Abi Wason’s paintings are built from memory, feeling, and instinct. Shapes and colors layer like half-remembered moments—some clear, others slipping away. Her work doesn’t aim to capture exact scenes but the traces they leave behind.
In Closed Eyes and Sunshine Patterns, warmth and movement recall childhood summers: sun on skin, voices in the distance, the flicker of light behind closed eyelids. Untold Tales reflects on how memories accumulate, some replayed over and over, others fading until something unexpected brings them back.
Though abstract, her paintings carry echoes of place, particularly the Cornish coast where she lives. The shifting light, the meeting of land and sea—these elements surface in her work, even if only as a feeling.
Q: Your paintings have a strong sense of memory and storytelling. Do you start with a clear idea, or do the connections reveal themselves as you paint?
A: I never seem to start with a clear idea, but I often begin with a color or a combination of colors. From there, things develop organically, evolving as I paint. As patterns and shapes are laid down, gentle reminders of people, places, and past experiences emerge like dusty relics. There is a quiet unfurling of thoughts and memories that start to form a colorful conversation on the canvas. It’s a very intuitive process.
Q: "Closed Eyes and Sunshine Patterns" captures a childhood moment in the South of France through texture and color. How do you translate sensory memories into abstract compositions?
A: Sensory memories have always evoked very strong emotions for me. Catching a scent on the wind can instantly elicit a Proustian moment, triggering a flood of childhood memories. Specific sounds or songs can also bring immediate feelings of nostalgia. My choice of color, along with the patterns and shapes I am drawn to, informs the tone and mood of a piece, allowing me to translate emotional and physical experiences into something that communicates the intensity and complexity of my memories.
Q: You describe silence and daydreaming as central to your process, especially in "In a World of My Own." What role does this quiet space play in shaping your work?
A: The act of creating is deeply introspective, and my preference for silence creates the mental space I need to fully immerse myself in my work.
The quiet allows me to connect with and channel ideas and emotions without external distractions disrupting my flow. I used to wonder why I never played music or listened to podcasts while painting, but I soon realized that any kind of noise felt like a purposeful distraction from my thoughts.
The studio is my time to reflect, to tap into deeper emotions, to focus and attune myself. During these times of quiet or nothingness, my thoughts are free to explore, wander, and roam. It is in these moments that I feel an interconnectedness with myself and the universe.
Q: After years in broadcast journalism, what was it like to shift from words to paint as a way of telling stories?
A: In a word—liberating. Journalism is all about clarity, succinctness, and delivering information in a straightforward manner, so the process is completely different. There are no rigid structures or editorial constraints I have to adhere to when I paint.
The stories I wrote as a journalist were about what was happening outside in the world, rather than drawing from my own internal landscape of experience, emotion, and perspective. Within my creative practice, color, shape, texture, and composition are my language. I have complete autonomy over my choices, and that in itself is incredibly freeing.
Q: Your paintings are abstract, yet there are traces of landscape in them, particularly the Cornish coast. Do you see the environment influencing your work consciously, or does it come through in unexpected ways?
A: Yes, very much so. I think the landscape inspires my work both tangibly and ethereally—it’s very hard not to be influenced by it. The evening sunsets, the expansive coastline, the granite outcrops, and the rolling moorland—all ooze inspiration.
One of my earliest memories of moving to Cornwall in my late teens was sitting in a car on a cliff, basking in the sunshine, watching a band of rain and cloud moving toward me across the Atlantic. In that moment, it dawned on me that I had never, ever seen a weather front before. I was used to living in a city where, to see the weather, you had to look up—there was no horizon to watch and observe. This phenomenon was completely mesmerizing.
The environment I live in is always in a constant state of play, so abundant and alive. I think I see it in all its technicolor glory, and that comes through in the colors I use in my paintings.
Q: "Untold Tales" explores how memories shape identity. Do you think of painting as a way of holding onto the past, or is it more about letting go?
A: Memories build up like a tapestry or a jigsaw, shaping our childhood, influencing our personality, cultivating and molding us into who we are. For me, painting is a way of processing these memories rather than holding on or letting go.
When I paint, I have the opportunity to be present, to surrender, and to enter into a state of flow. I feel closest to the part of me that feels human—the part that yearns to understand what this is all about.
Q: Your work invites the viewer to connect with their own experiences. Do you think about how others might interpret your paintings, or is it a purely personal process?
A: The beauty of art is that it’s purely subjective. What resonates with one person might touch another in an entirely different way.
For me, the beginning of this process is a very personal journey, but the minute the piece is finished and seen, it takes on a new life of its own. I love the idea that people can interpret my work in their own way. Art has an incredible ability to speak to our innermost thoughts and feelings, allowing us to experience something beyond the surface level of daily life—an opportunity to touch the void.
Q: What’s next? Are there themes or techniques you’re excited to explore?
A: I’m excited to explore different mediums as my work progresses. I love collage and the idea of weaving different materials into my paintings.
More than anything, I have a real desire to work big. To scale up. My studio is a wonderful space that I’m very grateful for, but I am constrained by its size. So, in answer to your question, What’s next?, I think I will have a conversation with the universe about working in some vast, light-filled building—somewhere warm, overlooking the sea or maybe the desert.
Wherever it is, I’d like to be surrounded by nature, listening to cicadas and crickets as the sun sets, breathing in rich, earthy aromas on the wind.