Quiet Moments: The Role of Stillness in My Creative Process

There’s a kind of silence I’ve come to trust. Not the awkward silence we try to fill in conversation, or the kind of stillness that feels stagnant—but a living, breathing pause. It’s subtle, but powerful. In those moments where nothing is demanding my attention, I start to hear something truer. That’s often where the art begins.

Making Space for the Work to Speak

When I make art, I need space—not just physical, but mental and emotional. Stillness isn’t a luxury for me; it’s part of the process. It’s the place where I can start to hear what the work wants to be. Without the world rushing in, I can take a breath, step back, and actually see what’s in front of me.

Sometimes I’ll sit with a piece for days, not touching it. Just observing. Letting it settle. Listening. It’s in that space that the next move often becomes obvious. Not forced. Not planned. Just… the next honest mark.

Why I Don’t Rush the Process

There’s a lot of pressure, especially now, to be constantly creating and sharing—to keep up momentum, to stay visible. But I’ve found that when I rush, the work loses something. It becomes about finishing rather than feeling. Producing rather than processing.

I’ve learned to be okay with slowing down. To make peace with the pauses. Some days I don’t pick up a brush at all. Instead, I read. I look. I stare at colours shifting in the sky. And somehow, that too becomes part of the painting—just as essential as the brushstrokes themselves.

The Stillness Between the Layers

There’s a rhythm to painting that often mirrors my internal world. It’s not just about what’s on the surface—it’s about the layers beneath, and the spaces between them. Between each layer of paint is a pause: a drying time, yes, but also a moment of reflection.

During those quiet breaks, I often see things I missed in the act of painting. A softness that needs preserving. A tension that wants balancing. These aren’t decisions I can force—they only come when I allow the work time to breathe.

That shift from black-and-white drawing to colour painting brought this into sharper focus for me. Colour has its own energy, and it demands a kind of attentiveness I hadn’t fully appreciated before. Stillness helps me meet that energy with care, and with intention.

Solitude Isn’t Emptiness

I often work alone. And while that might sound lonely to some, it’s where I feel most connected—not just to the work, but to myself. The absence of noise, of constant input, lets me come back to my own thoughts. It’s in those solitary moments that I’m most honest with the canvas.

Art, for me, is about presence. It’s about really being there with the piece. Listening. Responding. Sometimes that presence requires stepping back entirely—resisting the urge to fix, to finish, to control.

Letting the World In, Gently

Stillness doesn’t mean shutting the world out. It means letting it in more gently. On my own terms. It’s how I process the things I see, feel, and carry. It gives me space to hold it all without immediately needing to turn it into something.

And eventually, when I do return to the work, I come back clearer. Quieter. More myself.

Trusting the Slow Burn

There’s a quiet confidence that builds when you stop measuring your art by how fast it’s made or how quickly it’s received. I’ve found value in the slow burn—in allowing things to unfold over time, rather than rushing toward an imagined finish line.

In a world that often rewards noise and speed, choosing stillness can feel radical. But it’s in those quiet spaces that I’ve found the most meaningful parts of my creative life.

So I’ll keep pausing. Keep noticing. Keep returning to the blank page, the canvas, the colours—with openness, patience, and trust.

Because sometimes, the most powerful part of creating is not what you do—but how willing you are to wait, to listen, and to be still.

If you’d like to learn more about my creative process or see my latest work, feel free to reach out or check out the rest of my website.

.M.

Be real.

Make art.