Painting From The Soul

I've tried to explain where my paintings come from, and I always find it difficult.

Not because it's complicated. Because it's simple in a way that's hard to put into words.

They come from somewhere inside me. From what I notice. From what moves me. From a kind of love for the natural world that I've had for as long as I can remember — and that painting is the only way I know how to fully express.

I'm Kirsten Katz — an Australian artist and surface designer based in Sydney. I make modern botanical and abstract wall art, homewares and gifts. Everything I make begins in this same place — a genuine response to something I've seen, felt, or been moved by.

What Painting From the Soul Actually Means

It doesn't mean every piece is heavy or emotional. Some of my paintings are joyful. Celebratory. Bursting with colour and energy. That's also soul.

What it means is that the work comes from something genuine. Not from what I think will sell. Not from what I think people want to see. Not from a trend or a brief or someone else's aesthetic.

From what I actually see, feel, and want to put into the world.

This sounds straightforward but it takes practice to trust. There's always a voice that asks: is this good enough? Will people connect with it? Should it look more like this or less like that?

Painting from the soul means learning to make those decisions from the inside out, not the outside in. It's something I write about in depth on the Art Behind the Brand page — the values and intentions that shape everything I make.

10 Things I've Learned Running an Art Business. Read the post →

The Work That Lasts Comes From a Real Place

I've made pieces that were technically competent but felt hollow. I knew while I was making them that I was going through the motions — making something that looked right but didn't come from anywhere real.

And I've made pieces in a single session, almost without thinking, that captured something I couldn't have planned. Those are the ones people respond to most strongly. Not because they're the most polished, but because there's something alive in them.

That aliveness is what I mean by soul.

The Flowers of Oz collection — my first — came entirely from that place. No strategy. No plan. Just painting what felt right and following it wherever it went. The response from people who've brought those pieces into their homes has always reflected that energy back — they feel what was in the work when it was made.

The same is true of my original paintings. Each one is a record of a particular session, a particular state of mind, a particular way of seeing. That's what makes them irreplaceable — not the paint or the paper, but the specific human moment that made them.

Authenticity and the Fear of Being Seen

Painting from the soul requires a kind of courage. Because if the work comes from somewhere real in you — and someone dismisses it, or doesn't respond, or doesn't understand — it stings in a way that technically competent but emotionally empty work never would.

That vulnerability is the price of authentic creative expression. And it's worth paying. Because the alternative — making safe work that comes from nowhere — might protect you from criticism, but it also protects you from connection.

The people who respond most deeply to my work aren't just buying a print. They're recognising something in it. A feeling, a love of colour, a connection to the natural world. That recognition only happens when the work is real.

You can read more about this in my post on courage and creativity — the decision to keep making things honestly even when it feels exposed.

Finding Your Way Back to It

If your creative practice has started to feel mechanical — if you're making things out of obligation or habit rather than desire — it might be worth asking what drew you to this in the first place.

What did you love to make before anyone was watching? What colours, subjects, or materials have always felt like yours?

Go back there. Even briefly. Even just to remember the feeling.

The soul of your work is still there. It might just need some space to surface. And if you need somewhere to start, showing up to a regular creative practice — even briefly, even imperfectly — is often what creates that space.

Warmly, Kirsten x