What I thought would be a quieter year quickly turned into a perfect storm of deadlines, inventory lists, framing and deliveries. Between two exhibitions, a solo show on the horizon and the realisation that being an artist involves far more than just making, this felt like a valuable—and occasionally overwhelming—dry run for August.

With 13 weeks to go, I’ve started shifting focus from making the work to putting it out into the world. From magazine features to postcards and local noticeboards, this is a reflection on the realities of promoting a solo show—and the thoughts that come with being seen.

Working on three new glass pieces, I thought I was starting to understand my process.

But one success, one near miss, and one complete failure quickly reminded me that glass is still very much in control—and that progress isn’t always consistent.

After my first event of the year, a quiet question stayed with me: what if the originals don’t sell?

That small thought opened the door to a series of fears I wasn’t expecting—about time, visibility, balance, and whether I’m truly ready for my solo show. This is an honest reflection on learning to carry those fears, rather than trying to silence them.

A behind-the-scenes look at the financial reality of preparing for a solo show — from framing and materials to pricing decisions, and the mindset shift needed to see it as an investment rather than a cost.

As I take the first steps in marketing my solo exhibition, I begin with the poster — navigating design decisions, letting go of pressure, and figuring things out as I go.

Five larger glass landscapes, each revealing something different: from unexpected successes to frustrating setbacks, and the lessons hidden inside each firing.

What happens when someone who teaches mentoring becomes the mentee? From kiln shelves to business strategy, this is a behind-the-scenes look at how mentoring is shaping my growth as an artist.

A behind-the-scenes reflection on learning how to work with light in my landscapes — exploring direction, strength, and spread, and finding ways to suggest light rather than describe it.

When time and access to the studio are limited, progress takes other forms. This post explores planning, learning, and quiet forward motion as I prepare for my upcoming solo show.

Naming my upcoming solo show has turned out to be far harder — and far more revealing — than I expected. What began as a practical decision has slowly become part of the creative process itself, mirroring my shifting relationship with place, belonging, and making work in Devon. This post is a quiet look behind the scenes at how a title moves, hesitates, and slowly takes shape alongside the work.

A five-millimetre mistake was all it took to unravel my carefully laid plans. What should have been a straightforward framing job turned into ninety minutes of panic, a missed deadline, and a painful realisation: I can’t treat presentation as an afterthought any longer. In this post I share the moment everything went wrong — and the eight hard-won lessons it’s taught me as I prepare for my solo show.

A slow shift from instinct to understanding, and learning to see what holds a landscape together.

A creative framework designed to help me make intentional, expressive decisions through mood, value, colour, and design.

I find myself sometimes being very literal with the larger landscapes. With my pendants, though, the process is far more intuitive. Over time, I’ve built up a kind of library of pre-designed glass sheets — each one a small experiment in colour, texture, and transparency.

With the car boot packed full of supplies, we set out for our first Dartmoor sketching session — an act of bravery, and a learning curve in more ways than one.

A perfect Dartmoor day of tors, trees, and legends — and a reminder of why I love calling this wild corner of Devon home.

Exploring Dartmoor through the pages of well-worn books before setting foot on the moors themselves — gathering stories, inspiration, and places to walk once the hills quieten for winter.

My inner critic is loud, my deadlines are looming, and glass feels impossibly complicated. So I went back to basics: paint, play, and a pile of colour swatches. What started as overwhelm is turning into a palette — and maybe even a collection.

My Creative Partner: Chatty G