A small, dense space — fifty square metres of layered time and tools. There’s no heating here, only the occasional warmth of the kiln, and a steady insistence from the cold. In winter, I wear boots and layers, as one might entering a landscape rather than a room.

This studio is not a display. It’s a sanctuary — a place to reduce the noise. A domain of silence and repetition, where the world’s static gives way to touch, weight, and line. Where things are made, unmade, and left to hover between the two.

The benches are scarred, the scales still used, the walls hold drawings, wires, sieves, vessels in stasis. Heads that haven’t yet decided if they’re finished. Nothing here is ever truly finished — some pieces have been waiting in the shadows for years, hiding under dust and cobwebs. They resist conclusion.

Tools multiply. Calipers, brushes, rods, scrapers, pinchers — implements of measure and transformation. The logic of this accumulation is neither hoarding nor nostalgia: each object earns its place through use.

The best work often begins late, when the world has fallen quiet. I let music lean in: Hania Rani’s "Time", Arvo Pärt’s "Da pacem Domine", Benjamin Britten, Tony Anderson, Sakamoto. Then, if the energy falters, I summon, FKA Twigs, MUSE, St. Vincent et al. — like electric companions nudging me forward.

Each object made here carries a sediment of hours — tactile thought under quiet pressure. This is where things gather form, where materials stop pretending to be inert.