Rooted in Nature: The Heart Behind My Art

Every so often, someone will stand in front of one of my prints, quiet and thoughtful, before turning to me and saying, “There’s something about this that just makes me feel calm.”

That, right there, is why I do what I do.

My journey into art didn’t begin with a grand plan or formal training. In fact, I didn’t enjoy traditional painting lessons at all. But one day, I stumbled across a linocut print on Pinterest—and something clicked. There was a clarity and honesty in the marks, a sense of movement and mood that spoke to me. I picked up carving tools soon after and never looked back.

My art isn’t just about what you see. It’s about what you feel.

At its core, my work is about connection—particularly to nature. The world we live in now is so fast, so loud, so relentless. We’re constantly scrolling, rushing, reacting. I want my work to be a place where people can pause. Breathe. Feel something that isn’t driven by a screen or a deadline.

When I create, I’m trying to capture the feeling of being under a canopy of trees with dappled sunlight above you… the hush of waves retreating across a beach… the stillness of standing in a forest where the only sound is the wind rustling through leaves. These moments have a way of grounding us, of reminding us that we belong to something older, something greater. That’s what I try to distil into each print.

Why nature? Because it never rushes. And it always gives.

I’m deeply inspired by the natural world—not just its beauty, but its quiet strength. I love trees: their patience, their rootedness, the way they communicate underground, unseen. I love how coastlines shift but endure, and how water never carves the same path twice, yet always finds its way.

When I walk through places like the Savernake Forest near my home or along the windswept coasts of the UK, I feel full. Replenished. Alive in a different way. These places gift me ideas, colours, emotions. I bring them back into the studio and try to honour them in ink and paper.

Each print begins as a “Bam” moment—when something makes my soul sing.

There’s a feeling I get when I see something that stirs me deeply. I call it a Bam moment. It might be the way light filters through a tree, or the ripple of sun on loch water, or the silhouette of a lighthouse at dusk. It stops me in my tracks. It makes my soul sing.

My hope is that the final print offers someone else that same spark of recognition, peace or joy. That it becomes part of their home, not just as decoration, but as a gentle companion—a reminder to look up, to breathe, to feel.

I’m not fighting against other artists. I’m fighting for beauty, stillness, and intention.

There’s so much pressure now to keep up, to produce fast, to grab attention. But I’ve never been interested in creating for algorithms. I make prints that take time. That require planning, layering, carving, careful colour mixing, and patience.

And that’s intentional.

In a world of digital overload and mass-produced décor, I want to offer something slower. Something real. Something handmade that carries a story, a sense of place, and a piece of me.

I believe the art we choose to live with matters. It shapes the energy of our spaces. It reminds us of what we value. And it has the power to soothe us, uplift us, and reconnect us—with ourselves and with the natural world.

Making art is deeply personal—and occasionally, magical.

One of the most special moments in the linocut process is the final peel-back—the moment when the last layer of ink is revealed and the full picture comes together. After hours or days of carving and printing, that reveal feels a bit like magic. Sometimes, I stand back and think, Yes. That’s it. Other times, it doesn’t quite work—and that’s part of the journey too.

I’m self-taught, and there’s a freedom in that. I learned the hard way how colours interact (yellow, as it turns out, can be very assertive!). I’ve developed my own ways of creating sunbeams, movement in water, and the delicate play of light across bark or cloud. It’s not always easy—but it’s always worth it.

Every print has a story. And sometimes, those stories continue with you.

I’ll never forget the woman who kept coming back to the gallery to stare at one particular seascape. She didn’t say much at first—just stood quietly, as if the waves were speaking to her. A few days later, her husband came in and bought it for her birthday. It now hangs in their home.

Or the collector who always requests print number one from each edition—because she wants to be there at the very beginning of each new chapter.

Those moments make my heart full.

More than a picture. A presence.

If you’ve ever stood in front of a piece of art and felt something shift in you—however small—you’ll understand what I hope to give with my work. That tiny pause, that lift of the heart, that moment of breath… that’s the real work.

Thank you for being here, for reading, and for allowing me to share not just my prints, but my purpose.

Joanne