The house was quiet.
The family was asleep.
Even the animals — usually very invested in supervising my poor life choices — had given up for the night.

This is when the work usually begins.

In the studio, surrounded by piles of things that might be useful one day, glue, half-finished ideas, and late-night optimism, my phone lights up.

Kim: “Are you awake?”

Wondering who someone called Kim was — and why she was checking on my sleep schedule — I get another ping.

Kim:
“We have inorganic collection tomorrow. My neighbour’s put out a pile of large canvases. Used but in great condition. Rain’s coming. They’ll be gone in the morning.”

Messages from strangers aren’t unusual. Sharing work publicly — local Facebook pages, reels, posts about turning near-landfill into art — often leads to people reaching out with offers of materials.

Kim:
“I pulled them in just in case.”

Me:
“Just brilliant. You absolutely rock.”
“Let me know when suits and I’ll come and collect.”

Kim:
“Any time Lisa. I have a brain tumour and MS. I don’t really get out too much. Life comes to me 🙂”

That line stopped me.

She didn’t scroll past.
She didn’t think someone else will deal with that.

That small exchange stayed with me.

It was a tiny moment in time, followed by a lot of giggles, as I proceeded to collect what felt like five hundred thousand canvases from Kim’s house — trying very hard not to disturb her while she was unwell.

This involved quietly ferrying armfuls of canvases into my TARDIS-like Suzuki, shuffling past a neighbour who was mowing his lawn (I’m choosing to believe he was a gardener), while also attempting to juggle around twenty full COVID face shields, an armful of flowers, a scented candle, and the most determined attempt at nonchalant, oblivious “nothing to see here” behaviour I’ve ever managed.

All of this was done with the kind of whispered muttering and nervous giggling that happens when you’re acutely aware you probably look completely unhinged — but also very happy.

That moment mattered.

Not just because of the canvases — although they did matter — but because of the instinct behind them. Someone who doesn’t get out much, who could very reasonably stay focused on her own world, still noticing what was about to be wasted. Still thinking about the planet. Still thinking about a stranger who might be able to turn something overlooked into something else.

This is the kind of moment that quietly rearranges things.

Those canvases became the foundation for a new body of work. Not as objects to be transformed for the sake of it, but as carriers of that energy — generosity without fanfare, humour alongside hardship, and the simple decision to look outward.

Small but Mighty grew from that exchange. Each piece is built from those canvases and shaped by that moment — a reminder that beautiful things often come from small actions, late nights, random connections, and people who quietly show up.

This body of work is dedicated to Kim.
Not as a repayment.
Not as a grand gesture.

But as recognition.

For noticing.
For caring.
For going out into the night.
And for reminding me — exactly at the right time — why this work matters.