Most people notice Australian natives when in flower. The blossoms are impossible to ignore—vibrant, joyful and alive with birds and bees. I never tire of painting them. But if you’ve ever wandered through Kings Park with me, you’ll know my attention rarely stops at the blossom. I often find myself looking at what remains.
Long after the flowers have faded, the seed capsules stay quietly on the branch. They’re small, weathered and easily overlooked. Most people walk straight past them. Sometimes, I find them even more intriguing than the flowers themselves. That probably sounds a little peculiar. Yet the more time I spend with them, the more I notice. Their colours are constantly changing. Fresh seed capsules glow with vibrant greens and yellows before slowly softening into warm ochres, silvery greys and rich earthy browns. With time they become beautifully weathered, reminding me of driftwood shaped by years of wind, rain and sunshine.
Every stage has its own quiet beauty.The longer I look, the more fascinated I become by their remarkable architecture. Tiny chambers. Beautiful symmetry. Strong sculptural forms that once protected new life before gently releasing it into the world. They are strong, resilient, and extraordinarily beautiful.
Over the years I’ve realised that’s probably why I keep returning to them in my paintings. They remind me that nature is never only beautiful in its brightest, most obvious moments. Sometimes its deepest beauty is quietly waiting underneath. It makes me wonder how often we do the same in our own lives. We naturally celebrate life’s seasons of colour, growth and abundance. Yet there are quieter seasons too. Seasons that feel weathered. Seasons where life has stripped everything back. Nature gently reminds me that these seasons aren’t empty.
There is beauty there too. Not the loud beauty of blossoms demanding to be noticed, but a quieter beauty. One shaped by time, strength and experience. The kind of beauty that only reveals itself when we’re willing to slow down and really look.
Perhaps that’s why I keep painting these humble seed capsules. Not because they’re unusual. But because they quietly invite us to see beyond the surface. To discover that what remains can sometimes be every bit as beautiful as what came before.
And perhaps that’s true of us, too.
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The Studio Journal is where I share the stories behind my paintings, the beauty I notice while wandering through nature, and the small moments that remind me to slow down and really look.
If these reflections resonate with you, I’d love to welcome you to Studio Letters—my occasional letters from the studio, where I share new paintings, thoughtful stories, and invitations to see the world a little differently.