Born in England in Marple, raised in Poynton, Cheshire, near Manchester, Christine Ann Williamson was steeped in an artistic family atmosphere.

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It seemed to me that everyone around me knew how to draw. My parents, my uncle, my best friend, were all so talented. In an era without electronic entertainment, we all gladly made doodles to express ourselves, to have fun, to communicate. At home, there was an abundance of paper, pencils, charcoal. And there was the famous wooden box containing tubes of oil paint, slipped under a piece of furniture out of my reach and forbidden object for me.

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My parents were afraid of me daubing and putting that expensive paint all over the place. They offered me other water-based paints, more suited to my age and spirit. This forbidden paint box belonged to my father, a wedding present from my mother.

My father was the most talented artist I have ever known. A gift inherited from his own father, my grandfather Williamson. Although he often executed drawings and paintings for me since I was born, one defining moment remains etched in my memory.

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One evening, my mother went to the cinema to see the film South Pacific, which had just been released and was causing a stir at the time. My father stayed with me at home – I was between 5 and 6 years old. He took me on his lap with sheets of paper and a pencil, and started to teach me how to draw. He had such patience and a lot of seriousness, taking great care in academic drawing.

Since that evening, I began to draw tirelessly – even at school during lessons, I secretly drew the portraits of my comrades. After school I would go for walks in the English countryside doing nature sketches.

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My father continued to teach me the very rigorous methods and I submitted my works to him for his approval. Everything was there in his teaching: composition, perspective, proportions, pencil or pen strokes mastered with respect for academic art. And after this long learning of the basics, painting. And the study of the great masters of painting, the history of art against a background of classical music to which he also sensitized me.

We even wrote illustrated poems together by making little books. My father was my only teacher.

I am so grateful to him for everything he passed on to me; love and respect for art, discipline, wonder and joy.

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Of course, I took other art classes, but in general I was always left to work alone – my background being largely acquired thanks to my father. Even now that he is no longer of this world, he is always next to me when I paint or draw. I ask for his help, his opinion, which he never fails to lavish on me. It continues to live in and through my works. I owe so much to my father, but also to the support and encouragement of my mother.

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And in another distant era, during a ski vacation with a group of little English girls, she fell in love with Switzerland, its mountains, its chalets, this intoxicating air. And since this beautiful encounter, she shares her life between Switzerland and England.

As in all fairy tales, there have been some hardships but a lot of joy, and she now thinks she is living a long "happy ending" a happy epilogue to her life. She can now devote herself entirely to celebrating the beauty and riches of Switzerland in paintings. A small country but a huge inspiration.

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There is so much to do and time is short.

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Oil painting has become his favorite choice.

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I work quite slowly, with my emotions, which corresponds to the drying time of the paint. I like to sculpt and mix colors, not only on the palette but also directly on canvas – or on wooden panel.

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Yes, she loves wood – another paternal influence. Indeed, his father was also a cabinetmaker and restorer of antiques. He taught her the love and respect for wood.

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What does painting mean to me? It is true life therapy. The cure for all sorrows, the celebration of all joys. As soon as my brushes touch the canvas, I go to another world. I need to paint, it's my daily bread.