn into the shadows?

This was a job for Google. And the answer was my brother's namesake, the robin.

It made me realise that courage doesn't always have to come in the shape of a roaring lion. Sometimes a tiny little bird can be just as strong.

Pearl

Prints of this painting are available here

The magic of everynow

‘Gone are the days when I didn’t need glasses, I’m afraid.’ The elderly gentleman leans over in his seat, rummaging around in a sturdy, battle-scarred briefcase. ‘Would you like a newspaper, George?'

‘Well I bought a Daily Mail earlier. Terrible rag I know, but...’ George, bespectacled and sporting a valiant whisper of snow-white hair, seems to be disappearing into his starched suit, a little bit like a tortoise.

‘Oh no, this isn’t what we voted for, a Norway thing,’ says his friend, peering at the Evening Standard he has just shaken out. Another man, sitting in an adjacent seat, flicks his eyes in irritation at their chatter. 

‘What’s that then?’

‘Well we still have to pay money don’t we?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ mutters George, apparently hopeful of steering the conversation away from politics. 

A guy with red socks, a ring in his ear and a bleached quiff, is sitting next to an orange Sainsbury bag that looks like it could be stuffed with his great grandmother’s mink coat.

A brown-skinned girl with silvery-violet hair stares vacantly into space as she chews on gum. I can hear the clattering sound in her earphones from here.

A young couple hold hands while they both gaze at their phones in silence, heads tilted towards the spellbinding, glowing screens.

And none of them have any idea that I’m sitting here writing about them as we rattle through the night on the last train home from London.

People ask me, where do you get your inspiration from?

It’s everywhere and now...

Pearl

The magic of other paths

Back in the summer, when the train I was travelling on pulled into the next station, a young woman blew in through the doors and hurled herself into the seat across from me.

She was rail thin, her T shirt and tracksuit bottoms hanging off her frame. When she swivelled around and hugged her knees into her chest, I saw that her massive trainers were way too big for her. Her messy blond hair was scraped back with a scrunchie, and her sharp features were riddled with grime and tell-tale sores. The energy around her was scrambled, hostile and defensive.

She tilted her head back against the seat and closed her eyes, shutting out the world.

I surreptitiously watched her. If, as some religions would have us believe, we are all made in God's image, here he or she was, sitting across from me, broken.

And I saw a fragile kind of beauty.

Who knows what her story was. But I was interested to observe the line where grace meets ugliness. Where someone has managed to spin a fierce fable in order to survive.

I don't have to live this woman's life – lucky me. But something about her has gone into my subconscious and will emerge in my work, I'm sure.

Pearl