One Artist Date a Month (Because I’m Booked, Literally)

Let’s get one thing clear: I love the idea of weekly Artist Dates.

The whole romantic ritual of it — nurturing your inner child, lighting a candle, wandering galleries in floaty linen.

But let’s be honest: ain’t nobody got time for that.
I’ve got clay to wedge, dogs to chase, school run-arounds to manage, and dreams to hand-build.

So I do it once a month. And when I do? I go all in.

June’s Artist Date (With a Side of Date-Date)

This one was special. Not just an artist date — a date date too. Double points for inspiration and affection.

We started the morning right:
Me, a hot brown in hand, a warm croissant with layers so flaky it should’ve come with a warning, and a cosy café where the vibes were giving soft jazz and secret plans.

After a slow breakfast that made me forget I’d ever eaten in a rush, we hit the streets for what can only be described as Bookshop Bingo.

The Holy Grail: Canty’s

I don’t know how I’d never been to Canty’s before.
Maybe the universe was saving it. Maybe I wasn’t ready.
But honey — when I tell you I ascended?

Room after room of second-hand books.
Stacks everywhere. On shelves. On stools. On the damn floor.
It was the kind of chaos that speaks directly to my soul.
The kind of chaos that whispers, “Don’t bother organising your bookshelf — just come here.”

They had everything:
Children’s books (yes, I squealed), dusty cookbooks, niche history tomes, and art books stacked like treasure chests.

And Then... Van Gogh

Now listen. I’ve been on the hunt for a Van Gogh book ever since I saw the Immersive Van Gogh exhibition back in 2022.
That show rewired something in me. Like, deep in my cortex.
I’ve been quietly obsessed ever since — like “searching second-hand shops in three states” obsessed.

And there it was.
Just chillin’ on top of a teetering pile of randomness, like “Hey girl, I knew you’d show.”

It wasn’t even priced.
I was like, “I’m not leaving without this,” handed it to the guy behind the counter, and made it official.

Got home, flicked it open...
And nearly screamed.

It’s organised by season.

By. Season.

If you know me, you know I work by the rhythm of the seasons.
My hands follow the weather. My glazes change with the light.
And here was Van Gogh — my forever muse — laid out like a handmade calendar of colour and emotion.

It’s perfect. I read it by lamplight now like it’s scripture.

Lakeside Lunch + Creepin’ (Respectfully)

We wrapped up the day with lunch by the water.
Because if I’m not surrounded by trees or staring at mountains, I need water close by. I swear my ancestors call me to it.
Something about watching the ripples resets my soul.

We ate slow, we people-watched (with love… and commentary), and we just were.
No emails. No to-do lists. Just vibes, carbs, and conversations that didn’t start with “So what are we having for dinner?”

Then it was pick-up time. Kids collected.
Witching hour commenced.
And yes, more coffee was brewed. Obviously.

Why I Make Time for This (Even Just Monthly)

Because even once a month is enough.
Because inspiration doesn't knock while you’re elbow-deep in dishes — it taps your shoulder in the quiet moments.
Because one well-spent morning can fuel a whole season of making.

And because second-hand bookshops with the scent of espresso are basically cathedrals.

So this is your sign:
Take yourself out.
Touch the spines of old books. Chase the sun across a lake. Find the café with the good croissants and bad Wi-Fi.

Call it an Artist Date.
Call it therapy.
Call it what you want — just don’t wait.

With hot brown love and Van Gogh pages under my pillow, until next time,
Nawsheen, your friendly homebody artist from Murrumbateman.