THE SIT DOWN
06: GEORGIA BEAUMONT
There’s a certain quiet defiance in Georgia Beaumont’s story — an art school drop-out now exploring the realms of panpsychism in her work.
Beaumont left art school early, dropping out of UAL, and for a while, stopped creating completely. Painting felt distant, uncertain. She moved into restaurant PR, swapped brushes for a keyboard, and then found herself moving to Barcelona. It was there, in a small studio rented on the side of jobs, that she began again. Slowly, consistently, she discovered she could paint every day — that practice could be its own form of education.
Three years later she returned to the UK, aged 25, with no degree and no clear plan, moving back in with her father in Dorset. Those two years became a turning point: quiet, rural, and, at times, isolating — but full of rhythm. Walking daily through the countryside, she began to observe change on a slower timescale: light shifting, buds forming, the soft intelligence of growth. It was here her language of botanical forms began to take shape. Her paintings from that time translated the motion of leaves, stems, and sky into an intuitive visual system — one that felt both natural and invented.
Beaumont’s work moves between observation and imagination. Painted onto wooden panels, her compositions fuse memory, poetry, and mind’s-eye imagery. What might look, at first glance, like flowers are rarely literal. “Sometimes I feel it’s a language,” she says, “like letters or forms, rather than this being a flower.” That abstraction — or perhaps evolution — is central to her process. The spontaneity comes first, the structure after. The result is a body of work that feels alive: blush-toned, romantic, and quietly electric.
Colour, for Beaumont, is intuitive. She speaks often of poetry — of the “blushy, romantic tones” she draws from it — and her palettes echo that sensibility: veils of rose, pale golds, soft greens that seem to hover rather than sit. There’s a dreaminess to them, but also discipline — a painter’s instinct honed not through instruction but through repetition, trial, and joyful mistake.
Her philosophy edges towards panpsychism — the belief that consciousness runs through all matter. It’s there in the way her stems reach, the way her compositions seem to think and feel. Nature, for Beaumont, is not backdrop but mirror: a reflection of our own inner landscapes of thought and emotion. Her paintings hold that reciprocity — between the animate and inanimate, the seen and the sensed.
Since returning to London in 2023, she’s been painting full time. A group show led to a sold-out debut, and in 2024 she held her first solo exhibition at Wilder. Beaumont paints to stay attuned — to nature, to change, to the quiet pulse that connects all things. In her hands, a curve of pigment can become a leaf, a feeling, or a fragment of consciousness itself.
Beaumont left art school early, dropping out of UAL, and for a while, stopped creating completely. Painting felt distant, uncertain. She moved into restaurant PR, swapped brushes for a keyboard, and then found herself moving to Barcelona. It was there, in a small studio rented on the side of jobs, that she began again. Slowly, consistently, she discovered she could paint every day — that practice could be its own form of education.
Three years later she returned to the UK, aged 25, with no degree and no clear plan, moving back in with her father in Dorset. Those two years became a turning point: quiet, rural, and, at times, isolating — but full of rhythm. Walking daily through the countryside, she began to observe change on a slower timescale: light shifting, buds forming, the soft intelligence of growth. It was here her language of botanical forms began to take shape. Her paintings from that time translated the motion of leaves, stems, and sky into an intuitive visual system — one that felt both natural and invented.
Beaumont’s work moves between observation and imagination. Painted onto wooden panels, her compositions fuse memory, poetry, and mind’s-eye imagery. What might look, at first glance, like flowers are rarely literal. “Sometimes I feel it’s a language,” she says, “like letters or forms, rather than this being a flower.” That abstraction — or perhaps evolution — is central to her process. The spontaneity comes first, the structure after. The result is a body of work that feels alive: blush-toned, romantic, and quietly electric.
Colour, for Beaumont, is intuitive. She speaks often of poetry — of the “blushy, romantic tones” she draws from it — and her palettes echo that sensibility: veils of rose, pale golds, soft greens that seem to hover rather than sit. There’s a dreaminess to them, but also discipline — a painter’s instinct honed not through instruction but through repetition, trial, and joyful mistake.
Her philosophy edges towards panpsychism — the belief that consciousness runs through all matter. It’s there in the way her stems reach, the way her compositions seem to think and feel. Nature, for Beaumont, is not backdrop but mirror: a reflection of our own inner landscapes of thought and emotion. Her paintings hold that reciprocity — between the animate and inanimate, the seen and the sensed.
Since returning to London in 2023, she’s been painting full time. A group show led to a sold-out debut, and in 2024 she held her first solo exhibition at Wilder. Beaumont paints to stay attuned — to nature, to change, to the quiet pulse that connects all things. In her hands, a curve of pigment can become a leaf, a feeling, or a fragment of consciousness itself.
PF: Who or what has influenced your work the most?
It’s a confluence of memories and experiences. Starting from childhood, visiting museums and galleries - I especially loved the V&A and would draw there when I was very small. Taking wax rubbings of tree bark and building fairy gardens as a kid also stand out in my mind. I try to keep that child present with me as I work. Reflecting now, I think my work is fuelled by that innate desire to connect with nature and beauty. Then as a teen discovering contemporary oil painting, particularly Amy Sillman, Sarah Pickstone and Peter Doig, and being so enamoured by the versatility of paint.
PF: Walk us through your creative process?
Before a painting can begin I have to prime the surface of the wood, and as I do this I'm considering the scale of the painting I'm about to make. This work is monotonous (gesso, sand, gesso sand and so on) which I feel awakens and allows the creative brain to start working. So I'm familiarising myself with the scale and starting to imagine a composition forming. When it comes to the painting, I usually close my eyes and an image will come, maybe a singular form and colour that I'm very sure of and I will then put this down, other times the whole composition forms in my head before I begin. There's an archive of mind's eye imagery that I draw from, stored in my brain from things I've seen. Principally nature and lately a lot of architectural forms, especially Art Nouveau lines. I sometimes lightly under-paint and sketch in the forms, and other times feel a lot more certain and paint immediately.
PF: What do you want people to feel or take away from your art?
My work began from a place of feeling lost, and through the creative process and discipline I gained aliveness and confidence. So for me, the paintings are synonymous with joy, regeneration and the female spirit. I attach emotional intimacy to the delicate layered brushstrokes, kinetic aliveness in the forms and confidence in the strong lines intersecting the compositions. It's wonderful if the viewer can leave with a sense of this. But above all enjoyment. If it awakens a personal memory for them, I also really love that too.
PF: How important is the viewer’s interpretation versus your intention?
I think once it leaves the studio it no longer belongs to me entirely anymore. It begins a new life in the world, taking on fresh meanings and contexts. And I feel it’s important to relinquish sole ownership and let it register differently with each viewer. Their interpretations are absent in the solitude of the studio, but when I get to have a conversation about a piece in the outside world, it's always very meaningful.
PF: If you could have dinner with any artist who would it be?
Probably Hilma af Klint because we could talk about Mysticism, thought forms, nature and colour. Her works were all shown posthumously, so it would also be cool to hear how she feels about them now they're out in the world and being exhibited inernationally.