Photographer, cook, mother and multidisciplinary artist Gillian Wilkins invites us into her world; a quiet place of ritual, rhythm and reflection. From her mountain village in Mallorca, she moves between cooking, collage and care with a poetic sensibility, letting intuition and light guide her practice.
In conversation with Lucy Folk, Gillian shares her creative process, the landscapes that shape her, and the slow unfolding of a life grounded in seasonality and softness.
Photographs captured by Gillian's husband, Alex Franco.
Gillian, your creative practice spans photography, collage, cooking and more. How do you describe what you do — and where are you currently in your creative flow?
At the moment, I’m in a season of gentle refinement. After years of expansion, I’m craving softness and depth — choosing to move more intuitively, to create in rhythm with my home life and inner tides. Mothering two young children has shifted the way I create — there’s less rush, more reverence. I’m focusing on fewer things, but with fuller presence. It’s a time of pared-back creation, making space for what truly wants to come through.
Right now, my creative practice is a slow, sensory unfolding — storytelling through food, rituals of nourishment, film photography, and collage. Gestures that honour both the seen and unseen layers of daily life. I’m shaping offerings that feel nourishing not only to others, but to me too — work rooted in replenishment, rhythm, and feeling.
Do these disciplines ever overlap or inform one another? What have you learnt through moving between them?
For me, the boundaries between disciplines are porous. Cooking, image-making, writing, mothering — they all draw from the same well of intuition, attention, and feeling. They each teach me how to listen differently: with my hands, my eyes, my body.
Moving between them has taught me not to compartmentalise creativity — but to let it live in the in-between spaces. It’s less about mastering each form, and more about tending to the thread that runs through them all.
How do you approach starting something new — a project, a recipe, a photograph?
I begin by feeling and I rarely map things out from the start. Instead, I move slowly, gathering fragments — an ingredient, a photograph, a feeling — and let them speak to one another. The process is often circular, not linear. I follow what feels alive, what stirs something, what replenishes. What matters is trusting the work to unfold from there.
What does a typical day look like for you? Are there any daily rituals that help shape or anchor your time?
I move between mothering, making, and pockets of quiet work. Right now, my guiding ritual is less is more — and each morning, I return to the sea. It grounds me, clears me, rebalances me.
When did you move to Mallorca, and how has living there shaped your way of seeing and creating? Where do you feel most at home?
I moved to Mallorca six years ago, not fully knowing what I was seeking — only that I craved a life rooted in nature, spaciousness, and slowness. Especially for my children. The island has gently taught me how to live in rhythm — with the seasons, with my children, with the land and sea.
Life here invites presence. I’ve learned to move slower, to notice more, to create from a place rooted in feeling rather than output.
We’re currently nestled in a small mountain village in the Serra de Tramuntana, which feels deeply like home. But Australia is home too. For now, my children are in a beautiful flow — immersed in their Spanish roots, growing up in the heart of nature. And that feels right for this season of our lives.
How do you connect to community through your work — or through your everyday?
I connect to community through the quiet, everyday ways — through food, shared stories, and gestures of care. In my work with Mamayaya, this looks like supporting mothers in their postpartum — offering nourishment, presence, and a sense of being held during such a tender threshold. It’s a way of saying: you’re not alone.
Through Substack, I’ve found a small but meaningful circle of women and mothers — creating, reflecting, listening closely to life. I share what feels real: seasonal recipes, rituals of nourishment, and words that honour the in-between. And in turn, I’m met by others doing the same — it’s deeply reciprocal.
In daily life, community shows up in simple moments: conversations at the market, checking in on a friend, cooking a little extra to share. I also try to support other artists and creatives — by uplifting their work, sharing their offerings, and acknowledging the care behind what they make.
For me, community begins with presence — not performance — and a willingness to show up just as we are.
Can you tell us a little about the gardens featured in the photographs — what drew you to them? Are they a special place for you?
There’s a forest behind our home where I walk the dogs — it brings a deep sense of peace. One bank is covered in wild nasturtiums, where I foraged for the pesto I made that week. Another is dotted with gum trees, a quiet thread that connects me to Australia, while the backdrop of the mountains keeps me rooted in Mallorca.
I find this blend — of scent, memory, and landscape — quietly fascinating. It gives me a deeper sense of home, one that holds all the places I belong.
What are you enjoying cooking at the moment? Is there a particular dish you’re drawn to right now?
In summer, I eat more simply — more locally. It’s the ultimate Mediterranean rhythm: sea foods and stone fruits, fresh herbs and sun-warmed tomatoes. Peaches, nectarines, cherries, melons. Tinned sardines, anchovies, berberechos seasoned with lemon. A slice of good bread, a drizzle of local olive oil.
It’s a season of eating with the land — and the sea — in mind. Minimal, seasonal, and deeply artisanal.
What’s currently inspiring you — a scent, a song, a scene?
Lately, I’ve been gathering new collage material and experimenting with layering light in my photography — noticing how light moves in between moments, how it changes the mood of a memory… how light alters perception, how it holds emotion. That quiet interplay between light, texture, and feeling is where I’m finding inspiration right now.
Who or what has shaped your creative outlook the most?
Stripping things back to their essence and trusting intuition over outcome has given me permission to create from a more honest place — to let things unfold, rather than force them into form.
Beyond that, motherhood, the women who came before me, and the natural world continue to shape my outlook. They’ve shown me that creativity isn’t separate from life — it lives in the pauses, the rituals, the way you respond to light, memory, season. Rick Rubin calls this tuning in — and that’s how I try to live and create: by listening more than striving, whether through my work or in the quiet art of mothering.
Do you have any travel plans coming up? Anywhere that’s calling you?
We’re spending some time in Sardinia this summer and planning a trip back to the Philippines at the end of the year. It’s been twenty years since I was last there, and I’m longing to return — to reconnect with my roots and begin weaving them more fully back into my life.
And finally — what’s on your Lucy Folk wishlist this summer?
