Refilling the Reserves

On place, pace and the shaping of a new work.

Breathtaking aerial view of Queenstown's mountain peaks shrouded in mist.

Time away doesn’t always mean stepping back; sometimes it just means changing pace. Queenstown gave us exactly that: more movement, more light, more fresh air. We explored, raced down hills, shared meals, and tried new things. The rhythm of life shifted and it felt right. That change stayed with me, not in a dramatic way but in the small details I kept noticing. I remember the rooftops layered beneath the mountain ridgelines, the way the lake held the late-afternoon light, and how each day ended a little more gently than the last.

A serene evening spent at Queenstown Wharf.

Back home, I found myself thinking of Queenstown not just as a fond memory but as a foundation to build on. That shift in rhythm opened up something in me. It wasn’t just about the light or the movement but about how all those details came together into something larger than a single moment. It was almost like discovering a new way of seeing. I began noticing little things in my everyday life: the way morning light filtered through the trees, the soft drift of breeze across the water, the layers of texture around town, from rough stone walls to smooth lake surfaces. Those details weren’t just inspiring; they became the building blocks for something new. They pulled me away from the predictable and expected, into a space where each detail had room to breathe and become something more.

Captivated by breathtaking lake views as they point from the deck of the boat.

This piece isn’t about preserving a memory so much as translating one into form. I wanted to take that change in pace and shape it into something tangible that could hold the feeling of that time and place. I didn’t try to recreate Queenstown; instead, I let its influence spark something fresh in my work. The result is the first piece in a small series, and it’s shaped by soft tones, steady lines, and a balance of movement and stillness. It isn’t a literal landscape or a direct scene. It’s a response to that experience, a reflection of what can happen when you let the small details come forward instead of chasing the next big idea.

Julia Cameron’s words in The Artist’s Way come to mind: creativity needs a solid foundation, something real to draw from. It isn’t about straining for the next idea; it’s about letting it surface in its own time. This piece grew out of that kind of grounded space. It’s infused with the textures and rhythms of those days in Queenstown, but it holds more than just memories. It’s about making room for the unexpected, finding meaning in small moments, and building something slowly from there. I want it to feel like it belongs in a home, made with intention and not just for decoration. It’s grounded in a sense of place and guided by a gentle pace. In the end, I hope it finds its way into spaces that welcome texture and into homes that carry both momentum and ease. I imagine it resonating with people who notice the little details and enjoy living with an artwork that carries its own quiet story.

-- AM