There was a time when painting meant long, uninterrupted hours. Days that stretched, where a canvas could sit unresolved without consequence. That kind of time feels distant now.
Motherhood has altered not just my schedule, but the way I see painting itself. My days begin early, often before the rest of the house stirs, and are punctuated by naps, feeds, nursery runs and the small domestic rhythms that leave little room for indulgence. Painting now happens in the margins. In fragments. In pockets of intensity.
And yet, something unexpected has happened.
The work has become more immediate. More decisive.
There is less hesitation when time is scarce. Fewer overworked passages. I trust my instincts more because I have to. A painting must establish itself quickly or it risks never being finished at all. This has pushed my work towards a greater economy, fewer marks, but each one considered.
Motherhood has also sharpened my attention. When you are constantly observing, watching a child learn, noticing tiny shifts in mood or expression, you become acutely aware of nuance. That sensitivity feeds back into the studio. Into colour choices. Into the way light is suggested rather than described.
I used to believe that serious painting required long solitude. Now I understand that seriousness comes from commitment, not hours logged. The studio is no longer a retreat from life; it is part of it.
The paintings carry that with them, the compression of time, the urgency, the quiet insistence that something is worth paying attention to, even if only for a moment.
One of my little studio helpers