Vanessa Franklin
- Anna Lilli Garai
- Jun 25
- 3 min read
Vanessa Franklin is a New Zealand-born artist living in London. She works mainly with acrylic on canvas, creating quiet, observational paintings based on simple moments from daily life. Her process often begins with a photograph or a quick sketch and unfolds slowly, through layering and subtle adjustments. She pays close attention to tone, shape, and space, using a soft, muted palette to bring out the atmosphere of a scene. Light, objects, and body language play an important role in her compositions. Each work carries the stillness and weight of lived experience.
Q: What kind of things tend to catch your attention first when you’re about to start something new?
A: I usually start with a feeling—something I’m curious about or something I think will be fun to explore. It’s a mix of instinct and taste—what feels visually or emotionally interesting to me.
But I also think about how it might be seen through someone else’s eyes. What kind of mood will it stir? What emotion might it bring up?
I’m interested in that exchange—between what I put into the work and how someone might receive it.
Q: Your work is filled with small, quiet moments. When does a detail feel meaningful enough to paint?
A: I believe every inanimate object can carry meaning—it just depends on who's looking. Something completely ordinary to one person might hold deep personal significance to another.
I’m drawn to that space where the mundane becomes meaningful. It’s the everyday, the routine, the ritual—those small, still things that quietly hold memory, emotion, or presence.
Q: How do you know when a composition has enough space—when to stop adding?
A: It’s a bit contentious—even for me. Some days, I really believe less is more. A single object or gesture can say so much on its own. Other times, I lean into the mess—the layers, the clutter, the rawness. It just depends on the feeling I’m trying to hold. There’s no exact moment—sometimes I stop too soon, sometimes I go too far. I think that’s part of it, though. The uncertainty is kind of the point.
Q: Has painting changed the way you relate to everyday objects around you?
A: Definitely. It’s taught me to slow down and really notice things—the everyday, the mundane, the ritual. I pay more attention now to how light hits a surface, how objects rest, the small details that feel beautiful in their raw, unfiltered state. Painting has made me more present—more open to finding meaning in what might otherwise be overlooked. In a way, the practice has become a kind of meditation for me. It’s where I can be quiet, grounded, and fully in the moment—just responding to what’s in front of me.
Q: There’s a strong sense of memory in your scenes. Are you painting what happened or how it felt?
A: It’s rarely just one memory—it’s more like an emotional collage, you could say. I often build scenes from imagination, drawing on different times, places, feelings, and objects. It’s not about recreating what happened exactly, but more about capturing how it felt. The result is something familiar, but a little dreamlike—a moment that could belong to anyone.
Q: Has your move from New Zealand to London changed how you see the everyday?
A: The two are vastly different. I grew up on the edge of a small, coastal town in New Zealand—life was quiet, slow, always shifting as I moved around. And now I’m in East London, surrounded by a very different kind of energy. I still love the slowness, but I’ve come to see beauty in the chaos too—in the diversity of culture, thought, food, friendship. London has sharpened my sense of contrast, and in that contrast, I’ve learned to see the everyday with new eyes.
