Dear Lizzie (10 March ‘26),

Honey. Soap. Eggs. A sign I saw on a farm gate, I kept saying those words again and again. Isn’t this all we need? Sweet Love, Self-Care, Sustenance. Honey. Soap. Eggs. A good name for an exhibition maybe?

March. I’ve declared that March 1st is my absolute favorite day of the year, the beginning of Autumn. It’s still so warm, especially in the Goulburn valley where we are starting our walnut harvest, but I can feel Autumn hanging in the cooler mornings, the light is changing, and I feel like baking things. I’ve just planted leeks for winter soups.

Thank you for your letter. I feel the frustration in your energy, wanting to paint but you are still so much in those years of a young family. You’re amazing, I couldn’t paint when the girls were young, I was scared their needs would start to frustrate me too much. Even when they were at school and I got back into it, I’d look at the clock as 3pm approached, I’d feel annoyed at having to stop. But sometimes, it was such a beautiful relief to walk out of my studio and go inside to where I knew I was needed.

Your woven work is beautiful, I loved seeing it when I visited on Friday. It is such an extension of your craft, but so much a part of your painting. Don’t stop.

My show at Michael Reid in Berlin opens in just a few weeks. I left Pack and Send and literally lay my head on my steering wheel, I was so relieved. So many stupid sleepless nights, self-doubt, panic, questioning every single painting. Then they are finished and framed, and I slowly walk past every piece and look closely at them and wish I’d be kinder to myself and kinder to the work as it progressed. I’m happy with it, I’ve painted how I want to paint.

I’m loving those oil drawing sticks. My work is somewhere between drawing and painting. I love drawing the composition then letting those fine lines dry, painting over them but still leaving the skeleton of those original lines, those first marks and thoughts.

I want to read that book, the one about California, my heart is still there but that story is for another letter.

X

Stacey