People often ask me when I became an artist.
The honest answer is — I'm not sure I ever decided to. It decided me.
There was no grand plan. No studio with north-facing light and the perfect easel. No formal moment where I declared myself a painter and everything fell neatly into place. It was messier than that. More human than that.
It started at my kitchen table.
Paints squeezed onto whatever surface I could find, brushes propped in old jam jars, the everyday chaos of life happening around me. The kettle boiling. The to-do list waiting. And me, stealing an hour — sometimes less — to do the one thing that made everything else feel quieter.
When the kitchen table wasn't available, I'd find somewhere else. The shed. A corner of a room. Anywhere I could grab a little space and lose myself in colour and movement for a while. There were no rules about where art had to be made. It just had to be made.
That urgency — that need to create — was telling me something. I just hadn't quite listened to it fully yet.
I had spent years in a corporate world that was successful by every measurable standard, and quietly suffocating by every other. Cornwall had called me long before I answered. When I finally did, something cracked open.
The coast here does that to you. The light is extraordinary — the way it moves across the water, the way a storm can give way to the most breath-taking stillness in a matter of minutes. I found myself not just looking at it, but feeling it. And needing to paint it.
What started at a kitchen table, in a shed, in borrowed corners of ordinary life — slowly became something I couldn't ignore. The original abstract paintings grew bolder. The colours more instinctive. The process more honest.
I began to understand that this wasn't a hobby. It was the most truthful thing I had ever done.
Sam Taylor Art grew from that truth. From the belief that expressive, colourful abstract art has the power to transform not just a space, but the way you feel inside it. That a piece of original wall art hung in your home can hold an emotion, mark a moment, remind you every single day of something that matters.
From storm to stillness — that's the journey my art represents. And it all started at a kitchen table in Cornwall, with a brush in my hand and no idea what was coming next.
I'm so glad I picked it up.