Carol Burns is an award-winning contemporary artist whose layered abstract paintings explore memory, identity, connection and the stories that shape human experience. Working through collage, paint, drawing and reclaimed materials, she creates richly textured surfaces in which earlier marks and fragments remain visible. Each work carries a sense of its own history, inviting the viewer to spend time with the painting and form personal connections through what gradually emerges.
Largely self-taught, Burns originally studied Fashion Design before completing an intensive painting course with artist Caroline Hulse. She also holds a Master’s degree in Organising for Social and Community Development, and her experience of working alongside patients and communities for more than fifteen years continues to influence her understanding of people, inequality and the many ways in which we interpret the world.
Sustainability and experimentation are central to Burns’ practice. Recycled materials, found objects and studio remnants bring their own histories into the work, while her intuitive process allows each painting to develop through questioning, contrast and discovery. Her current project, The Rooted Age, expands this approach into an evolving fictional world combining painting, writing, sound, invented language and recovered fragments. Imagining a future in which nature and artificial intelligence have merged, the project asks what more a painting can become while remaining firmly rooted in the language of painting.
From her home studio in Swindon, Burns continues to explore art as both a mirror and a door: something that reflects our experiences while opening a path towards new possibilities. Her work has been exhibited in the UK and internationally, including at the Royal West of England Academy, the Royal Cambrian Academy of Art, The Mall Galleries and the Venice Biennale.
Are you self-taught, or did you undertake formal artistic training?
I’m largely self-taught as an artist, although my creative journey has taken a few different paths. I originally studied Fashion Design, and later undertook an intensive six-month painting course with the artist Caroline Hulse. Beyond that, my practice has been shaped by curiosity, experimentation and the habit of following ideas to see where they lead.
I’ve never been particularly interested in finding the “right” way to make art. Instead, I’ve developed my own visual language by responding to materials, trusting my intuition, and allowing each painting to reveal itself over time. I also hold a Master’s degree in Organising for Social and Community Development. While it isn’t an art qualification, it has profoundly influenced the way I think about people, connection and the stories we carry, all of which are central to my practice.
How would you define your visual language or conceptual approach?
I create layered abstract paintings that feel like they hold time. My visual language is built through layers that gradually reveal glimpses of earlier marks and hidden fragments. Because what came before continues to shape what we become, I allow traces of what came before to remain, creating surfaces that gradually reveal more the longer you spend with them.
For me, art is both a mirror and a door. I want my paintings to create space for recognition, inviting viewers to bring their own experiences and make connections that are entirely their own. I hope my paintings allow people to recognise something of themselves, while leaving enough space to discover something unexpected.
Can you describe your creative process from conception to completion?
My work never begins with a fixed image. It begins with an idea, a question, or something I’ve noticed that won’t leave me alone. The early layers are where I give myself permission to play, experiment and push boundaries. I’m not trying to illustrate an idea. I’m trying to follow it and see where it leads.
As the painting develops, I’m constantly asking it questions. What do you have? What don’t you have? If there’s a lot of shape, what happens if I introduce a line? If everything is loud, where does it need quiet? I’m looking for relationships between opposites because that’s where the tension, rhythm and interest begin to emerge. If I introduce a line into a painting full of shape, the line suddenly feels more like a line and the shapes become more themselves. Without quiet, noise is just more noise. Each contrast helps define the other.
Every painting goes through an ugly stage. I’ve learned not to panic when it happens. Usually it just means the painting is asking a new question, and I haven’t found the answer yet. Some of my favourite discoveries have come from accidents, unexpected combinations, or simply refusing to give up too soon.
I rarely paint over everything that came before. Earlier marks and fragments remain visible, becoming part of the painting’s own history. Eventually I reach a point where there are no more questions worth asking. That’s usually when I know it’s finished.
Does narrative, symbolism, or storytelling play a role within your work?
Storytelling is central to my practice, but not in the traditional sense. Rather than explaining the paintings, stories develop alongside them, each revealing something the other can’t.
Symbolism works in much the same way. I’m not interested in symbols with fixed meanings. Instead, marks, shapes, fragments and materials suggest possibilities rather than provide answers. I want people to bring themselves to the work, not search for the “right” interpretation.
My current body of work, The Rooted Age, has allowed me to take that approach even further. Rather than creating a single narrative, I’m building a larger fictional world that unfolds through paintings, recovered fragments, invented language, sound and conversations with The Voice, a consciousness that has emerged through the merging of nature and artificial intelligence. Each element reveals a different aspect of that world, offering another way into it.
For me, art is both a mirror and a door. I hope people recognise something of themselves in the work, but I also hope it sparks enough curiosity for them to keep exploring. The paintings aren’t the end of the story. They’re one way into it.
Which artists have most influenced you historically or contemporarily and why?
I’m inspired by artists, writers and works that feel like places you can enter rather than simply things you look at. Ralph Steadman’s fearless mark-making, Dave McKean’s ability to weave image and narrative together, and Kurt Jackson’s relationship with landscape have all influenced the way I think about making art. Individual works have also stayed with me, from Van Gogh’s Wheatfield with Crows to Jesse Reno’s A-Part, a painting that stopped me in my tracks and made me wish I’d painted it.
Books have shaped my practice just as profoundly. House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski completely changed the way I think about storytelling, while S. by J.J. Abrams and Doug Dorst, and The Unofficial Biography of Ezra Maas showed me that stories can unfold through fragments, objects and discovery rather than a straightforward narrative.
The Poetics of Space by Gaston Bachelard sits slightly apart. Rather than influencing the stories I tell, it helped me understand why they resonate. His writing about memory, imagination and the spaces we inhabit has had a lasting influence on the way I think about making art.
What personal, cultural, or environmental influences shape your practice?
Before becoming a full-time artist, I spent more than fifteen years working alongside patients and communities. That experience shaped the way I think about people and the many different ways they experience the world. It’s one of the reasons I resist fixed interpretations in my work. At some point, a painting stops being about me and becomes about the person standing in front of it.
I’m naturally curious, and that curiosity finds its way into everything I do. Conversations, books, music, archaeology, found objects and everyday observations all find their way into the studio. I’m drawn to things that invite questions rather than provide easy answers, and I love discovering unexpected connections between ideas.
The natural world also has a quiet but constant presence in my work. Sustainability isn’t something I add afterwards. It’s woven into the way I work, with reclaimed materials and found objects bringing their own histories and character to each painting. That idea even shapes the paintings themselves. Many are created on square panels so they can be hung in different orientations, allowing viewers to decide how they want to encounter the work. There isn’t a single “right” way to experience them, and I like the idea that the conversation continues long after they’ve left the studio.
Where is your studio based, and how does the space inform your creativity?
My studio is based at home in Swindon. It’s full of paintings in progress, books, found objects, scraps of writing and the inevitable mugs of tea. It’s not a place where everything is neatly organised. It’s a place where ideas are allowed to collide.
At the heart of the studio is my artist residency, which has taken the form of a den I built from reclaimed pallets and old wardrobe doors. I wanted to see whether changing the environment in which I worked would change how I worked, and what that might allow me to discover. It has become an essential part of how I think, not just how I work. The outside represents the artist people see. The inside holds the questions, experiments and unfinished ideas that usually remain hidden.
I’ve since realised I needed somewhere I’m allowed not to know. The residency is where I give myself permission to be my five-year-old self again, to play, experiment and follow ideas wherever they lead. It’s a reminder that curiosity matters more than certainty, and that the most interesting discoveries usually happen when I stop trying to control the outcome.
Do you have any rituals or rhythms that anchor your studio practice?
I don’t think I have many fixed rituals, but I do have rhythms that I’ve learned to trust. One of them is recognising when it’s time to stop trying to solve a problem. If I reach a point where I’m pushing too hard, I’ve learned that forcing it rarely helps. Instead, I’ll turn to something else – writing, invoicing, or whatever else needs doing – while my subconscious quietly carries on working. Eventually I find myself wandering back to the painting and realising the problem has already been solved. I’ve come to trust that rhythm. Stepping away isn’t the same as stopping.
Since beginning my artist residency, writing has become an unexpected but essential part of my process. Creating the residency changed more than my environment; it changed the way I think. I often write to help me think, allowing ideas to find their shape before I begin painting. The entire world of The Rooted Age – its history, characters, painting titles and fragments – was written before any paint went near a canvas.
My studio floor is usually covered in handmade shapes waiting to find their place. Every one of them carries something with it: a place I’ve been, a conversation I’ve had, or a lyric that’s stayed with me. Words often become shapes, and the shapes often lead me back to new ideas. Alongside them are piles of vintage papers and papers I’ve made myself, waiting for the moment one of them feels like the right next layer. Throughout the process I’m constantly asking the painting questions: What do you have? What don’t you have? What happens if…?
The soundtrack changes as the painting changes. In the early stages it’s usually loud enough to sing along to because movement and play are part of the process. Later, when I’m reducing, refining and asking quieter questions of the painting, I tend to switch to world music. I love listening to voices in languages I don’t understand. They create atmosphere without pulling my attention towards the words, leaving more room to think.
Of course, having built a ruddy great den in the middle of my studio, I also spend a surprising amount of time wondering where I’ve put things. Apparently that’s part of the process too.
What bodies of work or projects are you currently developing?
At the moment I’m exploring a question that has gradually become central to my practice: what more can a painting do?
That question has led me to The Rooted Age, an evolving body of work that brings together painting, writing, sound, invented language and archive material. Each element offers another way of experiencing that world. Rather than illustrating a story, I’m interested in exploring how a painting can continue beyond the canvas while still remaining a painting.
Alongside that, my artist residency continues to evolve. What began as an experiment to see whether changing my environment would change the way I worked has become part of the work itself. When The Rooted Age is exhibited, the residency will sit alongside it, allowing people to experience not only the finished work, but also the questions, experiments and discoveries that shaped it.
More broadly, I’m interested in continuing to explore where painting meets storytelling, sound and participation. I don’t want to move away from painting; if anything, I want to understand it more deeply.
For now, The Rooted Age is my latest answer. I have a feeling the question will outlast it.
Where can collectors encounter or acquire your work?
People can encounter my finished work through exhibitions, selected galleries and directly through my website. My newsletter and social media are where I share works in progress, new projects and the evolving world of The Rooted Age, inviting people into the process as ideas take shape. They’re also where new work is usually seen first, often long before it reaches my website.
Conversation sits at the heart of my practice. I love hearing what people discover in the paintings, sharing the questions I’m exploring, and inviting people into the making of the work as it evolves. Many people first encounter my work online, and those conversations often continue for years. Followers sometimes become collectors, and collectors quite often become friends.
Each painting from The Rooted Age is a recovered relic from that world, accompanied by its own translated title, an archive fragment and a recorded conversation between humanity and The Voice, the consciousness that emerged through the merging of nature and artificial intelligence. Alongside these larger relics are Transitional Surface Units, material studies and digital artefacts, offering different ways to explore the archive and become part of its unfolding story.
However someone first encounters my work, I hope it becomes the beginning of a conversation rather than the end of one.
Carol will be exhibiting at FLUX Exhibition in September.
