How to Create a Relationship with a River?

For six months, I waited.

Not passively, but attentively.

I listened to the river’s rhythms and my own.

I cleared space—inside and out—tidying the edges of my practice,

making room for something quieter, more honest, more rooted.

I watched the river, and I watched myself watching.

I’ve always loved the idea of painting outside, of recording Nature in real time, of letting the wind and light and birdsong shape the brushstroke. After “Leave the World Behind”, my January show built on photo references and remembered landscapes, I knew I wanted to go deeper. That exhibition was a celebration of memory—of places once visited, of moments captured and revisited through the lens of nostalgia.

But something had shifted. I no longer wanted to revisit. I wanted to be present.

I wanted to experience landscape painting differently—more engaged, more embodied, more alive to the moment. And I knew the river would be my guide.

The idea of working with the river has been with me since I first settled in Alexandra. I remember the moment someone mentioned the Manuherikia—I had a newborn in my arms, and they had just caught a brown trout for dinner.

Was he allowed to do that? to catch his own food?

Wow, that was so wild! ...it felt almost forbidden... I remember thinking it must be so satisfying to eat that fish.

Something in me lifted. My ears perked up. My mind began connecting dots. But I was busy (very busy), and far from ready to understand what a river truly means.

Thirteen years have passed since that moment, and the rivers of my landscapes are still here—still flowing through my life, still shaping my days. However, only recently have I begun to realise how little I’ve truly listened. I’ve walked their banks, received their seasons, basked in their companionship. I’ve poured my energy, my joy, my sorrow into these waters. But I never asked what they needed. I never paused to hear what they might be saying.

I’ve been a grateful guest, perhaps, but not a true friend.

Thirteen years is also the time it took for me to acknowledge the threats—one after another, subtle and accumulating. The taking hasn’t stopped. It’s not just water that’s being drawn away, but character, vitality, dignity. And a shadow passed over my mind. I got worried.

What if we were about to lose something vital—something irreplaceable—without even realising it was slipping away? What if the river’s gifts, so freely given, were being spent without thanks, without reciprocity, without awareness? What if there was no fixing it, no coming back, only the quiet ache of something lost forever?

So I began again. Not with answers, but with presence.

I started painting the river. One painting a week (as much as possible). Outside. On the spot. Listening. Receiving. Responding.

This is I Am River—a 52-week plein air challenge, and the first step in building a relationship. Not a project of mastery, but of resonance. Like tuning an instrument, I’ve been learning to adjust my rhythm to hers—to listen, respond, and let my practice echo the river’s song. Not a series of finished works, but a practice of showing up.

Because creating a relationship with a river isn’t about knowing her. It’s about noticing. About remembering that we are part of her story. About asking what she needs, and willing to hear the answer.

What has the river given you?

And have you ever asked what she might want in return?