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 every detail I find that I never see the thing with 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, and they totally delight.