When you take a flower in your hand and really look at it, it’s yours for the moment.

I want to give that world to someone else. Most people in the city rush around so, they have no time to look at a flower. I want them to see it whether they want or not……….Nobody sees a flower really; it is so small. We haven’t time, and to see takes time – like to have a friend takes time.


(Georgia O’Keefe)

I have often said that drawing is, for me, a kind of meditation. I get drawn in to the thing as I look at it intensely to understand its every nuance of light and shade, every flick of movement hidden there, waiting to burst out.


Then, after spending time scrutinising all the details I find that I never see the thing through the same eyes again. Quite simply, my relationship to it has changed. Taking time to look at it closely, I see it differently, not just for a while, but for always.

So when something catches my attention enough for me to want to turn it into a painting or drawing I know it is because I want, somehow, to absorb it into my being. And that’s what happened when I saw how many different varieties of frangipani (plumeria) flower there are during a trip to visit my sister on Maui, Hawaii.


Twisted windmill stars in bright pink, and deep wine red clusters that shimmered against the rich blue of the sky; yellow ones tinged with magenta, and orange and pink and white; and some that offered themselves up to the world on their stem candelabra with outstretched petals. They grow with abandon and a seeming lust for life that is an utter delight.