A Christmas Village, a Heap of Indigo, and One Very Questionable Tree

My latest sketchbook spread features a tiny Christmas village painted almost entirely in indigo. Partly because the moody, wintry vibe was irresistible, and partly because I was absolutely petrified of mixing actual colours and ending up with a swamp on paper. When in doubt, go monochrome and pretend it was intentional!

Between the blotchy rooftops, the windows that lean like they’ve had a long night at the pub, and a tree that looks less “festive evergreen” and more “soggy broom after a rough week”, this painting had every opportunity to descend into chaos. And yet… it didn’t. It’s done. It’s imperfect, undeniably so, but it has a kind of charm I’m choosing not to question too closely. A finished painting is, after all, a small miracle.

But here’s the part I didn’t expect: somewhere between the blots and the broom-tree, something shifted. This was the first piece where I finally saw the same spark my family and friends have been insisting they’ve seen for years. A spark that made me pause, tilt my head, and whisper, “Oh… maybe they’re not completely biased after all.”

If you’re here for someone to gently tiptoe around the realities of teaching yourself to paint, you’re in the wrong place. If you’re here for the pitfalls, the panic, the questionable brushstrokes, and the sarcastic commentary that comes with them you’ve found your girl.

That tiny flicker of promise was enough to push me over the edge. To actually accept my dear friend’s persistent nudging to set up a website and an Instagram dedicated solely to my art. The sheer terror of pressing “publish” on anything that lives outside the safety of a sketchbook is like standing at the edge of a cliff and convincing yourself that falling is just flying with extra steps. Everything in me wanted to slam the book shut, hide it under a bed, and pretend this never happened.

But here we are. I’m putting my work out there: wonky windows, blotchy rooftops, broom-trees and all.

Because maybe some slightly rubbish art will resonate with other slightly rubbish artists. Maybe we’ll all realise that perfection isn’t the point. The journey is messy, unpredictable, occasionally muddy, and often held together by sheer stubbornness. And in a strange way, that’s what makes it wonderful.

If my imperfect little indigo village can make even one person think, “Oh thank god, it’s not just me,” then pressing that terrifying ‘publish’ button will have been worth every moment of panic.

Here’s to flawed paintings, creative courage, and the quiet hope that something beautifully imperfect might just spark something in someone else too.