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I haven’t been in the studio for weeks. The motivation just… fell away. That awful “stuck” feeling crept in (I know I’m not alone) something like winter appearing, slowing things down, dulling the buzz I had in the summer. It’s like my creative energy cycles with the seasons. In summer, I’m all rush, all flow, bordering on manic. But now, it’s like I want to hibernate. Ideas still swirl, but the urge to actually do, to create, to make is dulled. Sometimes, I think it’s just a part of how I work, a neurodivergent ebb and flow of excitement that crashes into burnout. Big inspiration, then sudden disinterest. It's all fine until it starts feeling like an obligation. Today, I pushed myself to sit in the studio. Just 15 minutes. It took hours to even get myself through the door. I didn’t touch any clay or pick up tools. Just sat with some of my pieces. Staring at them got me thinking about scale. Why am I so drawn to making things smaller? With my love and interest in dirt I know I like to focus on the overlooked, the discarded, questioning value. Maybe it’s a quiet rebellion against the pull to create big, wow factor work? Maybe I'm afraid to make larger work? I do know though, I enjoy holding work, cradling work almost in my hands. I’ve had this exhibition idea in my head: Elevation. It’s a proposal I spent days drafting—only to let it sit forgotten, (pah, I could write an encyclopedic sized book of those ideas) and like so many ideas that start off intensely it just faded. Elevation is/was about shifting focus from the large and spectacular to the small, the humble, the imperfect. In a world where big, glossy and new is everything, I guess I’m drawn to the opposite. I want to create a space that celebrates the quiet. A place for subtlety, peaceful energy, ritual and reverence. I want to pause and reconsider what we value—and why. Winter feels like the right time for this kind of thinking. Our culture’s need for grandeur and more stuff just feels exhausting sometimes, as Xmas approaches it's even more apparent. Elevation is my way of slowing down and, hopefully, inviting others to do the same. A way to counter the “more, more, more” energy with a little pause and stillness. So, I got back in the studio, albeit for just under 15 minutes. Not making anything yet. Just sitting with the quiet energy of some of what I’ve created both at Tremenheere and in my studio this summer. I'm trying to remind myself and others, it's okay if motivation ebbs and flows. I’ll sit with it for a while longer. I had to force myself to write this, but I’m glad I did. Mostly, I do this for me. I recently had a conversation about my mixed feelings toward social media—it’s useful, even inspiring at times, but the sense of obligation to post (from nearly every arts advisory/consultant etc out there) is what really puts me off. They suggested what if “sharing” could be just for myself? Like keeping a journal of what I make, what I enjoy, and why it matters to me—a way to honour the work privately, without the pressure of an audience and remind myself why I make. It sounded simple and there’s something valuable in putting these reflections somewhere, even if no one else reads them. So, this is a kind of compromise. Not pouring everything onto social media but sharing it here on the blog. It’s here for anyone who feels like reading and honestly, for me, to look back on too. Would love to hear anyone else's thoughts on scale, pauses and general creative ebbs and flows.
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The ideas of scale, significance and value has always played a part in many things I make, especially given how society and the art world often puts the monumental/grandiose on a pedestal.
Inspired by ancient standing stones, (something that scale plays a huge part in what is deemed the most important) the piece I’m working on, ‘Monument’ considers scale and I’m playing with ideas of how we place meaning to objects. I’d like it to be a piece that’s both familiar and ambiguous, considering what really makes something important or of value. The past few weeks in the studio have been frustrating to say the least, moments of doubt, frustration, and, occasionally, glimmers of clarity. Monument has pushed me into that all too familiar cycle of self doubt and ‘what’s the point’ conversation in my head. It been like an endless process of balancing, adjusting, and reconsidering every detail, all in the attempt of communicating an idea that is pretty simple. And yet, I’m still not quite there. What I’m trying to learn is balance is key—both literally and conceptually. The ceramic form on top, can be positioned in countless ways. Each shift in placement feels monumental (pun intended) and changes the entire feel of the work. This process has been ridiculously painstaking. I’ve spent hours upon hours just experimenting with the way the piece balances itself. Currently the ceramic piece is balanced on a plinth rather than fixed or secured as I want there to be a feeling of transience, as if the whole structure could shift or collapse at any moment - probably not ideal for an exhibition? I’ve played with different plinths, as well as height, the texture, the finish. Should it be sanded? Painted? Ink or paint? Pencil? Left raw? The relationship between the plinth and the ceramic is crucial. I’ve gone through multiple variations, trying different finishes, sanding, painting, stripping it back, only to start over again. I’ve been rearranging the piece in the studio, looking at it from every angle, from a distance and up close. How does it feel from a lower viewpoint? What happens when you elevate it more? Does it feel too isolated or too approachable? Nothing feels quite right yet. What makes this process so challenging is that, in the end, the final piece will be simple. And with simplicity, there’s always the risk of it being misunderstood. I can already anticipate that dreaded “I could have done that.” Something I know all artists take a deep breath when hearing. The final result may seem simple. But the truth is, the simplicity comes from layers upon layers of thought, adjustments, and refinements, which in itself is maddening. I know I'm not alone in this process. At this stage, Monument is nearly there. I’m close to resolving it, I hope. In this frustration I have to remind myself (thank you instagram and the fellow artists who commented) that the very act of balancing/assembling/figuring it all out is all part of the ritual that is usually part of my work. I hope for Monument to be quietly unassuming, ambiguous, both monumental and precarious, solid yet vulnerable, maybe I’m asking too much or overthinking but isn’t that what we all do (please say yes!)
More arranging objects on a shelf, this time creating what resembles an altar piece or a small temple shape using recycled wood. The piece features a hole on top where I’ve placed a root. Alongside it, I’ve positioned a tiny ceramic bowl I’ve made, also with a hole, which holds a dried flower.
Roots have always held a special place in my work. My degree show (2000) featured several bound and wrapped roots reminiscent of some kind of creature. These roots often come from significant trees or plants, each carrying its own story in folklore and meaning. Although I can’t remember the specific origin of this particular root (my collection has grown too large to keep track of without labels!), I know it was chosen with the intention of elevating its presence. Unusually for me, there is a hint of colour on the reclaimed wood—orange and green. I’ve been unexpectedly drawn to orange lately, which is unusual for me. This vibrant color is something I’m exploring more deeply and researching during moments outside the studio. I’m playing with creating small spaces that invite contemplation and reflection, perhaps even a sense of reverence. New work is emerging in the studio, challenging conventional ideas of sacredness and value. I’m exploring how we perceive and assign meaning to objects, and this process of arranging and re-arranging helps me uncover new insights and connections.
I have to remind myself on the importance of what at first glance might seem insignificant holds potential for discovery and reflection.
Two lumps of dried dirt—one of which I’ve created a hole in—on a slightly elevated shelf. By playing with these materials and a lovely root ball that I place on top, I create a totemic shape. This exercise is not just about the arrangement itself but what it represents and the ideas it sparks. Why This Matters: The process of elevating these small, undesired, and often overlooked objects plays with broader themes I’m currently exploring. By focusing on these pretty humble materials, I’m playing with notions of importance, value, and belief. Objects and materials usually seen as mundane or insignificant, can take on new meaning when positioned mindfully, maybe even becoming symbols of contemplation and reverence. The Power of Elevation: Rearranging and elevating objects isn’t merely about aesthetics. It’s a deliberate exploration of how we assign value and meaning. A simple piece of dirt, when placed in a new context, can transform into something significant, prompting us to question what we deem valuable and why. This activity is not just about the immediate visual outcome either but about the themes and ideas it brings to light. It’s a way to find new connections and inspirations that may have always been there but needed time to breathe. This week I begin a time of contemplation at Tremenheere Sculpture Garden where I’ll be doing a residency for 8 weeks, researching, spending time with mud and considering ways forward. I can’t wait.
Sharing these snapshots of my process is helping me see my work from a new perspective.
There’s something special about documenting these moments of exploration and discovery, an activity I have always taken for granted. This is a very short close-up of me rearranging three objects: a round pebble I found on the beach, a fragment of a bowl I made, and a small maquette made from two broken pottery fragments. These small-scale compositions are an exercise in finding some kind of narrative within the chaos of broken and found objects that are scattered around my studio Why This Matters: There’s a real joy in handling these objects, each with its own history and texture. The pebble, smoothed by the sea, contrasts with the rough edges of the broken pot and the small maquette. As I move them around, new relationships emerge, and what was once a simple pebble or a shattered piece of pottery becomes part of a larger conversation. The Power of Context: As I mentioned in my earlier post, this practice of rearranging and experimenting is a crucial part of my creative process. It helps me understand how context changes perception. A broken fragment, when paired with another, can suggest a narrative or evoke an emotion or a message that wasn’t there before. This activity of rearranging objects is about finding new connections and inspirations to move forward with—about themes and ideas that are always there but need some time to breathe, if you like. It’s a continuous loop of creation and reflection..
I realise it’s been good for me to look back on the little I’ve written here. I’m not a fan of websites; there is something 'static' about them, or perhaps they just don’t feel reflective of me and my practice. When only final work is shown, it’s just a small glimpse of an artist's journey. That’s why I thought I’d try documenting my process in the studio here. I plan to share new posts a couple of times a month, offering a more intimate look at my work and inspirations. For me, first and foremost, but for anyone reading this I hope you’ll find something that resonates with you.
Today in my studio, I did what I often do when I first get in and I'm not sure where to start or when I'm bored, stuck, or just waiting for things to dry: I played with objects. I can totally lose myself in the positioning and repositioning of my work. Usually, I arrange them on shelves, seeing how they sit together, whether there's a kind of 'conversation' between the pieces. I’m intrigued by how something can stand alone with no story, but the moment you place it next to something else, or elevate it on a plinth, a rock, a piece of wood, or even a lump of dry mud, it transforms. Suddenly, it has a narrative, a meaning that wasn't there before. I lose myself in this process for hours, photographing each arrangement, capturing each fleeting interaction. These photographs become my sketchbook of ideas. I don’t look at them right away; it’s usually a week or two later that I revisit them. And when I do, it’s like picking up where I left off, seeing the work through fresh eyes, discovering new connections and insights. The act of positioning and repositioning objects isn't just a distraction; it's integral to my process. It’s about exploring relationships, testing ideas, and finding unexpected connections. This meditative activity keeps me inspired, even when I’m stuck or or having a down day with my work. This cycle of play, documentation, and reflection is crucial, keeping my work alive and evolving. It helps me make sense of what I'm doing and possibly subconsciously thinking. So I thought I’d film some snippets too.  Thought I'd share these miniature kurinuki sculptures. Tiny vessels for small offerings—a dried weed, a dead flower head, a feather, or sometimes just some incense. It's become a ritual for me, a moment to unwind and contemplate, not only making them but placing items in them. Each sculpture is unique and when I arrange them on shelves, they form these little interesting groupings. They encourage me to find beauty in the everyday, celebrating the small things that often go unnoticed. A meditative practice—an opportunity to slow down.    I've been browsing through my sketchbook, hoping for new inspiration for my poppets. Even though I don't work directly from my sketches, they still spark ideas and set the tone for what I create. The drawings themselves come from this almost automatic drawing method I use with paint. I lay the paint on thick, then once it's dry, I go in with pencil, like taking rubbings. It's a bit of a mystery each time, not knowing exactly what will emerge. This process keeps things fresh and fuels the magic behind my poppets.  Similar to stream-of-consciousness writing, this kind of sketchbook work involves me creating drawings without overthinking, letting instinct and subconscious impulses guide the process. This approach allows unexpected and unique elements to surface, which I love. This technique is central to my work, especially for my poppets, as it seems so fitting to the whole process. 
 Been making these little clay shrines. There's something about these places of devotion that has been a constant source of fascination for me. Shrines in all countries, in all shapes and sizes—from grand temples to simple home altars are so beautiful. The fact they have so many purposes from honouring gods, remembering loved ones, or just having a spot to reflect makes them so accessible for all.My current shrines are tiny and a little temple-shaped, with a small space for a little offering. I don't want them looking 'finished' so I'm making them in quite a quick immediate way.        I've been spending a lot of time with my bone collection, which I gather almost daily on my walks through the fields and dunes to the beach. Most of the bones I find are likely from rabbits and birds. Recently, I've been experimenting with the suminagashi technique on these bones, I'm particularly drawn to creating patterns that resemble mould, symbolic of life/death cycle.  |
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