What If Travel Isn’t Where I Make Art—But Where I Gather It?
The Art of Noticing
Feb 10, 2026
I’ve learned something about myself as an artist on my last trip.
And surprisingly, I’m okay with what I learned.
I love watching other artists make their work. I always have. I can lose hours inside YouTube videos—hands moving across paper, paint blooming into water, fiber taking shape. It fills me up in a way that feels like possibility. Before I leave for a trip, I watch artists who have made videos about what they pack in their own traveling art bag. I borrow tips I think will work for me and I pack (and then repack) my little art bag with a glimmer of excitement. Like maybe this time, I’ll bring my supplies and actually use them.
So I do.
I pack them carefully. Thoughtfully. Hope tucked right alongside the watercolor pencils and fine liners. A small sketchbook, just in case. Not too much. Nothing precious. I tell myself this is the trip where art will happen on the road.
And then… it usually doesn’t.
What does happen is quieter.
On this last trip—our cruise to the Bahamas—I packed light again. Watercolor pencils. A few pens. A simple sketchbook. I sketched two things: the inside of the airplane, and a slice of strawberry cheesecake I can still taste as it melted on my tongue. After that, the sketchbook stayed closed.
Instead, we read. We soaked up the sun. We played cards—Kings in the Corner, a game that always brings Grandpa Dutch back into the room with us. I watched my daughter hold her cards the way he taught her, winning round after round with that familiar, quiet grin.
I took pictures.
That’s the part I used to question.
Most of my “art” while traveling looks like photographs—moments captured quickly, sometimes without much thought. My daughter’s hands cupping tiny shells. Her cards fanned just so. Light hitting the buildings when we later found ourselves in Miami, killing time before a late flight. Art Deco lines. Commissioned street art. Soft winter sun. The strange comfort of being warm in leggings and a sweatshirt while knowing snow was waiting back home.
Miami Beach is where inspiration really stirred. Those little neighborhoods. Those buildings. I took photo after photo, already imagining them living later in my urban sketchbook—not now, not on the bus, not in the moment, but later, back in my studio.
And that’s when it clicked.
Maybe I’m not the kind of artist who makes art while traveling.
Maybe I’m the kind who gathers it.
There’s something deeply soothing to me about going back through photos after a trip. About noticing what didn’t announce itself the first time. Images I barely registered when I took them often become the ones that speak the loudest later. Funny how our eyes change once time has passed. Funny how memory softens and sharpens all at once.
The supplies I pack? They aren’t a promise I’m failing to keep.
They’re reassurance.
They’re like a small therapy pet tucked into my bag—quietly reminding me who I am, even if they never come out. They say: You’re still an artist, even if you’re resting. Even if you’re watching. Even if you’re just here.
My daughter didn’t bring her fiber supplies on this trip. She read instead. She rested. She was fully herself without producing anything. Watching that made something in me loosen.
Right now, what’s calling me isn’t ocean blues or city lines—it’s flowers. Soft petals. Color returning. Which probably says less about my subject matter and more about the season of life I’m in. Winter has lingered long enough. I’m ready for something to bloom.
So what does this mean for me as a travel artist?
It means I don’t need to force immediacy.It means gathering counts.It means memory is part of my process.It means art doesn’t have to happen there to be born from there.
I’ve learned something about myself as an artist on my last trip.
I gather first.I make later.And I’m finally okay with that.
Living Creatively,
Jennifer
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