She comes from Albion, from the mysterious swirling Thames, from the disquieting creaking of historic London. She comes from the ever-recurring rain, from the fog mingled with the scent of tea. Her work displays nothing of her methodical fellow countrymen: perhaps she has left all that behind. She is vivacious, always in search of light to inspire; her colours are reflected in her eyes.

When she is melancholy she takes refuge in her music. Her paint brush, however, is bright. Her painting speaks of love: of meetings in forgotten, timeless places so real they seem to have been created: of still life to be contemplated in its joyous act of emerging from the canvas. And yet the kaleidoscope of Sara Wilson is no invention.

She lives her own constant reality wherein even the impossible sees itself as veiled in dark, secretive robes. I try to discover Dragons, Fairies, Gnomes and Knights in her paintings, and although I am certain of their presence, I cannot quite define them. Perhaps they are not there at all.