What has 1896 to do with my art?

A Story That Begins in 1896

Can you believe the conversation started more than a century ago!

In 1896, a scientist published the first model linking carbon dioxide in the atmosphere to changes in global temperature. More than a century later, we’re still trying to understand our place within the natural world. But this isn’t really a story about climate science. It’s a story about connection.

Why We Need Nature

I’ve been reading more about a concept called biophilia.

The word was popularised by biologist E.O. Wilson, who described it as our innate affinity with life and living systems. In other words, humans are naturally drawn to the living world. We seek connection with plants, animals, landscapes, water, light and the rhythms of nature, often without consciously realising it.

Perhaps that’s why a walk in the woods feels restorative, birdsong can stop us in our tracks, or we instinctively seek out a window, a garden or a view when we need a moment of calm.

Yet modern life often pulls us in the opposite direction. Some estimates suggest we spend up to 90% of our lives indoors, our days shaped by screens, schedules and built environments.

Author Richard Louv coined the term Nature-Deficit Disorder to describe this growing separation from the natural world. Although not a medical diagnosis, the phrase resonated because it captured something many of us recognise: a sense that modern life can leave us disconnected from the living systems that sustain and inspire us.

At the same time, research consistently shows that contact with nature can reduce stress, improve concentration and support wellbeing. Perhaps we need nature more than we sometimes realise.

Learning to Look Closer

Much of my work begins outdoors: walking, observing, collecting and listening. I’m drawn to the traces left by water on stone, the branching patterns of roots and rivers, the fleeting shadow of a bird overhead while its song fills the air, and the intricate networks that connect one living thing to another.

The more closely I look, the more I see relationship, reciprocity and connection. My paintings aren’t intended to represent particular places. Instead, they grow from observations, experiences and questions.

• What invisible threads reveal that we are already connected?

• What patterns repeat across scales, from lichen on a stone to river systems seen from above?

• What might become visible if we simply slowed down enough to notice?

I’ve come to think of art as a form of listening—not a way to explain or control nature, but a way to enter into conversation with it.

Each painting begins with curiosity: following a trace, exploring a pattern, responding to a texture or rhythm found in the natural world. The process often feels less like inventing something new and more like uncovering something that was already there, quietly waiting to be seen.

Paying Attention

Climate change conversations understandably focus on data, targets and technology.

Those things matter.

But I sometimes wonder whether lasting change also depends on something more fundamental: our relationship with the living world. After all, we are unlikely to protect what we do not value. And we are unlikely to value what we no longer notice.

My work explores these ideas through layers, fragments, marks and textures inspired by nature. The paintings are not illustrations of landscapes; they are invitations to pause, look more closely, become curious and rediscover a sense of wonder. I believe that when we slow down and look closely, the natural world reveals its hidden stories—and our own place within them.

We are woven into nature, not separate from it.

Perhaps that’s where change begins.