Lisa Ibbetson is an abstract artist specialising in Suminagashi and Suimonga, practices she has cultivated for over 25 years since discovering them while studying at Glasgow School of Art. Originally from Lancashire, she now creates her distinctive works in Brighton and leads workshops in the art form. Suminagashi—from the Japanese words ‘sumi’ (ink) and ‘nagashi’ (floating)—dates back to the 12th century. The process involves floating ink or pigments on water’s surface before transferring these ephemeral images onto paper. Creating Suminagashi requires both technical skill and meditative presence, resulting in fluid compositions that emerge from the dance between artist and elements.
Could you explain what you enjoy about the art form?
For me, Suminagashi is not only an art form—it’s become a way of seeing the world. When I’m reflecting on the practice I find myself thinking of that Heraclitus quote, “No man ever enters the same river twice, because he is not the same man and it is not the same river.”
Where most art forms often involve imposing our will onto, for example, a canvas—a one-sided declaration—Suminagashi is a conversation. Each piece becomes a visual record of a dialogue between me and the water, and honestly, sometimes the water has more interesting things to say than I do! The resulting images are perpetually unique because both the water and I are constantly changing. The water responds differently depending on forces such as humidity, mineral content, etc, while I bring varying moods, intentions, choices and the subtle physics of my touch. I’m fascinated by Masaru Emoto’s work suggesting water retains “memory” and responds to human consciousness—an idea that resonates with my experience at the water’s edge.
Suminagashi embodies many core Taoist principles, particularly Wu-Wei—the effortless action that emerges from non-striving harmony. I find in this space of receptive awareness that creation naturally flows. As an artist, I navigate the exquisite tension between order and chaos, intention and surrender. This delicate balance mirrors what I find most beautiful about existence itself: riding the wave between opposing forces where, I would argue, the most interesting forms emerge. The artwork created becomes neither a random accident nor a controlled product, but rather a dovetailing of skill and release. This philosophical dance continues to draw me back to the water’s surface daily.
How has the practice informed your way of making art?
I’ve learned to get out of my own way. Filmmaker David Lynch says something that really resonates with me: “We don’t really create an idea, we just catch them, like fish. No chef ever takes credit for making the fish, it’s just preparing the fish.”
That’s exactly how I feel when I’m working. My job isn’t to force or claim creativity but to create the conditions for it to happen. Ideas flow through me rather than from me. I just try to stay open and responsive to them. The resulting artwork is like a snapshot of that conversation between myself, the water and whatever creative force was moving through us both at that moment.
How has the practice of Suminagashi informed your way of life?
It’s taught me much about acceptance. Some days I come to the water feeling centred and calm, and wonderful harmonious patterns emerge. And when I’m unsettled, those energies manifest in the work too, creating pieces with their own distinctive character. Those pieces have their own darker beauty, too. The water accepts whatever falls on its surface without judgment—it just works with it. I’ve tried to bring that same quality into my life. Can I accept what’s happening right now without resistance? Can I flow with it and see its beauty rather than fight against it? When I do, I am rewarded with artworks that resonate with what feels true to me.
What is the difference between Suminagashi and Western marbling?
While sharing similar techniques, they represent fundamentally different philosophical approaches. Suminagashi began in China and was refined by Japanese artists into what we see today. Western marbling adopted the technique but transformed its essential nature. The key distinction lies in how Western marbling removes the collaborative element by thickening the water into something marblers call size, a gelatinous substance traditionally made from seaweed gel. This arrests the movement, effectively ending the conversation between artist and medium I talked about earlier. What was once a dynamic dialogue becomes a unilateral statement. Western marbling, whilst undoubtedly beautiful and highly skilful, prioritises reproducibility and marketability, taking something inherently unique and making it consistently replicable (you can make the same image or pattern over and over again). Suminagashi embraces uniqueness and impermanence, and each piece can only happen once.
The art form captures a fleeting moment on the water. How do you feel impermanence relates to the practice?
I’m always amazed that a singular fleeting moment on water’s delicate, ever-changing surface can be captured. I’ve been doing this for a long time, and it always fills me with joy. Knowing precisely when to take a print is an art in itself! And another exercise in acceptance, as the captured image can differ from what I observed on the water’s surface. The transfer process, being sensitive to any movement, introduces another layer of transformation, skill and Taoist non-grasping. What I find magical is how viewers of my work often comment on how the finished pieces, though physically static, retain a sense of perpetual movement. I love that paradox—stillness that contains movement, permanence that embodies impermanence— to me reflects life’s fundamental nature. We exist in constant flux while seeking moments of stability. Suminagashi captures this tension perfectly: the soul of water somehow preserved in paper and ink, forever flowing yet forever still.
What do you enjoy about running workshops in Suminagashi?
I find that people often try to access creativity from the future. I encourage my students to access it from the now. This naturally places them in a position where they must let go of expectations. At first, that makes some students uncomfortable! But when they let go of the need to control, something beautiful happens – without the pressure of producing a specific result, they enter a state of present-moment awareness and playful exploration. With gentle guidance, I watch as my students’ unique creative voice starts to emerge. It’s a joy to watch them move into their flow state of pure creativity. There is real expansion that happens in that place, which happens to me too, as an artist. When we get out of our way, expansion occurs.
