Journal

The beauty of a storm before the rain arrives Bushveld Storm — Oil on canvas by Louise Graham There is something extraordinary about watching a storm gather over the South African bushveld. The air changes. The wind moves through the grass, carrying the promise of rain. The clouds grow heavier, spreading across the sky until the landscape seems to fall silent beneath them. And then, somewhere in the distance, the rain begins to fall. I have always loved these moments. Not sim

Some landscapes live inside you long after the landscape itself has changed. When I look at this painting, I see the Highveld of my childhood. Before the mine heaps. Before the large commercial farms. Before so much of the open veld was divided, developed and disturbed. I remember a time when you could look out across the veld and it seemed as though your view went on forever. There was nothing standing in your way. You could breathe. Perhaps that is what I was really trying

An empty tomb, a promise fulfilled, and the sermon that inspired a painting. Some paintings begin with an image. Others begin with a feeling, a memory, or a place. The Garden began with a sermon. My brother-in-law preached a sermon that stayed with me long after the words had been spoken. It planted a thought that slowly grew into something I wanted to put onto canvas. I began thinking about the garden where Jesus was laid to rest. Not the dramatic scenes we so often associat

There are landscapes that announce themselves. Mountains, dramatic coastlines, waterfalls—the places we stop the car for, photograph and remember. And then there are the landscapes we simply live in. For me, the Highveld is one of those places. A long road disappearing into the distance. Eucalyptus trees standing beside it. Open veld stretching beneath an enormous sky. The particular quality of morning light falling across dry grasses. These are things I have seen so often th

There are paintings that begin with a place, and others that begin with a feeling. Sometimes you don’t know which one you are painting until you are already well into it. This one has slowly revealed itself to me as a painting about nostalgia, memory and loss. The tree came first: old, broad and deeply rooted, standing against the last fierce colour of the day. I wanted it to have presence. Not simply to be a silhouette against a sunset, but to feel as though it had stood the

This painting is beginning to demand more from me than I originally expected. I started with a photograph of a storm moving across the bushveld at sunset. What first caught me was the drama of it — an immense dark sky pressing down over the veld, while underneath it a narrow band of golden light still clung stubbornly to the horizon. In the distance, rain was already falling. It was beautiful. But the longer I have worked on the painting, the more I’ve realised that beautiful

Reflections on colour, texture and turning a landscape into something remembered When I paint a landscape, I am not trying to reproduce every tree, blade of grass or distant hill exactly as it appears. I am searching for something less visible: the atmosphere of the place and the feeling that remains after leaving it. A photograph can preserve the appearance of a landscape, but memory works differently. It softens certain details and strengthens others. We may forget the prec

Following a painting in progress from the last light of sunset towards a bright blue bench beneath an acacia tree There is a particular stillness that settles over the landscape after the sun has slipped below the horizon. The light does not disappear immediately. It lingers in the sky, softening the land and leaving behind a final glow. That fleeting moment became the starting point for Waiting for the Savanna. The painting centres on an acacia tree standing beside a quiet r

The story behind a painting shaped by uncertainty, perseverance and the quiet pull of an unknown path Some paintings arrive easily. Others ask you to remain with them—to keep looking, questioning and changing course until they finally reveal what they are meant to become. Where the Road Goes Quiet was one of those paintings. The idea began with a solitary tree standing in an open South African landscape. I wanted to capture the stillness of the veld beneath the last warmth of