What my mother taught me about making art

Mother’s Day always arrives quietly for me, but May doesn’t pass unnoticed. It holds a few markers all at once—Mother’s Day, my birthday, and the anniversary of my mother’s death. Since she died in 2022, I find myself returning to her more often this time of year, not in a dramatic way, but in small, steady thoughts that seem to surface while I’m working.

We never really talked about the commercial side of art. That simply wasn’t where her attention went. For her, the act of making was the centre of everything. She painted because she needed to, and she protected that space fiercely. I remember how often she spoke about freedom—how important it was to keep a painting loose, to let it move, to not overthink it.

When I’m in the studio, especially when something isn’t quite working, I can sense that idea hovering nearby: loosen up, let it breathe.

She wasn’t a strong businessperson. There’s one story that has stayed with me over the years. She sold a large painting to someone she met at a show in California. They connected, had a long conversation, and in that moment, it felt like more than just a transaction. The painting was sent, but the payment never came. What struck me wasn’t anger over the money. It was her disappointment in the person. That stayed with me. It still shapes how I move through my own career—how I try to balance openness with a certain clarity.

She also believed that art was meant to be lived with. Our home reflected that. Paintings weren’t precious objects kept at a distance—they were part of daily life, part of the atmosphere. Now, I find myself doing the same. I keep work by people I love on my walls. Some pieces are easy, others carry more complicated histories. But they all hold something human, something real. Living with them feels like an ongoing conversation.

After she died, my father couldn’t bring himself to organize a funeral. So, a month later, on what would have been her birthday, we gathered a small group of her closest friends. We had a simple luncheon. At some point, we began giving away her artwork to those who had come—pieces finding their way into the hands of people who had known her well.

In the middle of it all, I didn’t set anything aside for myself. I remember realizing that later, with a bit of a jolt. Over time, a few things made their way back to me, but what I have most of are her sketchbooks. Small, personal, full of quiet moments and passing ideas. I’ve made a place for them in our den. I like seeing them there, stacked and open, as if she’s still mid-thought.

I don’t think she would have measured her life in terms of career milestones. I think she would have cared more about whether she stayed true to the act of making, whether she kept that sense of freedom intact. It’s something I come back to often, especially now.

May has a way of bringing all of this closer. Not in a heavy way, but in a reflective one. A reminder of where I come from, and of the quieter threads that continue to guide me.