This week’s word is liminality, from the Latin limen, meaning threshold. It describes the space between what was and what’s next: the moment of suspension before transformation takes hold. Doorways, bridges, shorelines at low tide. They sit between states, quietly holding their breath. Portals. It feels especially relevant now. The year itself stands on a threshold, Halloween, Samhain, the turning from light to dark.

October’s been full of small experiments that have made me get excited about my art again. My Creative Hug project, a loose structure built around a “word of the week” and a larger project, has given me that nudge I've needed. Each word sparks fresh activities, readings, or just little shifts in how I see things.   I've been watching leaves fall into puddles, shadows form on walls and paint drip randomly. 

A Continuing Painting This winter, I’m inspired by Judy Tuwaletstiwa’s approach of returning to one painting again and again, layering it with time, thought, and presence. Instead of creating many “finished” works, I’ll be living with a single canvas — an ongoing conversation rather than a product. This idea has been bubbling away for months after I heard Judy’s story, so I am giving it a go!

I was watching Moana at the weekend with my granddaughter. Every time, one scene in particular stays with me: Moana standing on the beach, staring out to the horizon, knowing she has to go beyond the reef. She doesn’t know exactly what she’ll find out there. She just feels the pull. Others tell her to stay, to be content where she is, but the call doesn’t go away.

“What does it mean??” We've all asked it. But here's the truth: there's no right answer. You don’t need to understand art to feel it. You just need to let it get to you.

(Why Imperfect Art Might Be Exactly What You Need) Mark Rothko once said, when pressed about the meaning of his art: “You’ve got sadness in you, I’ve got sadness in me – and my works of art are places where the two sadnesses can meet, and therefore both of us need to feel less sad.” (as told by Alain de Botton)

(Or: Why That IKEA Print Will Never Speak to Your Soul) Real art—art made by a human hand—can stir something in us. And that can be unsettling, especially with abstract work. No one tells you what it means. It might be easier to choose something mass-produced, designed to blend in, not stand out. But when you buy a piece made by an artist, you’re choosing connection and authenticity.