Just over a week has passed since the Chichester Open Studios, and I’ve found myself needing the space to reflect—not just on the event, but on everything it brought up, revealed, and clarified. It wasn’t just two weekends of showing my work. It was something much deeper. Something that reminded me why I paint and why connection, both with others and with myself, is at the core of everything I create.
This year, I exhibited my new collection What We Carry. A body of work that’s more personal, more intuitive, and more emotionally raw than anything I’ve made in a long time. And I didn’t quite realise how vulnerable that would feel until the doors opened and people began to step into the space.
The seeds of this collection were planted last summer. I hit a rough patch—a deep, uncomfortable period of imposter syndrome that shook my foundations. Despite 30 years as a practicing artist and a successful career, I found myself asking that quiet but dangerous question: Who am I to be doing this? It wasn’t new, but this time it came with more weight. I felt frozen. Questioning not only the quality of my work, but the worth of making it at all.
That moment could have led to silence. But instead, I decided to do something different. I chose to strip everything back—to paint as if no one would ever see it. No expectations. No pressure to sell. No imagined audience hovering over my shoulder. I gave myself permission to make work purely for me.
And that changed everything.
With no destination in mind, my process became intuitive—entirely about listening and layering. I would begin with marks, textures, and colours that felt right in the moment. Then I’d build and obscure, reveal and hide. It was a dance with myself, guided only by feeling, memory, and energy. Each piece slowly revealed itself, not in a linear fashion, but in a spiral—pulling me deeper into my own emotional landscape.
It became clear that What We Carry was about the invisible weight we hold—grief, identity, belonging, old stories, and unspoken truths. Every painting felt like a conversation with a part of myself I hadn’t given space to in years.
Chichester Open Studios gave me the opportunity to share that journey—not through marketing or sales pitches, but through real conversations. Talking about the work, where it came from, how it was made, and why it mattered to me, became an extension of the process itself.
There’s something powerful in being able to stand beside your work and say, “This is what I’ve made, and this is what it means to me,” without trying to convince or sell. Just sharing. Letting the work breathe and speak, and inviting others to respond in their own way.
That kind of connection is invaluable. I spoke to fellow artists, collectors, complete strangers—some moved by the colour palettes, others resonating with the themes. Some just curious about how the textures were built. And all of it mattered. All of it reminded me why I do what I do.
This year, I shared the open studio space with two brilliant artists: Bimbi and Wocco. And what an unexpected joy that was. We hadn’t spent real quality time together before this, but something about the combination just clicked. The dynamic was effortless, supportive, and fun. There was no sense of competition—only curiosity and encouragement.
We spent hours talking, laughing, and listening. We forgot to take any social media content during the first weekend because we were simply enjoying ourselves too much. It felt real and present, and I wouldn’t have traded that for a hundred Instagram posts. Listening to their stories, hearing their perspectives—it added layers to my own experience. I came away not just having shown my work, but having grown as a person.
This wasn’t my first time doing the Open Studios. I took part three years ago—but this time was different. Then, I remember feeling nervous and self-conscious. I had something to prove. I felt like I had to be “on” all the time. But now? I felt grounded. Confident in a quiet way. And most importantly, I felt at ease in the not-knowing.
I wasn’t trying to impress. I wasn’t trying to sell (though I did, and that’s always lovely). I was simply sharing. And that made all the difference.
The conversations I had—with fellow creatives, visitors, and even with myself—were richer, deeper, and more nourishing than I could have imagined. There’s something so special about meeting others who are also carrying their own stories, navigating their own creative landscapes. We mirror and witness each other in ways that help us feel less alone.
But here’s something I didn’t expect: the exhaustion that followed. The week after the second weekend hit me hard. I was drained—physically, emotionally, energetically. And I hadn’t realised just how much I’d given until I came to a full stop.
I’ve always known that I’m someone who gives a lot in conversations, in listening, in sharing space. But this time, I could really feel the cost of being that open, that present, for such extended periods. It’s not a complaint—it was absolutely worth it—but it’s something I need to honour moving forward. Rest isn’t just a luxury; it’s essential.
I’m learning more and more about what I need to stay well, to stay creative, and to keep showing up in an authentic way. I used to think I had to push through. Now I understand that pausing is part of the rhythm.
Taking part in Chichester Open Studios this year reminded me that art doesn’t live in isolation. It lives in the conversations it starts, the emotions it stirs, and the spaces it opens. What We Carry began as a personal response to doubt, to overwhelm, to the invisible burdens I couldn’t name. But through the process of making—and the courage to share—it became something else: a bridge.
A bridge between me and my own truth. A bridge between me and others who saw themselves in the work. A bridge between past and present, silence and voice, solitude and connection.
I’m incredibly grateful to everyone who came, who asked questions, who stood quietly in front of a canvas and just felt something. Thank you to Bimbi and Wocco for being such grounded, joyful studio companions. Thank you to my past self for not giving up last summer, and for daring to create without an audience.
And thank you to the creative community in Chichester, for reminding me that we are never really alone in what we carry.
Being a mixed media artist is a journey of endless possibilities, where creativity knows no bounds and self-expression takes on
There’s a universal yearning within all of us: the desire to truly know who we are. Beneath the expectations of
Louise Duggan is a mixed media artist based in West Sussex, UK. Louise works with various types of media offering original paintings and also commissions for clients.
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