The Silent Sublime
For the Romantic poets of the 18th century, the Sublime was the height of human experience in nature, when beauty and immensity met and exceeded what language could not hold.
Fiordland offers that same magnitude, but what moves me most is its silence. Its grandeur does not shout; it waits. The still air between waterfalls of Doubtful Sound. The slow passing of cloud over Mitre Peak. The muffled green that softens granite walls.
I call this the Silent Sublime, and it’s why I return here year after year. In stillness, the scale seeps into you. You see far. You breathe deep. You feel small in the best way possible.
You finally remember yourself.
This work is inspired by my many pilgrimages to Fiordland over the past decade - sketches, colour studies, plein air paintings and studio pieces, all attempts to hold that silent sublime on paper, as a reminder and an invitation at the same time.
Fiordland demands nothing. It accepts presence and deep attention as an offering.
I cannot paint its cliffs, its mists, its immense scale, its silence without slowing down. And in standing still, I begin to see, and in seeing, I begin to realize that I care, deeply.
As the Māori concept of kaitiakitanga teaches, guardianship of the land begins with deep connection. My hope is that by sharing these works and my process, you will be drawn to that connection too.
Ultimately, the object isn’t to make art. It’s to be in that wonderful state which makes art inevitable.
Early impressions – sketches & value studies
When I first arrive, I start with small, loose sketches — not to make “finished” art, but to myself to noticing and really seeing. The goal is to get every familiar association out of my system: the classic postcard views, the easy compositions. These sketches are my warm-up laps, the visual equivalent of taking a deep breath and getting all the old conditioning out. Nothing technical yet, just getting used to the idea that i am now dealing with a new subject.
The physical act of Seeing
Ruskin said that drawing is above all an act of seeing. The first days in a landscape are for clearing your vision. Sketching until the obvious is gone, and the place begins to speak back. Only then do the real paintings begin.
Before colour, I map the light in black and white. In Fiordland, the play of shadow and mist shifts minute by minute, and I use quick tonal studies to find where the drama lies.
The color quest
Fiordland’s dawn & dusk light is elusive. I’ve been running controlled experiments with granulating pigments, layering transparent washes and dropping wet colors into wet to recreate that mineral yet hazy glow. Some of these tests succeed; others fail but every failure is a clue that illuminates the next step.
From field to studio, tinkering continues.
I often work plein air painting directly on the foreshore, then rework a larger version back in my studio. The plein air piece carries the immediacy of being there, the wind, the shifting light, the sound of waterfalls.
The studio version allows me to crop, edit and essentially compose to strengthen the emotional intent.
