Camille Kathryn Wiseman paints from a life shaped by tides, storms, and coastlines. Raised between New Orleans and Byron Bay, water was never a backdrop—it was presence, force, inheritance. Rivers, cyclones, the ocean’s weight and rhythm formed an early awareness of nature as something living, powerful, and quietly commanding. Over time, that influence moved from instinct into clarity, becoming both subject and language. Rooted in oil paint’s depth and luminosity, the work carries atmosphere, reflection, and layered light, drawing from science as much as from memory. Through the lens of the “blue humanities,” Camille Kathryn Wiseman approaches the sea as connective tissue—shared, exploited, sacred, and unstable. This interview traces a practice built on reverence and research, where beauty and destruction coexist, and where painting becomes a way to hold the ocean’s contradictions without reducing them.

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How has your upbringing or cultural heritage shaped the themes and techniques you explore in your art today?

I grew up between New Orleans and Byron Bay, two places completely shaped by water. In New Orleans, water defines everything. The Mississippi River, the Gulf, the heavy rain. I remember being frightened of the storms as a child, luckily my family moved to Australia the year before Katrina. Water there feels powerful and mythic. I was six when we came to Byron Bay. Again, water. Our house was near a small river and the beach was only fifteen minutes away. Byron has cyclones instead of hurricanes, but the same constant presence of ocean and weather. Living in both places, water was never just scenery. It felt alive and influential, something that shaped daily life.

For a long time, I painted simply because I loved painting. I wasn’t consciously exploring a theme. But looking back, water was always there. Oceans, rivers, fish, horizons. It seems obvious now, but at the time it felt instinctive rather than intentional. Art was also very present in my upbringing. I started classes at around ten years old in a small scout hall near our home and fell in love with it immediately. My cultural education was rooted in the Western canon. Those were the works I first encountered in books and galleries, and they absolutely shaped my technical foundations. At the same time, growing up in the age of the internet and global travel has meant I am aware that the canon is only one lens. I find more and more beauty in the diversity of global visual languages and in perspectives that sit outside the traditional European narrative. I am both shaped by that lineage and critical of its dominance.

Creativity felt normal in my family. My grandmother is an artist, working in a more abstract style than I do, and my mother was a photographer and studied art before moving into communications. My great-grandfather was both a fisherman and an artist. For a time, he held a world record for catching the largest tuna on a hand reel in the Gulf of Mexico. I have painted from a photograph of him with that fish and have some of his jewellery designs of sharks, swordfish and mahi mahi. In many ways, I think I inherited both reverence and intimacy with the sea. Not just as landscape, but as something lived with across generations. Technically, water has shaped how I think about painting. It has made me attentive to atmosphere, reflection, depth and surface. Oil paint, with its transparency and luminosity, allows me to build those shifting layers of light. It feels like an extension of what I have always been looking at. I feel like water has always been calling me as a subject, quietly directing my attention, and eventually my work caught up with that.

How does your art engage with or comment on pressing contemporary issues—social, political, or environmental?

My work is deeply influenced by the “blue humanities,” a term developed by literary scholar Steve Mentz. The idea, very simply, is that much of our cultural thinking has been land-focused. Our metaphors, our borders, our politics are terrestrial. The blue humanities asks us to reconsider the ocean as central rather than peripheral. I connect to that strongly. I believe the ocean is what truly connects us as humans. If you look at cultures that share a sea or a river, they often have more in common with each other than with places divided by land. Water flows across borders that we consider fixed. It sustains every living organism. It moves through the smallest plant and the largest animal. It is the quiet constant that makes life possible. In that sense, my work is political, even if it does not always look overtly so. I am less interested in land disputes and more interested in the systems that actually bind us together. The ocean is not owned. It is shared, and yet it is also one of the most exploited spaces on Earth.

At the beginning of 2025, I experienced bioluminescence in Tasmania for the first time. It was one of the most extraordinary things I have ever seen. With the slightest movement, the ocean lit up electric blue. It felt cinematic and almost spiritual. Only later did I learn that the same environmental conditions that allow certain bioluminescent blooms to flourish are connected to imbalances that also contribute to destructive algal blooms. Beauty and devastation can emerge from the same instability. That duality sits at the core of much of my work. In 2024, I created a series about mutation in fish populations. I had been reading scientific papers about monoculture farming, both terrestrial and aquatic. When we replicate one species intensively in controlled environments, genetic anomalies increase. I became interested in what replication does over time. In one painting, a fish had scoliosis. In another, a fish was born without scales. Each image began with research, but I painted them in bright, seductive colours. I wanted them to feel visually pleasing at first glance. There is something unsettling about making damaged systems look beautiful, but that is also how advertising often works. Harmful products are wrapped in aesthetic appeal. I was thinking about that tension.

Formally, I also experimented with replication. I painted one fish from a scientific image, then painted the next fish using only the previous painting as reference. Humans are not photocopiers. Small inaccuracies creep in each time. I am interested in eventually extending this into a long chain of replication, where change accumulates gradually. It mirrors how mutation occurs across generations. I have also begun incorporating political figures into my work in a more surreal way. In one painting, I depicted a leader from the Australian Greens as a fish. I sent it to him after it won an award, slightly nervously, and he responded positively. I am careful with this territory, but I think there is room for humour and transformation in political imagery. I read scientific reports and ocean essays constantly. Research feeds my imagination. For me, painting is not separate from science. It is another way of metabolising information. Art allows me to hold complexity without resolving it. It lets beauty and destruction exist in the same frame. If there is a thread through all of this, it is that environmental issues are not abstract. They are embodied, visible, and already transforming the living world. I want my work to make that visible without collapsing into despair. The ocean is fragile, but it is also powerful. Both truths are present at once.

Do you believe artists have a responsibility to address climate change or environmental concerns in their work? Why or why not?

For me personally, environmental responsibility feels unavoidable. My work circles the ocean constantly, so climate change is not an abstract political issue. It is embedded in the subject matter itself. That said, I do not think every artist carries the same responsibility in the same way. There is a certain privilege in being able to make politically charged work. I work as a prosthetist in hospitals, designing and fitting artificial limbs. That job gives me financial stability. It means my art does not have to immediately sell in order for me to survive. I am very aware that not all artists have that freedom. When your livelihood depends entirely on sales, making challenging or confrontational work can carry real risk. So while I feel compelled to engage with environmental issues, I don’t believe it is an artist's responsibility. Art exists on many levels. Sometimes it is revolutionary. Sometimes it is decorative. Sometimes beauty alone is enough.

Historically, though, art has proven that it can shift public consciousness. When I first learned about Théodore Géricault’s Raft of the Medusa, I was struck by how forcefully it confronted political failure after the restoration of the French monarchy. It was not subtle. It demanded attention. Similarly, when I encountered The Fourth Estate by Giuseppe Pellizza da Volpedo in Milan, I was moved by the story behind it. The Italian government initially refused to purchase it, yet ordinary citizens pooled their money so it could remain publicly owned. The painting became a symbol of workers’ rights and collective struggle. That kind of cultural impact is extraordinary. Those works remind me that artists can influence how societies see themselves. Climate change is not a niche issue. It affects every ecosystem and every community, though unevenly. It is arguably one of the defining conditions of our time. I would love to see more large-scale exhibitions that bring together artists from different regions to tell that story collectively.

At the same time, I understand why some artists choose not to centre their work on it. The art world is already precarious. Making work that challenges political or economic systems requires both courage and stability. Not everyone has both at once. For me, addressing environmental concerns is less about activism in a direct sense and more about shifting perception. If I can encourage someone to see the ocean not as backdrop, but as living system, then perhaps that subtly changes how they value it. Artists are storytellers. Climate change is one of the most urgent stories we have. Whether through confrontation, beauty, symbolism or quiet reverence, it is a story worth telling.

How do you feel social media is shaping the way art is created, consumed, and valued today?

I recently wrote a substack about this exact question! The way we consume art has completely transformed. For most of history, art was physical. It existed in churches, in private homes, in public spaces. Even when printing technologies made images more accessible, there was still an object somewhere. Now the most common way people see art is through a phone screen. When I was in high school, I learned about Jackson Pollock and Mark Rothko through black and white photocopies. I did not understand either of them. It wasn’t until I stood in front of a Pollock painting in person that it clicked. You can feel the energy in the surface. The layering, the movement, the physicality. It’s almost confrontational. None of that translates to a two-inch image.

Rothko was different. Seeing his work in person is still incomparable because of scale. His paintings envelop you. But interestingly, digital screens do something unexpected to his colour fields. The luminosity of a backlit screen can intensify the vibrational quality of his colours in a way that is strangely sympathetic to what he was trying to do. He said, “A painting is not a picture of an experience; it is an experience.” I often wonder what he would think about millions of people experiencing his work primarily through a device he never imagined. The phone has flattened certain aspects of painting. Scale disappears. Texture disappears. Surface quality disappears. A glossy oil glaze and a matte acrylic finish often look identical online. Artists can no longer rely on physical presence to carry meaning.

Because of that, I think painting is adapting. Work that performs well online tends to have intensity. Bold colour. Clear silhouettes. Recognisable symbols. Strong compositional impact that reads instantly as you scroll. In an attention economy, an image has seconds to communicate. I have noticed that many contemporary painters who gained visibility online have shifted, consciously or not, toward flatter forms and more design-oriented compositions. Certain airbrushed or hyper-smooth aesthetics also seem to echo the visual language of digital collage and advertising. This is not inherently negative. Every technological shift has reshaped art. The printing press did. Photography did. Screen printing did. The internet is no different. But I do worry about the quiet loss of respect for material techniques among emerging artists.

At the same time, social media has democratised visibility. Artists from remote places can build audiences without relocating to major cities. Trends now travel globally in days instead of decades. Motifs appear simultaneously across continents. That connectivity is extraordinary.For me, the key is remembering that painting is still an object. Oil paint has a depth, a translucency, a physical beauty that cannot be replicated digitally. I use social media, but I try not to let it dictate how I construct a surface. I hope people will continue to seek out art in person, not only in national museums but in small local galleries. The experience of standing in front of a work, adjusting your body to it, feeling its scale, is something a screen simply cannot replace.

Can you take us through the evolution of an artwork, from that first spark of inspiration to the finished piece?

Most of my paintings begin with reading. I spend a lot of time reading scientific papers and essays about the ocean, and often an image will appear in my mind while I’m halfway through a paragraph. I’ll write it down immediately in my notes app before I forget the feeling of it. From there, I move into small preparatory drawings. Once I find a composition that feels right, I’ll do a small colour study. These are called “poster studies” because they help me understand the overall light effect. When you first look at a painting from across a room, you don’t see details. You see colour relationships and atmosphere. If that isn’t working at a small scale, it won’t work large.

After refining the drawing, I transfer it onto a prepared canvas. I’ve been experimenting a lot with different surface preparations recently. Then I begin with an underpainting, trying to resolve as much as I can in the first pass. There is always something slightly wrong but also beautiful in that first layer. I let the painting sit for a week or two when I have the time to let things settle (both physically and more spiritually). The second pass is usually thicker and more decisive. I build layers slowly, sometimes glazing or scumbling to create depth. What keeps me committed to oil is its physicality. In a world flooded with digital images, the surface of paint still holds something alive. The texture, the luminosity, the way light catches it. That material presence is what I’m always chasing.

Have you considered teaching your artistic skills to others? What excites or challenges you about that?

I would love to teach! Until recently, I don’t think I felt confident enough technically, but over the past few years my understanding of oil painting has deepened to a point where I genuinely want to share it. I was largely self-taught in oil, and I made so many avoidable mistakes in the beginning. I learned through trial and error, which is valuable, but also slow and sometimes discouraging. If I can help someone bypass those early technical hurdles, I would love to. There is something generous about passing on practical knowledge. Painting does not need to be gatekept.

This year, I’m hoping to organise a small, non-profit artist retreat where a group of painters can spend a week working from a live model, sharing long studio days and open conversations. Art can feel competitive because of financial pressure, but at its core it is a communal practice. Historically, artists learned from one another in studios and workshops. I think we’ve lost some of that openness. What excites me most about teaching is watching someone discover how they make a mark. When an adult says, “I can’t draw,” I feel like they just haven’t met their own hand yet. There are very few moments later in life where you discover something completely new about yourself. Learning how your eye connects to your hand is one of them. The challenge for me would be patience. I tend to be very committed to finishing things, and I might struggle watching someone abandon a piece halfway through. But perhaps that would also teach me something about letting go.

If you were appointed President for a day, what initiative would you launch to support arts and culture?

If I were President for a day, I would begin with something practical. In Mexico, there has historically been a system that allowed artists to pay their taxes with artworks, which then entered the national collection. I find that idea incredibly powerful. It recognises that art is not just a commodity but a cultural contribution. It also builds a public archive that belongs to everyone. I love the idea of a government collecting the visual history of its time directly from working artists.

More broadly, though, I think support for the arts begins with stability. It’s difficult to create when you are worrying about rent or basic needs. If I could implement one foundational initiative, it would focus on housing security. Stable housing gives people the mental and physical space to think, experiment and take creative risks. Without that foundation, culture becomes something only the financially secure can afford to participate in. Art is often treated as an extra, something decorative or indulgent. But culture shapes how a society understands itself. It holds memory, critique, imagination and dissent. Supporting artists is not just about funding exhibitions; it is about creating conditions where creative thinking can flourish across all communities, not just major cities.

List five core themes or messages you aim to convey through your art. 

✧ We are not separate from the natural world.

✧ The ocean is both calming and terrifying at the same time. 

✧ Water is alive and moves through everything,the same system sustains us all.

✧ There can be beauty found everywhere, even in destruction.

✧ Images shape perception, and perception shapes behaviour over time.

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Across this conversation, Camille Kathryn Wiseman returns to water as origin and truth. The ocean appears not as scenery, but as system—borderless, sustaining, vulnerable, and immense. Scientific reading, environmental urgency, and personal lineage converge into images that feel luminous yet unsettled, inviting contemplation rather than certainty. Even when mutation, imbalance, and ecological collapse enter the frame, the work refuses despair as a final language. Instead, painting becomes an act of attention: to surface, to depth, to what shifts slowly beneath perception. In a world increasingly flattened by screens, Camille Kathryn Wiseman insists on the physical presence of paint and the lasting power of seeing. The result is a body of work that does not merely depict the sea, but listens to it—holding its beauty, its threat, and its quiet permanence in the same breath.