As both a flower farmer and an oil painter, I often find myself straddling two worlds that might seem, at first glance, entirely different. One – outside among the complex elements of nature, the other, a solo journey and for the most part, cloistered in my studio. Yet, the further I journey into these practices, the more I see their deep interconnectedness. Both are acts of cultivation—one of the earth and one of the spirit.
2024 was a year rich with new lessons from the land, and it shaped not only my work on the farm but also is having deep influence and retrospection with my art in the studio. Here, I want to reflect on how farming fuels my creativity and share the invaluable insights I’ve gained from living and working so closely with nature.
Observation: Seeing the World with Artist’s Eyes
Farming teaches you to notice. Whether it’s the precise moment a bloom opens, the subtle shift in the quality of light before a storm, or the way frost feathers across a stem, every detail matters. I squeal when I see a tiny seedling break the surface of the soil. This kind of attentive observation mirrors what I bring to my canvas.
In the summer, I was struck by the riotous, almost overwhelming colour of the zinnias we grow. Their vivid tones—electric magentas, fiery oranges, and sunny yellows—are reminiscent of squeezing fresh oil paint onto my palette. I know they will find their way into a series of bold, abstracted florals I have germinating in my mind. Later, in autumn, the soft, desaturated palette of drying grasses and seed pods are inspiring a quieter, more introspective series of narrative portraits – again, in my head and waiting to slide onto the linen.
Both in farming and in art, I’ve learned that to truly see something, you need to slow down and be present, to observe deeply and make choices that affect an outcome.
Patience: Trusting the Process
Farming is not a practice for the impatient. Seeds don’t sprout on command, and neither do great ideas. Both require time, care, and trust in the process. I’ll admit having trouble with that. My Inner Critic wants to get it done NOW, in the field – and in the studio.
This year, we battled an unusually windy and cold spring with not one, but two killing frosts in June. I was heartbroken after nurturing trays and trays of seedlings through the darkness of winter, only to see them black and frozen once in the ground. Our usual frost date is May 19, and the cold weather came in early and mid June. It took weeks of nurturing and replanting seedlings, sowing some seeds directly and using different strategies before the first real growth emerged once again. That same patience was echoed in my studio practice, where I’ve worked on a large oil painting for months, letting layers dry, revisiting decisions, and refining details.
There’s a rhythm to this kind of work—plant, wait, tend, mitigate disaster and finally harvest—that applies equally to the land and to the canvas.
Resilience: Learning Through Challenges
Nature doesn’t always cooperate. This year brought unexpected late frosts, a stubborn invasion of grasshoppers to eat the dahlias, and a summer storm that shredded rows of sunflowers and sent swaths of cornflowers to their knees. These moments are heartbreaking, but they also teach resilience and adaptation—qualities that are essential in art.
When one of my paintings wasn’t coming together, I reminded myself of the cornflowers. After the hail, I cut their damaged stems short and reimagined them as charming, petite blooms for posy bouquets and began drying some of them – I hadn’t planned on that at all! Similarly, I scraped away areas of the painting that weren’t working and approached them with a fresh perspective.
Art and farming both require flexibility and the courage to start again.
Inspiration: Nature’s Endless Palette
The farm is a living canvas, constantly shifting with the seasons – even daily! In spring, I’m drawn to the pastel blush of tulips blooming; in summer, to the golden light that lingers late into the evening by our west gardens; in autumn, to the textures of dried seed heads and fading leaves. These elements find their way into my paintings, sometimes directly and sometimes in more abstract, emotional ways following the song and mood of the day.
For example, one evening in July, I sat in our favourite ‘sunset spot’, on a bench at the barn, watching the sun dip below the horizon, casting the sky in a gradient of peach and lavender. That moment is to become the heart of a landscape piece that I know will hang in my studio to remind me of that precious moment.
Nature offers endless inspiration…as long as you’re paying attention.
The Physical and Mental Toll: Honoring the Body and Mind’s Role in Creation
Farming and painting are both physically demanding, and 2024 made me keenly aware of their toll. The repetitive motions of farming—bending, lifting, hauling—leave my hips, back, and knees aching. Painting, though quieter, challenges my hands, wrists, and shoulders with hours of detailed brushwork.
Arthritis in my fingers makes fine details harder, while the mental exhaustion of juggling farm tasks and creative work often feels even more overwhelming. The strain of focusing intensely, day after day, can weigh heavily on the mind. But these aches, both physical and mental, are part of the creative process.
To sustain both the farm and the studio, I’ve learned to rest, stretch, and pace myself. Just as the earth needs time to recover, so does my body and mind. Creativity thrives when we honor the vessel that nurtures it—physically and mentally.
The Dance Between Farming and Art
Farming and painting are not separate parts of my life; they are deeply intertwined and feed each other. They are essential to the symbiotic relationship of creativity. Both are about giving birth to something beautiful and meaningful, whether it’s a bouquet of fragrant peonies or a painting that captures the ephemeral beauty of light.
As the Teaching Artist in Residence at Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity, instructing and guiding students adds another layer to this interplay. I feel so privileged to share and encourage my students to look at the world with fresh eyes, to (literally) draw inspiration from their surroundings, and to embrace the challenges of creation. I often share stories from the farm, showing how lessons from the land can shape the way we approach our art. I am learning with every waking moment and so grateful to be on this journey. The land teaches. The canvas teaches.
Cultivating Creativity
2024 was a year that reminded me of the profound connection between tending the land and nurturing the creative spirit. Both require observation, patience, resilience, and an openness to moments of pure inspiration. Both require the courage of a warrior, the tenderness of a mother and a fierceness of spirit.
If there’s one takeaway I hope to leave you with, it’s this: creativity is everywhere, waiting to be cultivated. Whether you’re an artist, a gardener, a nature-over or simply someone seeking a deeper connection to the world around you, there’s beauty to be found in every moment of growth, and every moment of life as we live it and breathe it and experience it around us. Creativity, like nature, waits patiently to be nurtured. It thrives when we allow ourselves to grow, slow down, and honour both our physical and creative needs.
What fuels your creativity? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments below. Let’s continue the conversation and inspire each other to keep cultivating, both on the land and in our lives and studios.
