Returning to the Owl
Reconnecting, relearning, persevering
Yesterday I drove to the Warwickshire Cotswolds border to spend the afternoon in a village hall workshop run by my old college friend, Lindsay Cleaver.
It is the first time we have seen each other in real life since we were about eighteen.
We were both a little nervous. That strange, slightly tender moment of wondering — who are you now? Who am I now? What have the years done to us?
But within minutes we were chatting like no time had passed.
This feels like a significant year for both of us. We are both turning 50. And there was something quietly powerful about reconnecting now — not just with each other, but with that formative time in our lives.
East Warwickshire College. Rugby Art School.
Those years shaped me. They gave me permission to experiment. To value texture. To trust instinct over polish. Looking at Lindsay’s work now, I can see those same roots in her practice too — grown and refined in her own direction.
If you’d like to see her work or join one of her workshops, you can find her here:
👉 Lindsay Cleaver – Artist Website
👉 Upcoming Workshops & Bookings
She runs wildlife and monoprint sessions locally — and I can genuinely recommend them.
The Workshop: Not As Easy As It Looks
We worked with a gel plate to create a wildlife portrait. I chose a barn owl.
I’ll admit something: I have a gel plate at home.
I’ve “had a little play” with it before. And then it sat in a drawer.
Unused.
Yesterday I realised why.
It is more difficult than it looks.
The process began with drawing using a chinagraph pencil onto paper — loose, expressive lines of the owl. That drawing was then pressed onto a layer of darker black acrylic paint on the gel plate to transfer the marks and create the first structural layer.
This first stage is crucial. You have to press gently. Too much pressure and you pull all the paint away. Too little and nothing transfers.
It took me three attempts to get that first outline to work properly.
Three.
And I wasn’t the only one — several people in the workshop struggled to get that first transfer right. It’s deceptively technical.
There’s something humbling about realising that a tool you’ve had at home all along requires more patience and understanding than you gave it.
But that’s the gift of learning with someone who knows the process deeply. Watching Lindsay demonstrate. Seeing how much pressure to apply. Understanding how much paint to lay down.
Perseverance matters.
That first successful transfer felt earned.
Building the Layers
Once the structural outline was in place, we began building up layers of colour on the gel plate — warm ochres, muted greens, deeper browns — thinking carefully about tone and placement before pulling the print.
Then came the reveal.
After pulling the print, we worked back into it with acrylic paint — refining areas, strengthening shadows, adding definition to the owl’s face and feathers. I loved this stage. It allowed a little reclaiming of control after the unpredictability of the plate.
And then there is the visual noise.
The smudges. The imperfect transfers. The subtle background marks left by the gel process.
They aren’t mistakes.
They create atmosphere. Movement. Depth.
Without that visual noise, the image would feel too tidy. Too polite. It’s the noise that gives it life.
What Stayed With Me
It wasn’t just about learning a technique.
It was about returning to a creative friendship that began when we were eighteen.
It was about recognising the artist I was becoming back then — and seeing that she still exists inside the artist I am now.
It was also a reminder that learning requires humility.
That tools sitting unused in drawers sometimes just need proper guidance.
That three attempts are sometimes what it takes.
That turning fifty doesn’t mean you know everything — it might mean you’re finally ready to persevere properly.
Driving home I felt full — not just of inspiration, but of gratitude.
Grateful for old friendships that can be picked up gently.
Grateful for formative art school years that continue to shape my hand.
Grateful that learning is still uncomfortable in the best possible way.
And hopeful that this is the first of many chances to reconnect — with Lindsay, with process, and with the quieter, braver parts of myself.