There is something rather wonderful about being a beginner. Not knowing exactly what you are doing. Making mistakes. Asking questions. Discovering that something you thought would be simple is actually quite difficult. When we are young, beginning things is expected of us. We learn, experiment, change our minds and try again. But somewhere along the way, we begin to believe that we should have everything worked out. We become experienced. Established. Sensible. And perhaps a little reluctant to start something that might make us feel uncertain.
I have been questioning that idea. Because the older I become, the more I realise how much there still is to discover.
The freedom of not knowing
There is a certain comfort in being good at something. We know what to expect. We understand the rules. We can usually predict the outcome. But familiarity can also become a limitation. When we know how to do something, we tend to repeat what works. We become efficient. And sometimes, without realising it, we stop experimenting. I notice this in painting.
It is tempting to return to colours, techniques and compositions that have worked before. There is reassurance in knowing that a particular approach will probably produce a satisfactory result. But the paintings that interest me most often begin with uncertainty. A different crop. An unexpected colour. A larger canvas. A mark that I am not entirely sure about. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. But the uncertainty is part of what keeps painting interesting.
My Close-Up Figures series has become part of that exploration. Through unusually close compositions, large canvases and expressive brushwork, I am discovering new ways to move between careful observation and the freedom of painting.
Learning without needing to be good
I think we underestimate the pleasure of doing something simply because it interests us. If anything, experience gives us something valuable to bring to a new beginning. We know more about ourselves. We understand our strengths and limitations. We have made mistakes and survived them. We have learned that things rarely unfold exactly as planned.
Perhaps beginning again later in life is not the same as starting from nothing. We bring everything we have learned with us.
I have been thinking about this in another way, too. In Making Room for a Different Life, I explored how changing direction is sometimes less about leaving everything behind and more about creating space for the things that have quietly become important to us.
Creativity is not a fixed identity
I have never liked the idea that people must be one thing. An artist. A lawyer. A gardener. A writer. A businessperson. As though choosing one direction means closing the door on everything else. I think our interests can exist alongside one another. Sometimes they even become stronger because of their differences.
Painting teaches me to observe. Gardening teaches me patience. Writing helps me understand what I think. Interiors make me consider proportion, materials and the relationship between objects and space. These activities may appear separate, but to me they are connected. They are different ways of exploring the same questions. What makes something beautiful? What deserves our attention? How do we create a life that feels meaningful?
Perhaps creativity is less about having a particular profession and more about remaining open to possibility.
The importance of making mistakes
I wish I could say that I always enjoy making mistakes. I don't. It can be frustrating to spend hours working on something only to discover that it isn't right. A painting that loses its balance. A plant that fails to grow. An idea that seemed wonderful in theory but doesn't work in practice. There are moments when I would much rather know exactly what I am doing. But I am learning to see mistakes differently.
They are often evidence that we have tried something unfamiliar. And unfamiliar things are rarely mastered immediately. A painting can be changed. A garden can be replanted. A room can be rearranged. An idea can be reconsidered. Not everything needs to succeed to have been worthwhile.
Growing older without becoming smaller
One of the things I find most interesting about ageing is how differently people respond to it. Some seem to become increasingly cautious. Others become more adventurous. I don't think this is simply a matter of personality. Perhaps it is also about whether we continue to give ourselves permission to change. There can be a tendency to make life smaller as we grow older. To choose what is familiar. To avoid uncertainty. To assume that certain opportunities belong to younger people.
But I don't want curiosity to diminish with age. I want to remain interested in things I don't yet understand. To visit unfamiliar places. To learn new skills. To make work that challenges me. To discover that my opinions can change. And occasionally, to surprise myself.
A life that remains unfinished
I have been thinking about the word unfinished. We often use it as though it describes a problem. An unfinished painting. An unfinished house. An unfinished project. Something that still needs to be completed. But perhaps there is another way to see it. An unfinished life is a life in which something can still happen.
There are still things to learn. Places to visit. People to meet. Ideas to explore. Skills to develop. There are still versions of ourselves we haven't discovered. I find that thought rather comforting. It means we don't need to arrive at some final, perfected version of who we are. We can continue becoming.
The pleasure of beginning again
I don't know exactly where all my interests will lead. Some may become important parts of my life. Others may remain occasional pleasures. A few may turn out to be completely impractical. But I don't think that matters very much. What matters is staying curious enough to try. To pick up the brush. To plant something unfamiliar. To open the book. To take the course. To ask the question. To begin before we feel entirely ready.
Because perhaps growing older doesn't have to mean becoming more certain about everything. Perhaps it can mean becoming more comfortable with uncertainty. More willing to experiment. Less concerned about being impressive. And more interested in what might still be possible.
There is a particular kind of freedom in realising that we are allowed to begin again. Not because the life we have lived was wrong. But because there is still so much life left to explore.