Where the Mind Wanders: How Walking Shapes My Work

"Every work starts with a walk."

That might sound romantic, but it’s true. Before the image, before the brush or lens, there’s a need to step outside. I walk to escape, to clear the static. It’s not always easy to begin—there are days when staying in seems simpler—but once I’m out, the rhythm of walking settles me. Alone, without conversation or agenda, I can stop when I like, linger in a moment, and let something unexpected present itself.

There’s a kind of solitude in walking that invites a deeper kind of seeing. I’m not in search of anything specific. I’m open to what might arise: a break in the clouds, the way grass catches the wind, or an abandoned object left to the elements. It’s this openness—this chance to notice something for the first time or see a familiar sight differently—that fuels much of my creative process.

The Everyday Reimagined

Since retiring, I’ve found myself more aware of the open spaces around where I live. Some of them had gone unnoticed for years. Their size and beauty now surprise me. I don’t need dramatic landscapes to feel inspired. Quite often, it’s the overlooked corners of the everyday that pull me in—skies above rooftops, derelict buildings, the subtle marks left by time.

There’s something compelling about the passing of time—old and new coexisting. I’m particularly drawn to abandoned places and shifting skies. They carry a quiet tension. These aren’t just visual motifs; they’re emotional cues, reminders of impermanence and change.

This sensibility extends into my photography. With a mobile phone always in hand, I’m constantly collecting fragments—images that might otherwise slip away. It’s not about taking the perfect shot; it’s about preserving a moment that meant something, even if I can’t explain why just yet.

Aphantasia and the Act of Seeing

I recently discovered I have aphantasia—the inability to form mental images. It was a surprising revelation. I'd always assumed that the vivid flashbacks portrayed in films were fiction. Realising I experience memory without imagery has reframed the way I think about art.

Because I can’t picture something in my mind’s eye, my phone camera becomes my visual memory. It’s how I collect notes. When painting or editing, I’m not pulling from internal pictures. I’m responding directly to the image in front of me, working slowly, checking tones, watching how light behaves, and allowing intuition to lead.

Painting is a far more extended conversation. A photograph may be processed quickly in Lightroom or Photoshop, but the final result can take days to settle. Paintings may take weeks or even months. Each medium moves at its own pace, yet both demand a quiet attention to what’s unfolding—both in the image and within myself.

Influence Without Boundaries

I’ve always admired how some artists can take the mundane and turn it into something that stops you in your tracks. That idea—finding beauty or resonance in the everyday—is central to what I do, especially in my mobile photography.

Inspiration doesn’t sit neatly in categories. Impressionism and Expressionism have shown me that colour and light needn’t obey rules. That you can edit reality with emotion. Pictorialism and early photographic styles are part of the visual culture I grew up with—on TV, in print, in everyday media. They’re in my bones, somehow. Discovering them formally felt like opening a door to something I’d already known, but never named.

There are artists who expand how I see the world. Not because we see the same way, but because their work challenges me to look again. Names that come to mind include James Turrell, Cindy Sherman, David Hockney, Edward Hopper, Berthe Morisot, Richard Long, Christo, and Georgia O’Keeffe. Their approaches differ wildly, but all share a willingness to experiment—to trust their vision even when it strays from tradition.

The Space Between

When I paint or photograph, I’m not aiming for exact representation. But I’m also not trying to be wholly abstract. I suppose my work sits somewhere in between. I don’t have a tidy answer for how abstraction and representation coexist in what I do. It depends on the moment, the subject, the emotion.

There are plenty of things I don’t know. I’m not always sure what “seeing” means beyond the literal. I don’t always understand how painting and photography influence one another in my process. And that’s okay. The not-knowing is part of the practice. Art, for me, is often less about expression and more about exploration.

When I create, I’m not trying to tell a story or make a statement. I’m just responding to what I encounter. To light moving across a wall. To the silence of an empty road. To the feeling that something is about to be lost—or found. If viewers find calm or reflection in my work, I’m content. If it makes them pause, all the better.

Landscape as Companion

I feel a natural pull toward the countryside and the coast. These are the places where I feel most at ease, most able to observe without noise. But I’m not only drawn to wildness. I’m just as interested in the subtle human traces left in the land—fences, paths, ruins. They remind me that even in solitude, we’re part of a larger story.

I’m still learning how the landscape shapes my thinking. I don’t always recognise its influence until later. But I do know that weather, seasons, and light matter. A sky heavy with rain feels very different from one lit with the low gold of autumn. These variations seep into the work whether I plan it or not.

Walking through these spaces, in all their change and stillness, is my way of tuning in. Not just to the external world, but to my own sense of being present.

Letting the Work Speak

I often wrestle with procrastination or imposter syndrome. There are days when the ideas don’t flow or I question whether any of it matters. In those moments, I return to walking. It helps me reset, to reconnect with the simple act of observing.

And in the end, perhaps that’s all I’m really doing—observing. Letting images come and go, waiting for the ones that stay.

As Picasso once said, “Painting is just another way of keeping a diary.” I’d add that mine begins not in the studio, but on foot. With one step, then another, then something quietly unfolding.

"Art is not what you see, but what you make others see."
— Edgar Degas