Nests, Making, and the Quiet Intelligence of Creativity

I have been thinking about nests and creativity.

I am beginning to realise just how long nests have been travelling alongside me—nearly 20 years now.

They have appeared in many forms across that time. Random weave sculptures holding paper mache eggs. Expressive ink drawings. Gouache paintings. Layered mixed media works. Different materials, different seasons of life.

The form keeps returning.

I don’t fully understand why. I don’t feel the need to. I just keep making them.

There is something about nests that feels deeply connected to making itself. Twigs crossing over one another. Fragments gathered instinctively. A structure that emerges through repetition, tension, adjustment, and care.

Nothing is forced. Nothing is rushed. It becomes what it becomes through attention.

Nests hold things. Not just eggs, but energy. Memory. Protection. Uncertainty. Possibility. They sit in that quiet space between fragility and strength—held together by many small decisions.

I think this is what draws me back.

An interest in the idea that creativity exists naturally within living things. Birds build nests without questioning whether they are artists. They respond to instinct, environment, need, and season.

There is no hesitation in that process. No overthinking. No need for validation.

Sometimes I wonder what it would mean for us, as humans, to trust creativity in the same way.

For me, it seems to begin with staying close to the present moment. Noticing what is here. Responding to what is available. Allowing materials, gestures, and ideas to gather and take form without needing to fully understand them.

Perhaps creativity is less about producing something new, and more about remembering something innate.

Like a nest—built slowly, instinctively, and held together by attention.