The Deep


I ask you directly because your silence takes me to the edge and I drown in deep water. What do you fear? You are free as a line that escapes from the pen. We made magic for a time. Our colours sang loudly. Our words whispered softly. Does your heart miss one tiny beat?


Kiss of the Ancients


There is tenderness in the ruins. I know the story before it unfolds but I have nowhere to go but trace the heartless path with my ink.

Heart Beat



‘Remove your clothes and your ego. His words echo in my mind. Of course I am naked, bare to the sun and moon, exposed to elemental emotions that make my heart beat in time with the waves crashing on shore. When I take pen to paper, images appear, as if the island is willing me to uncover an ancient story.’

Happy New year, everyone! I hope you’re having a beautiful and creative time. The Antipodean Summer is distracting me with her sunshine but I still have some stories from last Summer in Greece. Gavdos Island provided me with a lot of introspection and inspiration and I’m keen to unravel my thoughts, photos and drawings here.

Creating Heartbeat

Find harmony in storms, waves in a full teapot, footsteps beneath the ocean and voices in the vacuum of a star-filled void. Breathe in stillness of the morning air. Awaken the inner child with the mindfulness of the old. Sense the silence in the afternoon light. Soak in the silken sun. Find solitude on the mountain. Share my stolen moments. Live the tumultuous peace that is the beginning of completion. Create. It is no paradox. It is all we can do.


Wild hearts and appreciation

I’m feeling lazy today but I want to write something before I step into the grey-skied world beyond this room. So this is probably a good moment to thank everyone who has been reading my blog. Your sharing, appreciation and collaboration has encouraged me to write regularly and to create new artworks. Thank you so much.

wild heart

Jeni McMillan

‘wild heart series’, photographic collage.

Passion Exists

There’s a rumbling in my core when I need to paint. If I ignore the call, I suffocate slowly and sink to an untimely death like an ant in thick treacle. This sounds melodramatic but ask my housemates or former lovers, I am hell to live with when I am fermenting sour unexpressed passion.

When this finally erupts I intently stalk my surrounds for canvas, brushes, linseed oil and a pile of rags to mop up spills, stained hands and footprints on the carpet. There is nothing like it. Putting my hands in clay is joyful, stalking through the bush barefoot to capture kangaroos on my SLR is fun and writing alternates between block and flow, both being rather obsessive but compulsive. However everything is pedestrian in comparison to the witching cauldron of the brush dipped in titanium, cadmium and cobalt.

i am posting a painting that erupted like hot magma when I was living in France. To illustrate my point, the heart was torn and then reconstructed in an act of faith, as was mine. Today new works are glistening wet in the alcove that separates my volcanic activity from the concentrated geophysics of El Eco’s academic endeavours and the peaceful landscape of New Housemate’s domain. Sometimes the noise is too much to bear. Sometimes the sun is too bright. But Passion Exists.