A quiet return to what is already there There are seasons in a creative life that don’t look like anything at all. No finished work. No clear direction. No visible progress. Just a sense of something shifting beneath the surface, and the uncomfortable feeling of not knowing what it is yet. I have been here more times than I can count. In the early years, I resisted it. I thought I had lost something. That I had drifted too far from my work. That I needed to find my way back a

After five years of working in a small 65 sq ft spare room — and storing materials in my wonky 1960s caravan — my studio arrived. Not as a finished space, but in pieces. A huge stack of timber, wrapped in bundles. The quiet anticipation of something about to take shape. When It Arrives as Material The log cabin studio took around eight weeks from ordering to delivery — although we delayed it slightly to give ourselves time to prepare the base. It arrived on a lorry as a singl

After five years working in a tiny spare room, I’m building a garden art studio at the bottom of the garden. This post shares the first steps — preparing the ground and designing the space.

There are artists whose studios are separate — places you go to work, then leave behind. And then there are artists for whom home itself is the studio: a living, breathing site of making , thinking, gathering , and return. I have always been drawn to the latter. When I think of artists whose homes are inseparable from their work, I think of Rose Wylie, painting at a domestic scale that feels both monumental and intimate. Mark Hearld, whose home and studio overflow with patte

I have learned to recognise my creativity by how it moves. Not forward in a straight line, but in rhythms — waxing and waning, opening and closing, gathering and resting. Over time, those rhythms began to echo patterns much older than productivity or output: the moon’s cycle, the turning of the seasons, the rise and fall of my own energy and attention. The Wheel of the Year gave language to something I was already sensing. The sabbats and cross-quarter festivals became points

There comes a moment in a creative life when the work begins to feel different — not broken, not blocked, but quietly out of sync . You might notice it in small ways at first. Returning to familiar materials but feeling oddly distant from them. Seeking inspiration but finding that new ideas don’t quite land. Sensing a restlessness that isn’t solved by doing more. Nothing is obviously wrong. And yet something is asking to be listened to. This moment doesn’t always arrive with

There is a different way of thinking about creative work — not as a series of breakthroughs or reinventions, but as a conversation that unfolds slow. A conversation you return to, again and again, sometimes knowingly, sometimes without realising it at all. When I look back across my own practice, I don’t see neat chapters or dramatic pivots. I see threads. Questions that reappear. Materials I leave and then come back to. Ways of working that deepen rather than disappear. This