The floors here still carry the memory of colour. When I first stepped into this studio, the dye stains were already faded, but they were there, soft remnants of what had come before. These rooms were once the Old Dye Rooms of the woollen mill, built in 1852. For years, they held the rhythm of making, the steady work of weaving the now coveted Welsh blankets. The machines are gone now, most of them preserved in The Woollen Museum in Wales. But the walls remember.
There is something grounding about that, to work in a place where hands have been busy for generations, where the stone itself seems to hold the echo of labour. I am just another layer now, another kind of making in the same quiet tradition.
Sometimes, when the studio is still, I imagine I can hear the looms. The steady back and forth, the quiet click of the shuttles. It is a sound that lingers in the stone, in the air. I let it settle in my mind as I work. It carries me, gently, into the rhythm of my own painting.
Winter here is sharp. The cold seeps in, and the temperature inside often drops to minus four. I light the log burner and the studio warms slowly, reaching fourteen degrees, just enough to work. The cold helps me focus. The slow rise of heat brings a kind of attention, a stillness that feels necessary.
My children were born after I moved to Wales, but I often think of their footsteps on these floors, adding their own stories to the layers already here. That thought stays with me. These rooms hold more than history. They hold the quiet beauty of childhood, of growing up among colour and stone, of painting her for nearly 30 years.
Being here is about more than having a place to paint. The building has its own life, its own heritage of making. The dyes no longer stain the floors, but their presence remains. And now, in some small way, my paintings are part of that story too.
In early March, I will leave the dye rooms for a little while. I am travelling north, from Trondheim to Bodø along the scenic railway line, then crossing by ferry to Moskenes on the Lofoten Islands. (weather permitting!) It is a part of the world I have long wanted to visit. The thought of mountains rising from the sea, the muted northern light, the quiet of winter feels both stark and generous. I am curious to see how it will move through me, and later, through the work.
Iceland changed me and I am hopeful and excited for this metamorphosis