It really is the simplest of things.

Why is it that the shimmering water of the sea with no end in sight, the petal appearing on first snowdrop, the sun shining and warming your cheek through the car window or my child doing a full belly laugh are the things that give me the most joy.

Maybe I am just simple, easily pleased. Perhaps I have learned through crippling adversity what matters, how to love to celebrating things easily missed in the hurry of life.

The laying down of the first splashes of colour on a brand new canvas, feeling the grain under the hair of the brush as I blend the tones into one. The canvas being the ultimate palette for mixing the unknown.

I find so much joy in creating and expressing my internal emotion through my work. I often end up in tears as I realise a painting expresses exactly how I am feeling, tells a true and very real tale.

Sometimes I abandon my studio for months. Refusing to be a slave to creation, learning years ago that my most honest work transpires when I feel the urge to create.

Paint tubes strewn on my glass palette, pigments left to slowly dry, brushes stored awaiting their next chance to play and dance across the canvas. So much potential only possible through the hands of the artist, 'Me'. It is my responsibility to let them out to show the world the beauty they can create without me they are prisoners to time, needing energy to fulfil their destiny.

We work in harmony in my little studio over looking the garden, with my deep sea batik scarf and Japanese paper lanterns hanging over the window allowing muted, dappled light to playfully cascade. Studio bathed in my children's work, reminding me of the beauty of their minds and how they see the world. Inspiring.

Spring is always a reminder of the intensity and sheer magnitude of pigments we have to explore. The brightest, limiest greens, whitest purest whites, beautiful pale pinks of the cherry blossom and exquisite baby blues of the bluebells amidst the gentle aroma of the wild garlic alongside the gentle babbling of the brook.

I often find myself compelled to return to the easel when nature starts its recreation like a universe gently whispering in my ear "its time".

Emma J Lock