Sharz Art Design Blog

The younger Sharlene didn’t sit still. If there was something to be done, I did it. If it was on my mind, I wanted it done so I could move on to the next thing. I never really felt guilty about sitting down, but I certainly didn’t place much value on “me” time.

I gave. And gave. And gave. Until I was tired. I was always busy doing something.

Even when I would say, “I’m just going to sit down for a while,” I usually wouldn’t last very long before I found something else to do. There was always something.  The house. The children. Friends. Family. Work. Life.

And then life changed. My children grew up and have their own lives. My husband is retired and has become the house husband, which has taken some of the household chores off my plate. But I didn’t suddenly find myself with lots of spare time. I’ve just had to learn to readjust my time around a different life.

And I’m still working a lot. Probably more than I should, if we’re being honest. I work 60-plus hours a week, but the funny thing is, I don’t really think of it as work. I adore what I do. I love being creative. I love teaching. I love helping people. I love the people I get to spend my days with. 

So it isn’t that I need time away because I don’t enjoy what I’m doing.  It’s actually the opposite.

I love it so much that I’ve had to learn that I still need to step away from it. I need some quiet. I need space to clear the clutter out of my head. I need time for the inner me to come out and play.

I’ve only really understood this recently. There was a point when my cup was dry as a bone. And when my cup is empty, I’m empty. That’s when I realised that sitting still wasn’t something I should do if I happened to have time. 

It was something I needed to make time for. My version of sitting still probably doesn’t look like sitting quietly with my eyes closed for an hour.  I’m not very good at that!

My morning coffee and crossword are a little ritual to wake my brain up. Watching a show is usually how I wind down.

Sometimes I’ll sit and look out the window for a while, especially when I need to calm my mind and refocus on whatever I’m doing. And my studio has become a calming space for me. It centres me.

I don’t necessarily switch my brain off when I’m sitting still. Actually, I don’t think I switch it off very often at all.

I think. I process. Ideas pop in. Sometimes I mentally work through things that have been sitting in the background. And sometimes I simply allow myself to be quiet. It’s in those quiet moments that I feel like my intuition reconnects. I can let the inner me come out and play a little.

I suppose you could say it’s centering myself again. I used to say, “I’m just going to sit down for a while,” and then get straight back up and do something. Now I’m much more likely to actually stay there. And that’s a big change for me.

I’m still learning, though. If I have deadlines looming or things that need to be done, there is still a part of me that wants to get up and do them. But I’m learning that they’ll still be there when I’m ready. The world won’t fall apart because I sat down for half an hour. 

In fact, I’ve discovered something quite the opposite. When I give myself some quiet time, I often find the time to do so much more. My head is clearer. I can think more creatively. I have more patience. 

I feel more like myself. And when I come back to what needs doing, I can actually do it. I think that’s the part I didn’t understand when I was younger. I thought giving everything I had was the way to look after everything and everyone. I didn’t realise that I was part of that equation too. 

I needed looking after. Not in a dramatic way. Just in small, ordinary ways. A coffee. A crossword. An episode of a show. A little time sitting in my studio. A quiet moment looking out the window. A few minutes where nobody needs anything from me. That’s my “me time” now.

It’s not about doing nothing. It’s about having a quiet headspace. It’s about clearing some of the clutter, recentring and regrouping. It’s about making room for the creative part of me to breathe. And perhaps that’s what sitting still really is for me.

Not stopping. Not wasting time. Just pausing long enough to come back to myself. I’ve finally realised that sitting still isn’t wasting time. It’s time to recentre and regroup. 

And when I give myself that time, I find I have so much more to give afterwards. Maybe the younger Sharlene wasn’t wrong for always being busy. 

She just hadn’t learnt yet that sometimes the best thing you can do… is sit down.

I’ve never really understood the idea that getting older means you should stop trying new things.

I’ve always been a learner.  If something catches my interest, I want to know more about it. I want to have a go. I want to pull it apart, work out how it works and see what I can do with it.

I’m 60 now, and that hasn’t changed.  If anything, I’m probably a little more relaxed about being rubbish at something when I first start!  And I’m okay with that.  I think that’s one of the things I enjoy about learning. You don’t have to know what you’re doing when you start.  You just have to be interested enough to have a go.

I see this a lot with the adults who come into the studio.

“I haven’t done this for years.”

“I’m not very good.”

“I’ll need some help.”

“I used to do this when I was younger.”

There is often a little hesitation there.  I understand it.

When you’re an adult, you’re generally used to knowing how to do things. You have years of experience behind you. You’ve raised children, built careers, managed households, solved problems and dealt with all sorts of things life has thrown at you.

Then you sit down with a pencil or paintbrush and suddenly you’re a beginner again.  That can feel a little uncomfortable. I’ve noticed this particularly with women and mothers. We’re so used to being the ones who look after everyone else that asking someone to show us how to do something can feel strange.

But I don’t see it as a weakness at all. If I don’t know how to do something, I’d much rather someone show me than spend hours struggling because I think I should already know.  That’s how we learn.

I’ve seen some lovely things happen with adults who decide to give art another go.  Most already have some sort of ability. They might have drawn or painted years ago and simply haven’t done it for a very long time.

Sometimes they come along because their children are doing art and they decide to join in.  Then something happens. They discover they actually really enjoy it.  Sometimes they even enjoy it more than the kids!

I’ve also had adults come into class during a completely different chapter of their lives and find something they didn’t realise was still sitting inside them. I remember one lady who joined after her husband passed away. She was looking for something to do and came along to a group class.

She started painting in oils. She discovered that she really enjoyed it and produced some beautiful paintings.

What I loved wasn’t just the artwork. It was watching her find something for herself. Something that belonged to her. That is one of the lovely things about learning something new, or coming back to something you used to enjoy. You don’t necessarily know where it’s going to take you.

I’m experiencing that myself at the moment. I’m creating more simply for the sake of creating. I’m exploring resin. I’m getting back to my sewing machine.  And that has been a bit of a trip down memory lane.  I made my own wedding dress when I was 21.  I haven’t spent a lot of time behind a sewing machine for years, so getting back to it has been really enjoyable. There’s something quite satisfying about hearing that machine running again and remembering how it feels to work with fabric.

I’m not trying to make anything particularly important. I’m just enjoying playing with it again. And I think that’s something that changes as you get older. I’m much gentler with myself than I used to be.  I don’t expect to be brilliant at something the first time I try it. I’m quite happy to make a mess, work it out, try again and see what happens.  

I think that’s partly because I’ve spent so many years making art.  I’ve learnt that the first attempt is rarely the finished product. You have to give things a chance. You have to practise. You have to be prepared for things not to work. And sometimes you have to laugh at yourself and have another go.

I also notice that when I’m learning or creating, I’m happier. My mind feels active. I’m looking at things differently. I’m noticing materials, shapes, colours and possibilities everywhere.  I’ll see something in a shop, watch something on television or look out the window and suddenly think, “I could do something with that.”

I’ve got a little digital notebook where I jot down ideas because they can come from absolutely anywhere.  Some of them will probably never happen. That’s okay.

It’s the having the ideas that I enjoy. I think learning keeps my mind keen and my heart soft and accepting. It keeps me curious. It gives me something to look forward to. And it reminds me that I don’t have to have everything figured out. 

At 60, there are still plenty of things I’d like to learn. Actually, if we’re talking about pie in the sky things, there’s one that’s been on my list for quite a while.  I’d love to take riding lessons, I really love to have a horse. Learning to ride isn’t the problem.  It’s finding the time and the money!

Maybe I’ll get there one day!  And if I do, I’m sure I’ll be a complete beginner again. I’ll probably wobble. I’ll probably make mistakes. I’ll probably have someone telling me where to put my feet.  And that’s okay.

I’d rather be the beginner who is having a go than the person who never started because they were worried they wouldn’t be very good. I don’t think we’re ever finished learning. And I don’t think I’d want to be. 

I’m still curious.  I’m still making.  I’m still experimenting.  I’m still learning.

And I think that’s a pretty good place to be.

After nearly five decades of creating art and almost ten years of teaching it, you might think I’ve learnt everything there is to know.

I certainly don’t feel like I have.

My own learning journey hasn’t stopped. I learn something new every day. Sometimes it’s through my own creating, sometimes through experimenting with a new material or idea, and sometimes it’s simply through watching someone else approach a problem completely differently to the way I would.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop learning, and I hope I never do.

Art has a funny way of continuing to teach you, especially when you’re sitting beside someone who is seeing something completely differently from you.

And that’s probably one of the things I love most about teaching. My students don’t just learn from me. I learn from them too.  Not necessarily in the ways you might expect.

For example, I don’t think my students have taught me patience. I’ve always been a patient person. I don’t always show it when I’m dealing with other things in life, but when it comes to creating, learning and helping someone work through something, patience has always been part of me.

And I think that’s important.

Students need a teacher, instructor or mentor who is prepared to be patient with them. They need space to learn without feeling pressured to get it right immediately. 

Perseverance is a little different.

I’ve learnt how much creativity itself can teach us about perseverance.  When you’re experimenting with a medium or working towards an idea you’ve imagined in your head, things don’t always go to plan. You have to keep adjusting, trying something else and sometimes coming back to it another day.

Some students see that as a challenge.

Others become disheartened.  And that’s where teaching becomes much more than showing someone how to draw.

You have to know the student in front of you. You have to find that fine line between challenging them and overwhelming them.  With younger students and beginners especially, I often break things down into little stepping stones. One goal at a time.  If you give someone too much to overcome at once, they can deflate before they’ve had the chance to discover what they’re capable of.

I’ve learnt that perseverance doesn’t look the same for everyone.  Sometimes it’s pushing yourself a little further. Sometimes it’s simply coming back next week. 

Children have also reminded me of something that adults can sometimes forget.  They’re often much kinder to themselves. A child can create something, look at it and think, “I like that.” They don’t necessarily start picking it apart.  Adults can be much harder on themselves. We judge, compare and criticise our own work before we’ve even had a chance to enjoy it.

Children can be softer about what they’ve created.  I think there’s something we could all learn from that.

Adults have taught me something too.  You’re never too old to learn something new.

I’ve watched adults pick up a pencil or paintbrush and learn skills they never thought they’d be able to learn. Sometimes they’ve spent years telling themselves they “can’t draw”, only to discover that with a little practice and encouragement, they can actually do far more than they expected.

My students also keep me on my toes.  Children, especially, don’t have quite the same filters we adults have. They’ll sometimes look at something and say exactly what they think. And occasionally they’ll come up with an observation that is so completely left of field that I have to stop and think, “I’ve never looked at it that way before.”

I love that.

It reminds me that there is always another way of seeing something. Students surprise me all the time. I’ve met students who are completely self-taught and have incredible skills.  I’ve also met students who struggle with one particular style of drawing, only to give them a subject they’re passionate about and suddenly the work is amazing.  Sometimes the subject unlocks something in them that technique alone couldn’t.

That’s another reaon I don’t believe there is one definition of a “good artist.” Visual art is subjective. There isn’t always one right answer. At the end of a piece of artwork, one of the questions I often ask a student is:

“Are you happy with it?”  If they are, fantastic. If they’re not, I ask why. Then we can work on it.

Because it’s their artwork. Not mine. It needs to look the way they want it to look.

My job is to help them get there, not to turn their artwork into something I would have created.  I think that’s one of the most important things I’ve learnt through teaching. Success isn’t necessarily being the best artist in the room. Success is enjoying the process.  It’s sticking with something when it gets difficult.  It’s coming back next week.  It’s challenging yourself to do something a little better than you did last time.

It’s seeing something that once seemed impossible and thinking, “I might be able to do that.”  Sometimes success is simply being proud of what you’ve created. And sometimes it’s just turning up.  

I’ve learnt that my students don’t necessarily change the way I understand people. I tend to work from instinct and intuition when I’m teaching.  But working with such a wide range of ages, personalities and abilities has certainly helped me refine those instincts.

It’s taught me to look. To listen. To notice. To feel when someone needs encouragement, someone needs to work through it themselves and when they need to be challenged.

And perhaps more than anything, my students have taught me about resilience.  Good days.  Bad days.  Days when the artwork works beautifully. Days when absolutely nothing seems to go right.  Turn up anyway. You might be surprised at how the day goes.

When I look around the studio and see everyone creating, learning, talking, laughing and sometimes struggling their way through a piece of artwork, I’m grateful.

Grateful to be here.
Grateful to be part of the process.
Grateful to still be learning after all these years.

Teaching art opens the door to teaching so much more than art. It opens conversations about confidence, resilience, patience, creativity, problem-solving, individuality and believing in yourself.

I’m grateful that I get to teach all of those things too.

When I unlock the studio before a class, I always hope people feel something before they’ve even picked up a pencil.

I hope they feel the creativity.  The calm.  The artistic vibe.  A little piece of my spirit.

Art has always been a place where I feel settled, so I’ve always wanted the studio to feel that way too.  A place where the outside world can wait for just a little while.  

People often think they’re coming to learn how to draw or paint.  And yes, we do plenty of that.  But over the years I’ve realised something.  It’s rarely just about the art.  It’s about finding something that belongs just to you.  Something that brings you joy.  Something that helps you reconnect with a part of yourself that everyday life sometimes buries under work, school, family and responsibilities.

By the end of a class, the atmosphere is completely different.  People leave happier.  Lighter.  Brighter.  Sometimes all I’ve done is spend a few minutes showing someone one little technique, but somehow that tiny moment changes the whole direction of their artwork.

More importantly, it changes how they feel.  It’s amazing how something so small can make such a big difference. 

One of my favourite moments happened just this week. A young girl arrived absolutely bursting with excitement because she loved the subject we were drawing. She was completely absorbed from the moment she started. When her mum arrived to collect her, she couldn’t wait to show her what she’d created. That excitement. That pride. That smile.  Those are the moments that make my day.

I also love the little things that most people probably wouldn’t even notice. The quiet conversations across the tables. The laughter. The “Aha!” moments.  Someone proudly finishing a painting they’ve been working on for weeks.  Watching friendships quietly grow while everyone is busy creating.

I don’t listen in on conversations, but hearing students chatting comfortably with each other gives me the warm fuzzy feeling that they’ve found a place where they belong. Friendships seem to happen naturally in the studio. Sometimes I’ll introduce people because I think they’ll get along.  

Other times it happens all by itself.  Not long ago, I had five students at a school holiday workshop.  Two were twins. Two came together as friends. One arrived on their own. Within minutes, before they even knew each other’s names, they’d discovered they all loved drawing anime.  That was it.  Five strangers suddenly had something in common.  The room changed almost instantly.

Moments like that remind me how powerful shared interests can be.  After all these years, one thing still gives me that same warm feeling.  It’s watching someone who is already quite skilled suddenly understand something that’s been eluding them.  Sometimes all it takes is looking at it from a slightly different angle. The look on their face when it clicks never gets old.  

Neither does hearing someone say,  “This is my favourite part of the week.”  I hear those words more often than you might think.  Every single time, I feel incredibly proud of what has grown within these four walls.

The funny thing is… It’s my favourite part of the week too.

Being surrounded by people of all ages. Sharing ideas. Solving little creative problems together. Watching confidence quietly grow.  I don’t think the studio changes people.  I think it simply gives them permission to reconnect with a part of themselves that was already there.  

The creative part.  The curious part.  The playful part.  Sometimes people think they’re coming here to learn to draw. But I think they’re really coming to discover a passion for doing something they genuinely love.  

When people walk through the studio door, every one of them is looking for something slightly different.  Some are searching for peace.  Some for confidence.  Some for friendship. Some simply need a little time that belongs only to them. 

Whatever brings them through the door, creativity often becomes one of the missing pieces in the jigsaw of their life. And I think that’s something quite special. When people leave, I hope they leave feeling just a little happier than when they arrived.

I hope they can’t wait to come back. Not just to finish their artwork. 

But to continue something they’ve started inside themselves.

Every now and then I’ll hear someone say,

“I used to paint.”

Or…

“I used to draw all the time.”

It’s almost always followed by the same sentence.

“Life got busy.”

I don’t think people stop creating because they fall out of love with it.  I think life quietly gets in the way.  School.  Work.  Families.  Children.  Housework.  Bills.  One day turns into one week.  One week turns into one year.  Then before you know it, it’s been twenty years since you last picked up a pencil.

I’ve lived through those seasons too.  When my children were born, my creativity naturally took a back seat.  They became my priority, and rightly so.  Like many parents, there simply wasn’t enough time in the day.

Years later, creativity found its way back into my life through scrapbooking. It was still creating, just in a different form. I was preserving memories instead of drawing pictures, and that was exactly what I needed at that stage of my life.

Then I started working part-time.  Life became busy again.  Creating quietly slipped away.  It wasn’t until I began my Visual Arts degree at university that something reignited inside me.  The spark I’d almost forgotten was still there.  It had simply been waiting for me to make room for it again.

Over the years I’ve realised something important.  We don’t lose our creativity.  We stop making time for it.

I hear people say they don’t have time, and I completely understand that feeling because I’ve said it myself.  But I’ve also learnt that creative time rarely appears by itself.  It has to be planned.  It has to be protected.

Just like a doctor’s appointment.  Just like taking the kids to sport.  Just like every other important commitment in our week.  You need to schedule the time to make the time.

I still have to remind myself of that.  If I go too long without creating, I notice it.  I become more stressed.  It takes me longer to relax.  I start making excuses.  “I’m too busy.”  “I don’t have enough time to get everything out.”  “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

Sound familiar?  Tomorrow has a habit of never arriving.

These days I actually schedule creative time into my week.  Sometimes life gets in the way and I have to move it. That’s okay. I simply reschedule it.  Because I’ve learnt that if it’s not in my diary, it probably won’t happen.

The funny thing is, it doesn’t have to be hours.  Sometimes ten minutes with a sketchbook is enough.  Ten quiet minutes.  A pencil.  A paintbrush.  A little bit of uninterrupted space.  That’s often all it takes to reconnect with myself.  

When adults return to art after many years, I notice something almost every time.  They relax.  Their shoulders soften.  They remember how creating used to feel.  

Then comes the surprise.  “I haven’t forgotten as much as I thought.”  I love watching that happen.  Not because they’ve suddenly become amazing artists.  But because they’ve rediscovered a part of themselves they thought had disappeared.

Research supports what many artists experience. Studies in psychology and creativity suggest that people don’t lose their creative capacity as they get older. Rather, opportunities for creative engagement often decline as responsibilities increase. When adults intentionally make time for creative activities again, they often experience improvements in wellbeing, stress reduction and overall life satisfaction. The important part isn’t creating professionally—it’s creating consistently.

For me, ideas never really stop.  I keep a little digital notebook full of them.  An advertisement might spark one. A movie.  A photograph.  Even looking out the window.  Most of my ideas arrive when I’m taking a mental break from whatever I’m working on.

I’m not trying to be creative.  I’m simply allowing my mind the space to wander.  That’s usually when the light bulb switches on.  

Creating helps me stay balanced.  It helps me stay happy.  It helps me give the best of myself to everyone else.  Maybe that’s why I always find my way back to it.  

So if you’ve been saying,  “One day I’ll start again.”  Maybe today is that day.  Find your old sketchbook.  Open the cupboard.  Dust off the paints.  Give yourself permission to schedule some time.

It doesn’t have to be hours. It might only be ten minutes.  Just take one step.

You might be surprised to discover that your creativity has been patiently waiting for you all along.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard someone say,

“I’m not creative.”

Or…

“I can’t even draw a stick figure.”

Every time I hear it, I smile to myself.  Not because I’m laughing at them, but because I genuinely don’t believe it’s true.  I honestly believe everyone is creative.  Some people just aren’t interested in being creative.

That is the difference and that’s perfectly okay. 

It’s no different to running. I don’t enjoy running.  You’ll never find me training for a marathon because it simply doesn’t interest me.  That doesn’t mean I couldn’t improve if I practised.  It just means I’ve chosen to spend my time doing something I love instead.

I think creativity is very much the same. If you’re interested in it, have a go. You might surprise yourself.  And if drawing isn’t your thing, creativity doesn’t have to look like drawing.  It might be cooking. Gardening. Writing.  Woodwork. Photography.  Solving problems.  Designing beautiful spaces.  Finding clever ways to fix things.

Creativity comes in all sorts of forms.  I’ve always thought creativity is about tapping into your subconscious self and leaving the door open.  It’s allowing yourself to become completely absorbed in what you’re doing.  To focus on one thing.  To stop overthinking.  To trust yourself a little more than you normally do.  Almost like allowing the universe to gently guide where your hands want to go.

That probably sounds a little strange if you’ve never experienced it.  But once you have, you’ll know exactly what I mean.  

One of the greatest privileges of teaching is watching someone surprise themselves.  I don’t keep a diary of those moments because they aren’t my stories to tell.  They belong to the student.  But I do notice something.

There’s a particular smile people have when they’re genuinely proud of themselves.  It isn’t just a smile.  It lights up their whole face.  Right through to their eyes.  Sometimes a student has been struggling with something for a while.  Then I’ll suggest one tiny adjustment.  Just one little tweak.  Suddenly it clicks.

The expression on their face in that moment is priceless.  I often wish I could bottle it.

People sometimes ask me whether creativity can be taught. I think it absolutely can. But there’s one thing I can’t teach. You have to give yourself permission to begin.  You have to be willing to practise.  To talk kindly to yourself.  To understand that you won’t be brilliant on day one.

None of us are.

When I think about the students who grow the most, it usually isn’t because they’re naturally gifted.  It’s because they keep showing up.  They practise.  They’re patient.  They’re curious.  They observe.  They look closely.  They solve problems.  Most importantly, they enjoy the process.

Those things matter far more than talent ever will.

After nearly fifty years of making art, I honestly don’t know whether I was born with talent.  I found my feet in Year 7 at high school when art became one of my subjects.  Something clicked.  I loved it.  So I kept doing it.

And then I kept practising.  Over the last forty-eight years, art has come and gone in different ways throughout my life.  Mostly it was my escape, sometimes it’s been the place I go when life gets busy and I need to reconnect with myself.  But I’ve always come back to it.  Not because I had to.  Because something inside me kept drawing me back.  And now it is my career.

One of the biggest myths I hear is that creative people are simply born that way.  Research suggests something quite different.

Educational psychologist Carol Dweck’s work on the growth mindset shows that abilities develop through effort, persistence and learning rather than being fixed traits. While people certainly have different interests and strengths, becoming skilled at something is strongly influenced by practice and the belief that improvement is possible.

That makes perfect sense to me.

I’ve watched it happen too many times to believe otherwise. So if you’ve ever caught yourself saying, 

“I’m just not creative.”

Maybe try changing the sentence. Maybe say,

“I haven’t given myself permission to explore my creativity yet.”

There’s a big difference. Because starting something new only takes one step.

Once you start walking…

it gets easier.

One of the biggest differences I’ve noticed between children and adults is the way they approach mistakes.

I’ve noticed that most children are much happier to have a go, even if it doesn’t work out the first time.  They’ll grab another piece of paper, rub something out, paint over it or simply start again. They’re curious. They’re experimenting. They’re far more interested in seeing what happens than whether every line is perfect.

Somewhere along the way, though, many of us lose that confidence.  

As adults, we seem to convince ourselves that mistakes are something to avoid. Maybe it’s because we’re parents and feel we should be setting the right example. Maybe we’re worried about looking silly. Or maybe we’ve simply forgotten what it feels like to learn something new.  I’ve watched adults sit in front of a blank page and hesitate because they don’t want to make the first mark.  

The funny thing is, the blank page is often the safest place of all.  Nothing can go wrong if nothing ever begins.

I understand that feeling because I’ve experienced it myself.  People often assume that because I’ve been creating art for years, I don’t make mistakes anymore. I wish that were true.  I make mistakes all the time. The difference is that I don’t see them as the end of the artwork anymore.

Years ago, while I was at university, I was working on a project that simply wasn’t coming together. I was getting frustrated because nothing was working the way I wanted it to.  Eventually, I covered the entire page in charcoal.  Then, almost out of frustration, I started rubbing parts of it back out.  Quite unexpectedly, a beautiful night scene began to emerge.  It certainly wasn’t the artwork I’d planned.  But it became something better because I stopped fighting the process and started responding to what was happening in front of me.

That experience has stayed with me.

These days, when I’m drawing with ink or pen, I’m very thoughtful about every line I make. But if I put down a line I don’t like, I don’t automatically think the drawing is ruined. More often than not, I’ll find a way to incorporate it into the piece. Sometimes the artwork knows where it’s going before I do.

One of the things I say regularly in class is, “The eraser is just as important a tool as the pencil.”

I think that’s true for life as well.  Sometimes we need to erase.  Sometimes we paint over things.  Sometimes we simply adjust our direction.  None of that means we’ve failed.  It simply means we’re still creating.

I’ve also learnt that when I’m stuck, pushing harder rarely helps.  I’ll walk away.  Make a cup of tea.  Read a book.  Watch an episode of something.  Sleep on it.

When I come back with fresh eyes, I almost always see a solution that I couldn’t see before.  Art has taught me that too.  Not every problem needs to be solved immediately.  Sometimes the best thing you can do is give yourself permission to pause.

Looking back, many of my favourite artworks weren’t planned in detail.  They happened because I was playing.  Exploring materials. Watching what charcoal, ink or paint wanted to do.  I usually begin with an idea, but if the artwork naturally starts moving in another direction, I don’t try to drag it back to my original plan.  I go with it.

Those are often the pieces that surprise me the most.

This way of thinking is supported by educational psychologist Carol Dweck’s research on the growth mindset. Her work suggests that when we see mistakes as part of the learning process rather than as failures, we’re more likely to persevere, solve problems creatively and continue improving. I think artists have understood this for years—we just happen to learn it with a pencil or paintbrush in our hands.

Perhaps that’s why art has become much more than a hobby for me.  It’s taught me patience.  It’s taught me resilience.  Most importantly, it’s taught me to be kinder to myself.  When something doesn’t work, I no longer see it as failure.  I see it as part of the process.  Maybe that’s why I love helping other people create.

Not because I want them to produce perfect artwork.  But because I want them to discover what happens when they stop being afraid of making the first mark.  

After all…

It’s only a piece of paper.

And sometimes the best things in life begin with a mistake.

When I look around a classroom, I’m not hoping to see thirty identical artworks lined up at the end of the lesson.

I’m hoping to see thirty different interpretations. Thirty different ideas. Thirty different personalities shining through the page. In fact, if every student in a class produces exactly the same artwork, I feel like I’ve failed them a little.

That might sound strange coming from an art teacher, but art is personal. It’s one person’s interpretation of the world around them.  

Over the years, I’ve realised that not every student learns, thinks or creates in the same way.  That’s probably why I’ve always been drawn to approaches that leave room for individual interpretation and personal choice.

There are times when following a series of steps can be helpful, especially when learning a new skill. But I’ve always believed there should also be space for students to make the work their own. 

The same subject, the same materials and the same lesson can produce completely different results depending on who’s holding the pencil or paintbrush. And that’s exactly how I think it should be.

I believe creativity starts to disappear when there is only one “correct” answer. Art isn’t maths. There isn’t always a right or wrong. There are choices. Lots of them!

When I’m working with students, I spend a lot of time asking questions rather than giving answers.

• “What do you think would happen if you made that darker?” 
• “Would you like this area to stand out more?”
• “How could you show more movement here?”
• “What are you trying to say with this piece?”

Sometimes students want direct guidance, and that’s absolutely fine and encourage when the student is still skill building. Teaching skills and techniques is a big part of what I do. But I also want students to learn how to make their own creative decisions, when they are ready.

Because at the end of the day, it’s their artwork. Not mine. I never want a student to feel like they are creating my vision. I want them to develop their own. That’s where confidence grows. That’s where creativity grows. And that’s where artistic style begins to emerge. 

One of my favourite things is watching students who have been with me for a few years start to develop their own visual voice. You can often recognise their work before you even see their name on it.

Some love detail. Some love bold colour. Some are naturally expressive. Some are highly realistic. Some are meticulous planners. Others are fearless experimenters. There isn’t a right way. There never was.

Part of my role as a teacher is helping students discover what excites them creatively rather than telling them what they should like. I think that’s why I often give feedback in the form of options.

Instead of saying, “Do this.”  I’ll often say, “You could try this…” or “What would happen if…”

That approach gives students ownership. It encourages them to think. To experiment. To make decisions.

And sometimes to surprise themselves. For me, teaching art has never been about creating perfect artists. It’s about helping people become confident creators. People who trust their ideas. People who aren’t afraid to take risks. People who understand that their perspective matters. Because the world doesn’t need another hundred artists producing exactly the same thing.

What makes art interesting is the person behind it.

And helping students discover that is probably my favourite part of teaching.

Lately, I’ve been reminded just how important it is to keep my own cup full. 

It’s one of those sayings that gets thrown around a lot, but the busier I am, the more I realise how true it is.

You can’t keep giving from an empty cup.  You can try. Most of us do.  We keep saying yes. We keep helping. We keep working. We keep showing up for everyone else. We convince ourselves we’ll rest later.

Eventually though, the signs start appearing.

For me, it’s usually impatience first. Then I become a bit cranky. Little things annoy me more than they should. I get tired. My motivation disappears. The things I normally enjoy start feeling like chores.  It’s not because I don’t love what I do. It’s because I’ve spent too long pouring into everyone else’s cup and forgotten to top up my own.

As someone who teaches, creates, runs a business and generally likes helping people, I can be very good at giving. Not always so good at stopping.

The thing is, I know exactly what fills my cup. It’s not expensive holidays. It’s not fancy restaurants. It’s actually very simple things. 

• Creating art.
• Reading a good book.
• Binge-watching a series that completely switches my brain off.
• Having a sleep when I’m tired.
• Sitting quietly and doing absolutely nothing productive.

Sometimes I think we underestimate the value of zoning out. We’re often told we should always be achieving something, improving something or working towards something. But sometimes what we really need is to stop. To rest. To breathe. To simply exist for a while. 

For me, though, art is the big one.  Creating has always been the thing that brings me back to myself.

When I’m drawing, painting or experimenting with ideas, my mind settles. The noise quietens down. Problems seem smaller. My perspective shifts.  It’s not that art magically fixes everything. It just helps me find my balance again.  

The challenge is that when life gets busy, creating is often the first thing I push aside. Which is completely backwards because it’s also the thing that helps me cope with being busy. 

Lately I’ve realised my own cup is hovering somewhere between “running low” and “dangerously close to empty.”

I’ve been doing a lot of giving. A lot of teaching. A lot of planning. A lot of helping. And not nearly enough creating. So it’s time.

Time to make space for my own art again. Time to sit down with ideas that have been floating around in my head. Time to make things simply because I want to.

That decision has also led me to revisit something that’s very close to my heart: Cormack Creations.

Cormack Creations is my personal creative space. It’s where I can explore my own artwork without lesson plans, deadlines or expectations. It’s a place for experimentation, curiosity and creating simply for the joy of creating.

In many ways, Cormack Creations is my cup-filling project. A reminder that artists need to create too. Not because it’s productive. Not because it’s useful. 

But because it feeds the soul.

So if you’ve been feeling tired, grumpy, overwhelmed or a little unlike yourself lately, maybe it’s worth asking a simple question:

What fills your cup?

And when was the last time you gave yourself permission to do it?