Studio

My studio sits at the bottom of the garden — a small, weathered cabin that’s become my place to breathe, think, and make. It’s nothing grand, just wooden walls, a big table, and shelves filled with clay in all its moods. But it holds something sacred to me — space to explore, to fail, to feel.

On most days, the door is open to the garden, and the light spills across unfinished forms. It’s quiet here, but not silent — birds, wind, the hum of life just outside. Inside, the rhythm is slower. Clay dries. Pieces lean. Ideas unfold at their own pace.

This is where everything begins. Not from sketches or plans, but from presence — from hands in clay and the willingness to see where it leads.