Scent of Memory

You may think that, as a visual artist, my memories would arrive in colour.

A particular shade of blue.The exact grey of winter light or the golden glow just before sunset.

But no.

It is the smell that reaches me first, the strongest trigger in creating my memories.

The smell of dusty ground after rain transports me straight to our country house in the Czech Republic, where we spent all our weekends and holidays when I was young. The windows are open, and I lie in my room reading, waiting for the rain to stop.

The smell of new books always brings back a Christmas feel. I would receive lots of books each year, and the faint smell of fresh paper and ink feels inseparable from winter mornings, and the anticipation of stories not yet discovered.

The smell of pine forest takes me back to early morning mushroom expeditions with my grandfather. I would follow closely behind him, while he led me to the secret spots where he knew the mushrooms would be waiting. The scent of cool air and the damp moss made these mornings so adventurous.

Lavender is my mother — specifically her daily skin-care ritual. I remember watching her in the bathroom as she moved through the familiar steps, calm and unhurried, while I wondered what it would be like to be older and have a ritual of my own.

The smell of baby powder brings back the days when our boys were small enough to fit easily into my arms. I remember lifting them after their baths - warm and impossibly soft and cuddly. It was a time defined by the simple comfort of holding them.

And the smell of a fireplace instantly places me in my father’s studio in the forest — warmth, silence, and the serious business of making things without needing to explain why.

Curiously, none of these memories arrive visually.

Perhaps scent is simply the most direct of the senses. It arrives uncontrolled, then fades again.

I spend my days working with paints, brushes, pencils, and found objects, trying to capture feelings in visual form. Yet some of the deepest memories of my life appear to be stored somewhere in the air.

Inhale once, and the past returns.

Effortlessly. Unexpectedly. Completely.

Which makes me wonder if some memories are simply waiting in the air for us to notice them.

I wonder what you think.

What Happens When You Suddenly Have Time?

As some of you may know, January 1 is my "reflection day". I like taking a moment to look back before diving into the new year. It’s a chance to ask myself "what actually happened?" And last year, something gently changed.

Almost five years ago, I stopped working, and suddenly, I found myself with a lot of free time. At first, it felt like a luxury, then a bit confusing. Eventually, I realized I needed something to fill that time.

That’s when volunteering stepped in!

I started at a local community center teaching watercolor painting. This mostly involves paint, water, encouragement, and reminding everyone (including myself) that there is no such thing as “doing it wrong.”

I also spend time at a nearby art gallery and an art shop, where I welcome art lovers, chat about creativity, and spend time surrounded by beautiful things — which is, honestly, a very pleasant way to spend a day.

And last year, I added a new adventure: volunteering at the McLaren Vale Visitors Centre. This role has been so fun! I get to meet people, answer their questions, share local tips, and watch them fall in love with the region right before my eyes.

What I didn’t expect was how good all of this would make me feel.

It gives my weeks a nice rhythm without pressure—there are no deadlines or performance reviews. Just the simple joy of connecting with others.

I keep being amazed by how deeply volunteering is woven into life in Australia. People volunteer everywhere —for example community centers, galleries, libraries, op shops, sports clubs, festivals, wildlife rescue, emergency services. Much of it happens quietly, without fanfare. But it’s what makes communities feel warm, connected, and human. I feel lucky to be part of that culture, even in a small way.

So as this new year begins, I’m not making grand resolutions or trying to reinvent myself. I’m simply sticking to what I know works: volunteering, creating, and connecting. Giving back when you can is surprisingly rewarding—not in a flashy way, but in that steady, cozy feeling that you’re part of something bigger.

A colleague recently showed me a saying that made me laugh and nod at the same time: "volunteers are not worthless — they are priceless." ." It’s true!

Not everyone has the time — but when you do, sharing it can be quietly priceless.

Reimagine the Existing

There is a quote I have always loved: “Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.” It’s usually attributed to Theodore Roosevelt, but it feels more like what my mother would say while turning leftover vegetables into a surprisingly good soup.

This little motto pretty much sums up how I live and create. I have always enjoyed making things from whatever happens to be around — food, clothes, art, gifts. There’s something deeply satisfying about using what I already have. Not because I am trying to be frugal or virtuous, but because it is fun. And because it keeps me from falling into the “buy more stuff” trap that the world loves so much. It's a quiet rebellion against overconsumption — and it feels good.

My studio is full of things that probably look like “nothing special” to anyone else — little treasures collected over the years, the kinds of items that can’t be bought because they have no real market value. But they have creative potential, which is far more exciting.

The artwork for this blog is a perfect example.

Many months ago, I painted some blue winter trees… and then promptly decided I didn’t like them. I put the sketch into my “unfinished, undecided, not-sure-what-to-do-with-you” folder. While I was thinking about this blog, I pulled the piece out of the folder and thought - OK, let’s see if I can do something.

So I added a girl in a swirling night-sky dress, a glowing moon, a bird, and a small blue fox sitting at her feet, looking up at her like she knows something the girl doesn’t. Suddenly, the abandoned sketch had a story, simply because I gave it another chance.

Maybe that’s the real power of this philosophy. It simply asks us to begin with whatever is already in our hands — and trust that something good can come from it.

So perhaps, next time, when you are scratching your head about what to do...

• Make a meal from what’s in the fridge.

• Make a gift from what’s in your cupboard.

• Make art from something you almost threw away.

You might find that “what you have” isn’t just enough — it’s exactly right.