Serendipity
The ambulant miniature art shop, summer 2026 — Photo: @lie_kauffmann
Serendipity — [noun] The art of making an unexpected discovery whilst looking for something else entirely.
It’s been a month and fourteen days since I embarked on this adventure. Painting. Painting everything. Painting outdoors, painting my bedroom, painting the whole city of Barcelona if I must… Painting as the act that heals everything, that takes everything under its wing.
My secret – the one I haven’t yet dared to say out loud – is that I would have liked to become a Beguine. ‘Be… what?’ I hear you say. In the Middle Ages, women had two possible life paths (perhaps three): getting married or entering a convent. For the more rebellious ones, those who dreamt of independence: the brothel, or becoming the personal mistress of a lord.
Until the Beguines. These emancipated Christian women chose to devote their lives to God without taking vows. They lived amongst other women, in small walled villages – cloistered oases in the heart of the big cities or the countryside – and devoted their days to caring for the sick. They were able to retain their property, practise a profession, and leave the beguinages to work and help the community.
Living out your faith, not by separating yourself from the world, but by engaging with it at the very core. My eyes were shining…
My problem is that, officially, they no longer exist. Marcella Pattyn passed away in 2013, aged 92, and with her died an order that had endured for over 800 years.
I was looking for a solution.
In the 13th century, just as in the 21st, you have to start somewhere. And the only place I know where everything takes root, where anything can come into being, is the street.
What can I do? Write poems, paint. Can I do that on the street? I’ll have to give it a go. Could it be of use to the community? That’s for the community to decide.
So I took the leap. Right at the foot of the Sagrada Família. I thought: what better patron to encourage such a wild idea? With a knot in my stomach and a trembling brush, I opened my briefcase, which I’d specially adapted to turn it into a mobile miniature art shop, and I painted, painted and painted. I said my prayers every morning to the sound of the chimes. I wiped away tears – whether of terror or joy – and the sweat from my brows. And I went back there every day, at least for a little while.
I’ve met some incredible people. People from all over the world. Children approached, watched; sometimes I handed them the paintbrush and they gave it a go. There was this German chap who didn’t say a word and just stood behind me looking. He must have stood like that for over half an hour without saying a word. I tried to strike up a conversation with him: nothing. A sniff and a nod. Second attempt – yes, yes, he understands English – but still nothing. In reality, as I was finishing up, I eventually realised that all that time, he’d been waiting. He wanted to buy the painting.
Then there was J., who came over on the very first day – when I still had absolutely no idea what I was doing, with the paint box right on the floor. He came over, introduced himself, and offered me a bottle of water so that (I quote:) “I could carry on painting in this heat without passing out”. And he was one of the first to buy one of my cards.
Finally, there was that incredible day when Stephanie Bower (a master of urban sketching and author of three books on the subject) sat down with me for a whole morning to sketch. (I still can’t believe it).
So I don’t know yet where all this is heading – it’s too early to say. But I’ve already had some incredible experiences, and every one of you who’s exclaimed “Oh, look how pretty!” as you passed by has left me with no choice now: I have to carry on. ♡ —
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