Why I started Trasna

I’ve spent nearly twenty years working in marketing.

For most of that time, I loved it. I still do. I love solving problems, building brands and helping businesses communicate more clearly. It is fast-paced, creative and constantly changing, and for a long time it suited me.

But over the years, life became increasingly busy. My career grew, I had three children, and somewhere along the way I fell into the trap that I think a lot of people do. I became very good at keeping lots of plates spinning without ever really stopping to ask whether I was enjoying it anymore.

Eventually, I burned out, and looking back it’s probably one of the most important things that ever happened to me.

It’s only with hindsight that I can see how much that period changed me. At the time it just felt like I was exhausted. I couldn’t keep running at the same pace and, whether I liked it or not, I had to slow down.

When you stop moving so quickly, you start noticing different things.

I don’t think art rescued me overnight. It was much quieter than that. I started walking more. I noticed architecture I’d driven past hundreds of times. I spent afternoons wandering around galleries when I travelled. I found myself reading about artists instead of marketing. I started painting again. Looking back, all of those small things were pulling me towards a different way of seeing the world.

I’ve always loved homes. Not perfect homes, but homes with character. Old houses that have evolved over time. Wonky floorboards, shelves full of books, furniture that’s been found rather than bought as a set, family photographs and pieces that tell you something about the people who live there.

The homes I love are never perfect; they’re personal.

As I started buying original art, I realised it played a huge role in creating that feeling. It isn’t there to match the sofa or simply fill an empty wall. It gives a home its identity. It says something about what moves you, what catches your eye and the stories you want to live alongside every day.

And yet, I started noticing that while many of us spend months choosing kitchens, dining tables or the perfect light fitting, original art often feels like an afterthought.

Not because people don’t value it.

Because they don’t know where to begin.

It struck me that original art is one of the few things that can completely change the feeling of a room without changing the room itself. It’s a much smaller decision than painting a wall dark green or buying a bright yellow sofa. It doesn’t need to dominate a space. It simply introduces personality. It tells you something about the people who live there.

The problem is that buying original art doesn’t always feel very accessible.

If you’re already part of the art world, you probably know where to go. You have favourite galleries, artists you follow and exhibitions you keep an eye on.

But I don’t think that’s true for most people.

I think most people aren’t looking to become art collectors. They’re simply looking for one piece they love. Something that makes their home feel a little more like theirs.

They don’t necessarily want to spend weekends walking around galleries, and they certainly don’t want to spend hours scrolling through Etsy or trying to relocate an artist whose work they saved on Instagram six months ago.

The more I painted, the more artists I met. Some through classes. Some through friends. Some simply because I became curious.

What surprised me was how many conversations followed the same pattern.

These weren’t hobbyists painting at weekends. They were incredibly talented people producing work that I genuinely believed belonged in people’s homes.

Many had studios at the bottom of their gardens or rented small creative spaces. Others painted from spare bedrooms after finishing work for the day. Quite a few balanced another career alongside their art, not because they lacked ambition, but because that’s the reality of building a creative practice. What surprised me wasn’t the quality of the work. I’d walk into a studio expecting to see someone making a hobby, and instead I’d find work that would have looked completely at home hanging in any gallery I’d visited. It was how little separated some of these artists from those showing in commercial galleries. The difference often wasn’t talent. It was visibility, confidence, networks or simply having somewhere to present their work professionally.

Most had built an audience on Instagram. Most had sold work. Most had people regularly asking, “Is this available?”

But many also felt they’d reached the limits of what Instagram could offer.

The platform had helped people discover them, but it wasn’t designed to present their work properly. Collections disappeared into the feed. New followers never saw older work. Conversations about buying happened through direct messages. There was no real sense of permanence.

The more I thought about it, the more it felt as though there was a missing step.

Not every artist wants gallery representation. Not every artist will get gallery representation. And perhaps that’s okay.

There should be another path. One that allows independent artists to build a professional presence, tell their story and reach people who genuinely value original work.

At the same time, there seemed to be another group of people looking for the opposite thing: people who wanted to discover independent artists, buy original work and support makers, but who had no obvious place to begin.

It felt strange that these two groups weren’t finding each other more easily.

I suppose that’s when the idea for Trasna really began. Not as a business plan. Not even as an idea for a website. More as a question.

What would happen if discovering original art felt as enjoyable as discovering a great independent bookshop or a tiny café you stumbled across while travelling?

What if artists had somewhere that presented their work with the same care they’d put into creating it?

And what if buying original art felt welcoming rather than intimidating?

I’m still figuring out exactly what Trasna will become. I hope it grows into a place that artists are proud to be part of and that collectors return to because they trust what’s been curated there.

But more than anything, I hope it encourages more people to live with original art.

Because if the last few years have taught me anything, it’s that the things we choose to surround ourselves with really do shape how we feel. Art arrived at a point in my life when I needed it most. It slowed me down, made me more curious and reminded me that not everything valuable needs to be optimised or accelerated.

In Irish, trasna means “across”. I loved that from the moment I heard it. To me, it represents crossing from one place to another: from the artist’s studio into someone’s home; from scrolling past a painting on Instagram to living with it every day; from simply liking art to discovering the people behind it.

That’s what I hope Trasna becomes. A bridge between artists and collectors who might never have found each other otherwise. A place where more people discover the joy of living with original art.