Sometimes we don't find our style, we return to it

Every now and then, something from the past quietly reminds us who we've always been.

That happened to me recently when I came across an old tin tray that had been tucked away for decades.

When I was growing up, we had the tray in our home. It had a Union Jack design on it, likely a gift to my mother, who was British. Over time it became chipped and worn, and instead of throwing it away, she let me paint over it with enamel paints.

I was ten years old.

Apparently, I took the project very seriously. On the back of the tray, I carefully documented it:

I have no idea whether my mother encouraged me to write all of that, or whether I did it entirely on my own. Knowing the little girl I was, I suspect I was simply proud of what I'd made.

I certainly wasn't working with an endless supply of art materials. I only had a handful of paint colours to choose from: yellow, green, brown, orange, a cobalt blue and a darker blue. There wasn't much planning involved. I simply painted with what I had.

The scene itself is wonderfully naïve.

A bright yellow house sits in the middle of the composition against a rich blue background. A green vine climbs one side of the house. The roof is brown, the front door orange, and one little window has blue curtains.

Above the roof, a hot air balloon is landing, carrying a rather bulky passenger dressed in orange. To the left is an enormous yellow sun. To the right stands a tree. Two oversized birds fly across the sky—one brown, one orange—as though scale simply didn't matter.

And on the left side of the house, two figures are walking toward the steps. Looking at them now, I can't help wondering if one of them was inspired by the Virgin Mary. I was completely fascinated by her as a child. In fact, one Halloween I even dressed up as Mary! The taller figure wears a long blue gown and has flowing blonde hair, while the smaller figure follows behind.

It's a simple little painting.

Or so I thought.

As I looked at it more closely, something unexpected happened.

It reminded me of my current collection, HOME.

The house.

The oversized sun.

The grass.

The climbing vines.

The connection to nature.

Even the playful, uncomplicated way the scene is painted.

I was genuinely surprised by how familiar it all felt.

Of course, my work has evolved over the years. My colour palette has changed. My compositions have become more layered. My paintings are larger, and my techniques have become far more sophisticated.

But underneath all of that, I realized something hadn't changed at all.

I've been returning to the same ideas for decades.

That realization made me stop and think.

As artists, we often talk about "finding our style," as though it's something waiting for us somewhere in the future. We experiment, we study, we push ourselves in new directions, believing that eventually we'll arrive.

What if it's something we remember?

Looking at that little painted tray, I don't see technical skill. I don't see polished composition.

I see curiosity.

Optimism.

Joy.

A child who instinctively painted a place that felt safe, welcoming and alive.

Those are still the things I'm trying to express today.

Perhaps that's why my HOME collection has felt so meaningful to create. It isn't really about houses. It's about belonging. It's about warmth. It's about creating places—real or imagined—that invite us to pause, breathe and simply be.

Maybe that's what I was painting all along.

It's comforting to realize that despite all the years, all the travel, all the exhibitions and all the paintings I've made since then, a part of me is still that ten-year-old girl with six little pots of enamel paint, happily inventing a world where balloons land on rooftops, birds can be bigger than people, and sunshine is always generous.

Sometimes we think we're searching for something new.

And then one day, we discover that the thread has been there all along, quietly weaving its way through everything we've ever created.