My approach to painting mirrors that. I begin not with a plan but with a conversation  between pigment and water, paper and air. Often, the most beautiful moments happen by chance. A splash dries unexpectedly, a texture catches the light, a shadow becomes the focus. It’s the same kind of discovery that happens when you’re in the sea: you never know what’s waiting just beneath the surface.

 Sand, Seeds, and Serendipity

Inspiration comes through play for me. I may begin pressing sand into layers of wet paint, letting it settle, then brushing it away to reveal fine, shifting patterns, like the traces left by retreating waves. The results are subtle but alive, carrying the same sense of movement that defines this coastline.

But perhaps my favourite discovery of that trip happened not by the sea, but in the mountains above. My husband and I were driving one afternoon when something caught my eye…a cluster of enormous seed heads, standing tall and skeletal by the roadside. “Stop the car!” I laughed, already opening the door.

 They were Tropopogon, (like dandelions on steroids) — fragile spheres of seeds, both delicate and architectural. I gathered a few carefully, and later, back in my studio, I dropped them into pools of fluid ink. As the ink dried, it tightened around the seeds, leaving behind intricate, radiating patterns like sea urchins or coral. I loved that connection. Something gathered from the mountain transforming into a trace of the sea. It felt like a small embodiment of the Mani itself, where everything — mountain, sea, stone, and air — is in conversation.

 Between Earth and Water

I’ve always felt that painting is a collaboration rather than a control. The materials have their own voice. Inks bloom, pigments pool and flow and I manipulate those moments to create with intuition. Unpredictable changes are where the life happens. In the same way, nature is always shifting, always remaking itself. The Mani landscape with its rugged mountains, dry olive groves, and luminous sea reflects that interplay of permanence and change.

 My recent body of work, *Hidden Worlds*, explores these layers of connection. The paintings feel like glimpses through a lens or a tide pool. Abstract, but with a sense of life beneath the surface. They’re not depictions, but invitations: to look closely, to slow down, to sense what’s usually unseen.

 Returning to Stoupa

There’s something about the air, the light, and the pace of life that quiets the noise and allows space for reflection. It’s no wonder that so many artists, writers, and thinkers have been drawn to the Mani. It’s a landscape that insists on attentiveness.

 Even the simplest act, swimming, gathering sea-worn stones, watching the olive trees move in the breeze, becomes a kind of creative practice. I often think that making art and living well are really the same thing: both are about noticing, responding, and finding meaning in small moments.

 Hidden Worlds Everywhere

Whether it’s a shimmering seabed, a mountain seed pod, or the pattern left by sand as the tide withdraws, every detail here seems to hold a story. It’s a place where the visible and invisible meet, where ancient stone villages sit above hidden coves, where light becomes liquid, and where even the smallest fragment can spark a painting.

 Those are the hidden worlds I try to capture in my art. The fleeting, luminous connections between land, sea, and imagination. They remind me that beauty is often found in the overlooked, and that slowing down enough to notice is its own form of creativity.

 And perhaps that’s what I love most about painting in Stoupa: it invites you to be fully present. Whether in the studio or the sea, there’s always another hidden world waiting just beneath the surface.

Join me for a worshop in Stoupa in September- all welcome, no experience necessary!