An unfair advantage, if you think about it

Most painters learn animals from photographs. Tayler learns them at work — forty hours a week of dogs on tables, cats in carriers, and the particular way an anxious kelpie holds its ears back while a nervous staffy holds its whole body still.

That shows up in the paintings in ways that are hard to name and easy to see. The set of a jaw. Where the weight sits on an old dog’s hips. The difference between a dog that’s panting because it’s hot and one that’s panting because it’s pleased with itself. Owners tend to notice it immediately, even when they can’t say what it is they’re noticing.

It also means she’s honest about photographs. If a reference photo won’t make a good painting — wrong angle, flat light, eyes lost in shadow — she’ll say so before you’ve paid anything, and tell you what to shoot instead.

The studio supervisors

Neither of them helps.

Fair warning: Tayler has a soft spot for Jack Russells. If yours is one, expect a slightly faster reply.

Away from the desk

Most days off are spent outside — hiking or gardening, usually with Alby and Pippa somewhere ahead. It’s not unrelated to the painting either. Watercolour rewards people who are patient with light, and Queensland gives you plenty of practice.

It runs in the family

Tayler grew up in a creative family — the kind where somebody is always halfway through something at the kitchen table. Her sister, Lauren Davidson, makes and sells her own work too, and is well worth a look.

Why commissions

A pet portrait is rarely just a painting. It’s a gift for someone who talks about their dog too much, or a way of keeping an animal in the room a little longer after they’ve gone. Tayler paints one at a time, by hand, and treats them accordingly — particularly the memorial pieces, which come with more care and less hurry.