Before the brush hits the canvas — before the ideas land with any kind of clarity — there’s the cup. Warm in your hands, full to the brim. A quiet symbol of intent.
This is a rhythm I return to often. Not because I believe the drink itself has magic (though some days, it really does), but because starting with a full cup — whatever that may be — says:
I’m here now. I’m showing up. I’ll stay until this is done — or at least until the cup is empty. Maybe longer.
Sometimes it’s tea. Sometimes coffee. Sometimes something else entirely.
It’s not about the drink — it’s about the moment. The pause. The conscious choice to begin.
Some days I sip and think.
Some days I sip and tidy or reorganize my shelves.
And sometimes, I take one hot gulp and don’t touch it again until hours later when it’s stone cold and I’m covered in paint.
But always, that full cup marks the start. My ritual. My quiet reminder.
You don’t need the perfect studio. You don’t need to feel ready.
You just need to start — and after that first attempt, however it lands, do it again.
Find the grit. Find the staying power.
Because when you pair that grit with even the smallest flicker of fire?
That’s where the joy lives.
Once the lids are off the paint — once any colour hits canvas — I’ve crossed a threshold. I’ve made a mark.
And just like that, I’m no longer circling the task — I’m in it.
That first move, however small, takes me out of hesitation and into motion.
It’s a big step away from not painting that day.
My favourite days — the ones I wish I had more often — are the ones where I paint purely for myself.
Not to restock galleries.
Not to meet a deadline.
Not to fulfill a commission.
Just painting. Just exploring.
No brief. No plan. No pressure to build success on top of success.
Instead, I’m seeing signs. Recognising blind spots and wins. Becoming more experienced.
I’m learning what I love. What I’m good at.
Practicing what I’m not.
Digging deeper toward my core — the hidden treasure chest of pure, distilled creativity.
A magic that wants to show you something you’ve never seen before, and give you a feeling you’ll want to keep.
On those days, I let go of the expert. The professional. The person with the polished portfolio.
I become a beginner again — a novice with big ideas and only one or two more clues than I had yesterday about how to bring them to life.
And strangely, that’s when I feel most alive.
Hopefully many of you have seen that now-iconic Artist’s Process Meme:
This is awesome, this is tricky, this is shit, I am shit, this might be okay, this is awesome.
The first time I saw it, I felt a rush of relief.
I wasn’t alone.
Other artists were stumbling through the same chaos of feelings and half-formed ideas — fumbling their way through challenges, roadblocks, and doubts — and still showing up. Still pushing through.
Some days it’s a slog. Others, it flows like honey.
But whether I’m in the “this is shit” phase or the “maybe this might be something” phase, I’ve learned to just keep moving.
And here’s the best bit: you’re in it.
Good, bad, or somewhere in between — you’re in it.
Digging. Learning. Moving forward.
Trust that the rhythm returns.
That if you keep showing up — cup in hand, heart cracked open — the work will meet you halfway.
