My name is Valda Bailey. I mostly make art. Images that straddle some murky middle ground where photography, printmaking and mixed media collide. I have published a couple of books (Fragile, We May As Well Dance) and spent many years teaching, most recently collaborating with Doug Chinnery on FYV (Find Your Voice).
Here I am mostly thinking. About paper, about colour, the weather, materials, looking, and the joy of gazing vacantly into the middle distance awaiting inspiration.
I am not a writer. That is to say, I am able to string words together in a vaguely coherent way, but I don’t profess to be able to do anything more than that. The essays wander rather than explain. Some arrive with pictures. Some probably won’t. Unlike the tide outside my door, their pattern is irregular; they do not take heed of the moon.
My knotty-pated fool helps me collect my thoughts; sometimes he assists in shaping an argument. He is also quite a nifty thesaurus. He definitely pulls me up on my grammar and spelling. But that’s about it. The structure is mine, as are the philosophical musings.
There is an abbreviated version of this site on Substack. Some people seem to prefer it there. Everything is free to read. If you would like the notes by email, subscribe below. If you know someone who would enjoy them, I would really appreciate you passing them on. Word of mouth is the best form of advertising.
If anything in a piece prompts a thought, if you have questions or want to say hi, you can reply and it comes straight to me. I may be slow to respond, but I do read everything.
In June 2026, I moved from East Sussex to the Silver Coast of Portugal. The Atlantic is at the end of the garden now. The light here is different – silver, salt-washed, ever-changing. I hear the rhythm of the waves day and night.
Studio Atlantic is where I try to make sense of all of this — in words, in images, in process. It runs in three loose rooms.
TO WANDER & WONDER. The walking and the thinking that comes back with it. Place, light, the awkward language of being an immigrant, the things that turn over in the head whilst walking along the beach.
WORKING. What happens on the table. Cold wax, kozo paper, collagraph, gold leaf, the slow business of finishing a piece by hand. Decisions, mistakes, the next decision.
THE IMAGE ROOM. Pictures, mostly. Residues of light and time along the coast. The ideas that hung around long enough to take form.
I am wary of the word blog. It suggests something more disposable than I intend. These are notes from a working studio, written by someone still searching. Exploring, not explaining.
If any of it speaks to you, I would be glad of the company.