I’ve been sitting with a phrase that surfaced in one of Debbie Lyddon’s videos—a quiet nod to Wilhelmina Barns-Graham and her idea that art can emerge from ‘outer sensing and inner seeing‘.
Barns-Graham’s work, as I understand it through Debbie Lyddon’s lens, wasn’t about direct representation, but about the felt experience—the way landscape, light, and elemental change move through the body before they ever reach the page. That idea resonates deeply with how I approach my own archive work. Not as a catalogue of things, but as a space where memory, texture, and emotional fit converge.
There’s something quietly radical in allowing outer impressions—wind, tide, the patina of age—to settle inward before responding. It’s not just about observation; it’s more to do with stewardship. A kind of listening that doesn’t rush to interpret. Lyddon’s reference reminded me that this process is valid, even vital. That the slow, layered noticing I do in my studio—whether through cloth, motif, or regional memory—is part of a lineage of artists who honour the unseen.
This affirms that the work of sensing and seeing... is quietly radical. It’s the beginning of everything. Barns-Graham’s phrase gives me language for something I’ve long felt but hadn’t named. It affirms that the work of sensing and seeing—of letting the outer world stir the inner one—is enough. More than enough. It’s the beginning of everything.
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Rachel Bakewell 