Mood: More Wobbles | Post Type: Behind the Scenes | Weeks Until Show: 17

The Persistent Niggle

I had my first event of the year recently, and it was wonderful to be out there again. It was a launch day, so most visitors were collectors or artists, and I benefited from great conversations, lots of learning, and the all-important networking. But I noticed something.

My art stand set up in a stable at an event. — I felt relief when the first sale came in—but also a **quiet disappointment**. The items that sold were the prints and the notecards—not the originals or any pendants.
Don’t get me wrong, the appreciation and admiration for my work was incredibly high, and overall the event was a success in my eyes. But it left a small, persistent niggle. The kind that doesn’t shout, but doesn’t go away either.
And that niggle has opened the door to a few fears I wasn’t expecting. I’m half-hoping that by the time I reach the end of writing this, I’ll have talked myself through them and come out a little more resilient on the other side.
We’ll see.

The Sales Fear

Not “I need to sell”—but something deeper.

What if no one buys the originals?
What if I’m left holding all this work?
What does that mean about the work if that happens? And what does it say about me as an artist?

I suspect this is a fear that never fully leaves. It’s part of caring. Part of putting something into the world and not being able to control how it’s received.

So perhaps this isn’t something to fix—but something to quieten when it gets a little too loud. I’m starting to realise that one way to do that is to gently challenge it: prints and notecards only exist because the originals came first.
They are not a lesser outcome—they are part of the same ecosystem. And one event is not the whole story.

Time, overwhelm, and the edge of burnout

This one feels closer to the surface. If I’m honest, I can feel it physically as I write this—my heart rate picking up slightly. I know how quickly my overwhelm dial can turn up. It always has.

I’m good in a crisis—logical, pragmatic, focused. But the slow build towards something? The sustained pressure of a long lead-up? That’s where I struggle. There’s a real fear that I could push too hard and make myself ill. And alongside that, a quieter but equally important thought:

What if I don’t enjoy this?
What if I get so caught up in the pressure of preparing for the show that I miss the experience of it entirely?

I’ve heard others talk about the post-show blues, so I’m already thinking about how to soften that—planning something gentle on the other side, something to look forward to beyond the finish line.

Visibility, and holding myself back

This is the point where I should be putting myself out there more. Reaching out, building visibility, inviting people into what I’m creating. But I haven’t. And if I’m honest, it’s not really about time. It would probably take an hour—especially with a bit of help polishing things up from Chatty G (Chat GBT). So the question becomes:

A stack of postcards promoting my solo show. — **Is it time… or is it fear?**
Because the more people who know about the show, the more exposed it becomes.
And with that comes the possibility of disappointment. I think this is less about readiness, and more about allowing myself to be seen before everything feels finished.

The tension between work and art

This is a quieter tension, but a constant one. My paid work matters. It pays the bills, yes—but it’s also a role I care deeply about. I show up fully, and there are people who rely on me in that space. So when I shift time or energy towards my art, there’s a flicker of guilt. A sense that I’m not giving enough to one side or the other.

But the reality is, both are true. The work makes the art possible. And the art is becoming an essential part of who I am. I don’t think this is something to resolve. I think it’s something to learn to live alongside.

Too many decisions, not enough certainty

This feels like standing in the middle of too many open doors. I’ve been developing some new mid-priced pieces and showcased them at the weekend. But seeing them on the stand made me question everything. They’re more vibrant, more immediate—and they felt at odds with my more delicate pendants and layered wall pieces.

What I thought was resolved suddenly isn’t.

Would they work better as hanging pieces?
Do I now need to learn a completely new technique to frame them?
Is this really the right time to introduce more pressure?

And alongside that, there are still practical decisions I haven’t fully worked out—how to attach the larger pieces to the framed glass, whether my current methods are the right ones.

Looking back at older work has opened up more questions about technique. But four months out doesn’t feel like the moment to start experimenting again. So I’m sitting with that uncomfortable space between wanting certainty and not quite having it.

When life collides with art

And then there are the things I can’t plan for. In June, there’s a weekend where I somehow need to be in three different places, in three different parts of the country. None of it was expected—opportunities that came up, commitments that shifted. And woven into that is the first anniversary of my father’s passing. My husband is away that weekend too, which is rare—but somehow it’s all landed at once.

I don’t yet know what’s possible, or how it will work. And alongside the logistics is the emotional weight of it all. There’s also a layer of guilt—that in choosing where I need to be, I might be putting my art above other people.

I don’t have answers to any of this yet. What I do know is that all of these fears seem to arrive at the same time as the work starts to matter more.

So maybe the task isn’t to get rid of them—but to keep making anyway.

This is Episode 21 in my ‘Solo Show Diary’ series — a behind-the-scenes look at how my work develops. You can find my earlier posts here.

Fears I Didn’t Expect to Carry