I began this new artwork, Hrīm (pronounced hrr-eem), after the first hard frost of winter last year.
I awoke early one morning to find a rime of ice on the grass, twigs and leaves in my back garden, some of which are now captured within this piece.
Unlike my earlier work, full of vibrant bursts of colour, this piece leans into more muted quiet tones.
A subtle, wintery palette I would have thought of as dull not long ago.
I remember an artist once telling me how much they loved the colours in a photograph of some moorland they had shown me.
I couldn’t see what they were seeing. To me it looked boring and lifeless.
I realise now my vision had been numbed. Dulled by the brash, synthetic colours that saturate modern life and media, engineered to capture our attention and endlessly spike our dopamine.
Nature is much quieter. It asks nothing of you.
Slowly, through the process of looking deeply at the natural world, especially during the winter months, I’ve learned to refine my palette. To not feel the need to shout so much with my art.
However, it seems there’s now a global culture that teaches us to live in a perpetual summer. A pressure to always be 'on'. Always blooming, forever youthful and vibrant.
Everywhere now I notice plastic flowers in windows, garlands of fake wisteria dangling from restaurant ceilings, all perfectly preserved and unchanging.
Synthetic nature speaks to a discomfort with decay, with mess, with the shifting truth of the seasons. A longing, perhaps, to hold onto summer indefinitely.
But these things don’t age. They don’t respond to weather or light. They don’t die — and because of that, they don’t live.
Where I live, here in the north of England, the seasons shift constantly. They overtly describe the natural ebb and flow of life.
Death and decay are not endpoints but beginnings; the old tree that falls becomes home and nourishment for life.
Just as a parent gives themselves to their children, life continues through surrender.
Winter can be a time when beauty is revealed, such as the ornate structure of trees, which in Summer were hidden beneath a canopy of leaves.
Winter isn’t something to be endured, but a season to honour. A time to rest and slow down, something that I believe we need to do now more than ever.
To honour winter in the natural world outside is to honour it within ourselves.
The title of my new print Hrīm is an Old English word for 'rime' which means a thin layer of ice.
Inspired by the slow wisdom of the natural world this piece is a reflection on winter as a necessary season - not something to push through, but to respect as a vital part of natures life cycle.