To follow from my previous post on the importance of the artist’s studio (or art shed) one of the benefits that I didn’t mention was the ability to open your studio to the public when you want to show work in progress and perhaps even sell a few paintings or sculptures. And besides, being an artist can often be a lonely pastime and it’s nice to occasionally talk to somebody other than the cat. I’ve been toying with the idea of opening up my art shed at some point but I don’t feel ready yet but wanted to see how other artists do it.

If you don’t know what an Open Studios event is, it’s really easy to understand: it’s where artists literally open their studios to the public for a set number of days a year, usually as part of a wider group of artists all doing it in the same area. It’s also a lovely way to talk to artists and buy art direct from them, often at discounted prices. And the diversity of actual studios is wide from living rooms, to gardens, to shops and galleries. Although artists often can just open their own studios whenever they feel like it, usually artists join with other artists and over the years organisations and collectives have sprung up all over the UK (and wider world) that artists can pay to join to be part of a festival of Open Studios/Houses and benefit from marketing through brochures, social media and websites. In the UK you can usually find a collective by county or town, with a quick internet search, and although open studios can run at any time of year, the late spring and summer season is usually the busiest.

As an aside, I haven’t had time to delve into the deeper history of the origins of artist open studios but I think it all probably started in the Salons in Paris and over the years moved from artist and intellectual ‘happenings’ to more democratised open studios as we know them today. When I find a good book on it I’ll write a post about it!

Last week my daughter (a talented student artist herself — well, I would say that, but she is!) and I went to an open studios organised by Artists Open Houses in Brighton, UK, which runs on weekends throughout May 2026 including this bank holiday weekend. We only had time to visit one studio (Old School Studios - Artcore, Studio 27 in the brochure and website) but amazingly this place provides studio and gallery space to over 50 artists including Jesse Leeroy Smith (one of the tutors on my Newlyn Art School course) who last month blew my mind with an expressive and experimental portraiture session.

As my daughter and I walked around the giant house, once home to a Brighton Steiner school, dotted with Victorian bathrooms and old fashioned radiators, we soon become lost in a warren of rooms and gallery spaces, spanning three vast floors. Often multiple artists were working within one room with various areas partitioned off as you often find in university art schools with wall space for each student to work (or have a sleep).

It was the sense of community I felt immediately walking from one studio to another, some small with up to three artists sharing, and others much larger, obviously used as larger classrooms when the building was formerly a school. All of the rooms had high ceilings, wall space and large windows with lovely Brighton-light pouring in. It was so inspiring to see Jesse’s studio that he shares with fellow artist and painter Neil Pavey. Apart from being blown away by Jesse’s beautiful layered figurative paintings and Neil’s original use of surfaces and textures, I was intrigued how it was for them working in communal artist studios. I wondered how they got any work done, with the temptation to natter all day and drink tea, but they assured me they seemed to find a rhythm of work, and they mentioned it was so nice to have the other to ask for occasional feedback. They told me they often were inspired by each other, like admiring colours and compositions. They always said that they were not always at the studio at the same time, so had plenty of days where they could enjoy the whole double room space to themselves.

The crowning glory, apart from all the lovely art, and being able to speak to the artists, was a very cool lounge area with DJ deck, pole-dancing robots (I kid you not!), art hanging everywhere and a cool cantina bar serving alcohol and tacos! My daughter made the comment: ‘I don’t ever want to go to a gallery that hasn’t got tacos!’

A fellow art student on my course, Simone Brenninkmeijer, is opening her home for the first time this year as part of Cornwall Open Studios which is on 23-31st May 2026. She sent me this information, so if you’re in the area please go and visit:

‘Simone Brenninkmeijer one of the artists in Looe, taking part in Cornwall Open Studios! Come and meet me and ‘Pickle’ my dog! See my work displayed at my home overlooking the Looe Bay. Bay View House, East Cliff (just at the start of the coastal path and 2 min walk up from town high street). Studio 35 in the Cornwall Open Studio brochure and website. We look forward to our visitors!!’

My little Art Shed is in the South East UK, specifically in Kent, so my local Open Studios organiser is South East Open Studios (opening 5-21st June 2026), covering Kent and Sussex, which this year is celebrating its 30th Anniversary. As stated on their website: ‘SEOS brings together the work of hundreds of contemporary artists and makers around parts of Kent and East & Mid Sussex. Each year in June, artists and makers open their working studios to welcome the public.’

And you know what: I’ve already got the bug! Even though I can be a bit of a loner I do crave company and my daughter has encouraged me to open my ‘studio’ for the next Open Studios in my area so watch this space for 2027!

So, if you are an art lover get searching for a local Open Studios event near you and go and meet the people who slave, day and night, for little money, often wondering why they are bothering, to make art that can make you see the world in a new light.

In search of a space

I’ve been reflecting on the importance of an artist’s studio. Although I readily accept I have called this newsletter/blog ‘Tales from the Art Shed’, I sometimes refer to my space as a ‘studio’. But, in the same way I still feel uncomfortable calling myself an ‘artist’ (like when I first called myself a ‘writer’ years ago), I feel a bit of a ponce, so until I win the Turner Prize it’ll be a shed. Imposter syndrome could be a whole other post so we’ll park that there.

I’m proud of my little shed because getting it to a state I could work in was a labour of love and seemed a million miles from the rotting husk I found at the bottom of the garden the day I moved in. I had remembered peering through a hole in the cladding while the estate agent falsely claimed it had power but that the owner hadn’t left any keys. I had to take his word for it. Convenient. When I did finally prize the rusty padlock open and wrenched the double doors apart I was assaulted by the smell of mould and damp. The roof had been leaking for years, the cable once supplying power had been cut long ago, and most of the cladding including the floor (my foot went through it) and doors were rotten. And to be honest, back then five or so years ago, I hadn’t really cared because the notion I might embrace my old love of art and become a ‘second career’ artist had not occurred to my post-Covid brain. I would not even have considered it for writing either because luckily there was a spare room in the house that could serve that purpose. And so it remained unloved until, not many months later, my mum passed away, and in the year of grieving (it was years in the end), when I had taken up art again, I eyed up the shed at the bottom of the garden to renovate. And anyway, I needed a physical project that would take my mind off the pain.

I didn’t dare tell anybody I was hoping it could become an art studio because that felt too serious; taking art seriously seemed crazy. I’d only just started out and was still learning (you never stop), and anyway, I would probably get bored of it and find some new obsession, I assumed. But I could feel this new passion taking hold like a fever. Was I secretly cheating on my old love of writing?

A year later, through snow, wind, rain and sun I had transformed the ugly duckling into a little green art studio with new cladding, power and heating, a patched-up roof and even a funky flip-up table with folding legs that I invented myself, for space efficiency (it’s been in the upright position ever since as I use it every day).

We all need a space to work, to think, to create. In a way, I never stop having a creative space to escape within — my head. I mean, when you’re an artist of any form you generally disappear a lot into your own head and daydream. You could be talking to someone and thinking about characters from your current novel or the exact tint of cerulean blue you want to blob on the canvas. While much of the creative thinking can obviously be done in your head, while cleaning the house or out for a walk, at some point a dedicated space is essential to make the work.

A physical space

When you finally want to attempt to drag that fizzy romantic idea out of your head and actually try and make it a tangible physical thing (the hard work bit) you need a space to create. I would say it’s absolutely fundamental for an artist to have some sort of space, be it a kitchen table, funky multi-purpose crafting table-come-cupboard, spare room, shed, garage or renting a purpose built art studio. I think this is true for other artists such as ceramicists, musicians, sculptors and many craftspeople, with perhaps the exception being writers or graphic designers or artists just working in the digital realm who might just get away with a laptop on a train or in a cafe. Although, when I was a professional writer, even though I would occasionally work remotely on a laptop, I always needed a room to work in, with a comfy chair, music on tap, my reference books around me, noticeboards for ideas and plotting, etc. Sorry if I’ve missed out any creatives but I think you get the idea.

If you’re a visual artist you’re gonna need room for paintbrushes and paint and paper and canvas stretchers and canvas rolls and materials and jars and tables and easels and any other specific paraphernalia that enables you to do your art, like a printing press or pottery wheel. I also like to work on multiple pieces at once and have space to dry them — oh and some wall space to pin up things to admire / destroy later.

A work space

If you have a space you signal to yourself and to other people that you are there working. And creativity is work. As Thomas Edison claimed that he once said, ‘Genius is one per cent inspiration, ninety-nine per cent perspiration.’ I used to say you need to ‘apply bum to seat’ in order to get a book written. I probably heard that somewhere but I know it’s true from bitter experience in my early writing days wandering around the house waiting for ‘the muse’ instead of just sitting at the computer and getting on with it.

You need to turn up and do the work, whether you’re writing a book, painting a picture, sculpting a figure or sewing a costume. And I think that a specific place of creativity just puts you in that, hopefully, distraction-free work zone.

(As an aside, obviously much of the pre-creative work can be done away from a creative space. I write the first drafts of these posts dictated on my phone on long car journeys — before you panic, it’s on hands-free! So, if you spot any savage and random digressions in these posts that’ll be why. In fact, for your amusement, here are some examples of my rantings when I’ve had to suddenly pay even more attention to the road: ‘...fuck no they got the big horses...’ or this long one that made me laugh and is reproduced verbatim: ‘...fuck on the wrong fucking way. I don’t know what’s going on honestly I don’t know what the fuck is going on. I’ve gone. I’ve gone really bad wrong oh shit what do I do? No, I think I’m on the right route. I just so confusing. It’s a three lane road here and it’s just gonna be a little bit of a mental mental kind of thing isn’t really here we go. I’m in the middle lane. Great this is just the one on the most confusing little bit of the journey but I’m all good. I’ve got green lights. I’m not speeding. I don’t think doing 40. It’s all good. There’s a big explode. Something is happening over there but that’s not cool. We’re on the right road...’ )

A safe space

Artists often use many materials that can be harmful to health like toxic paint pigments found in colours like cadmium red or, for the hardcore traditionalist (if you can get hold of it in your country), lead white! There are many mediums and liquids that artists use that contain volatile organic compounds (VOCs), dangerous fumes that have to be either extracted or wafted away through open windows. Plus, if you use various oils like linseed oil careful storage and disposal of rags need to be adhered to. (I use non-toxic-as-possible materials and alternatives, and fortunately you can get many safer hues of traditional pigments). You may need kilns, power tools and running water which is better in a purpose-built space for your creativity and safety, or at least a place you can ventilate easily and keep children and pets away. Well, apart from my cat.

A messy space

When I started tinkering about with arty things again I was just working at a table in my living room on small paintings, or doing a bit of drawing in a sketch pad. I set up an easel in my spare room but it was a nightmare having to work without freedom and contain my activities to one little area for fear of ruining the carpet. When the sun came out, I painted in the garden. That was okay for a bit but I craved a space of my own to get really messy.

Not many artists have a studio as chaotic and cluttered as Francis Bacon’s, a mirror of the twisted and distorted figures in his paintings. He once said, ‘I feel at home here in this chaos because the chaos suggests images to me’. Although he painted in several places over his life, his main and favourite was the studio at 7 Reece Mews, London (which some years after his death was sold, relocated and completely reconstructed at The Hugh Lane Gallery in Dublin). I was astonished to read the studio measured only 4 x 6 metres, double the size of my shed. Bacon was said to be very protective of his space and hardly let anybody in there while he was working. Looking at how cluttered it was I don’t think many others could easily have joined him.

A modern-day contemporary, the artist Rose Wylie, who at the age of 90 recently had a solo exhibition at the Royal Academy, works in her historic house in Kent. The rooms are littered with paint-covered newspaper that she uses to wipe her brushes, and over the period of making her art shrine-like mountains appear made of discarded paint pots (‘House and Garden’ magazine article). There’s some lovely photos of Rose Wylie’s studio in a post by the arts magazine ‘A Rabbit’s Foot’.

Although I love the romantic notion of these iconic messy artists’ studios, I know that trying to work in that kind of space would just be impossible for me. For one I don’t have as much room and I like to have free uncluttered surfaces to, well, clutter up! I need to have a space to put something down to dry. On a practical level, I hate stepping in wet paint, because there’s always a nightmare when going from the shed to the house (for essential tea and coffee breaks) without covering the floors in paint. And just to look around and see a mess everywhere, when my brain feels so much of a whirling mess anyway (yes, I have one of those brains), is disabling to my creativity. Reading this back though, my other half would probably disagree and say I do have a tendency to work in chaos. But I like to first clear a space to start a new project, get everything in order and put away or prepare work. Then, during the creation process, I like to make a mess, leave things here and there, don’t always tidy away, leave rags I use for painting hanging up or a few tissues here and there and wet paintings drying, but I would never let it get as messy (to me) as Bacon’s or Wylie’s studios. But then I’m not as good as those two amazing painters (both so different in styles) so maybe they are onto something!? I’m also a painter who likes to clean down my brushes as much as possible even if I’m planning to use them the next day. I like to then leave them out instead of packing them all away so I’m ready to get going straight away on the next session. Apparently, Rose Wylie just buys cheap ones and throws them away.

I also like the freedom a studio brings to make a mess if you want to or work more expressively so I could, for exampe, experiment with some Damien-Hirst-style spin paintings, or not have a heart attack when I spill half a tub of gesso (prep for a canvas) on the floor (like I did yesterday). If I’d done that in the house my other half would have moved all my clothes to the shed and changed the house locks.

A quiet space

I personally like to work alone, with the occasional pep talk with other artist friends or with my son on a phone or video call, or just have a day off to visit friends every so often. When I’m working I usually don’t want anybody else around so I can just concentrate without distraction. I just haven’t got the ability to work very effectively with other people around; if they are, I have to drown them out with headphones. Probably another reason I’ve not done a proper office job for years. I do miss the banter and human contact, so, to not feel so lonely (as artist John Hoyland once remarked), I listen to the radio, or spoken word, audiobooks or podcasts.

I recently visited some artists at a communal art space for their Open Studios, where they have up to 50 artists, which does sound fun, but also a bit of a nightmare for me. That’ll be the subject of a future post; for now it’s just me on my tod, in a shed, painting.

Of course if you have a place to call your own it doesn’t have to be peaceful. I often play loud music, on repeat.

A serious space

I did secretly take offence when a few people remarked after seeing my newly-kitted-out shed that I’d just created a ‘man cave’, but as mentioned previously I had then dared not admitted that I was seriously going to create an art studio because it felt too… serious.

There’s a sense that when you get your first studio (or a shed with serious studio aspirations) you have ‘arrived’. You’ve taken another step closer to developing as an artist. And to be clear, I don’t feel that having a shed decked-out as an art studio at the bottom of my garden makes me feel like I’ve ‘arrived’, perhaps because of already mentioned imposter syndrome, but moreover I’ve not had to take the big financial decision to pay for a ‘real’ studio space outside of my house, which I’m sure you have to do when you get some success from your art and need space to produce higher volume and larger work. But then I still think what I have is wonderful. I know I’m lucky to have the space, a space that has enabled me to take myself a bit more seriously, and focus on developing my own regular art practice.

The problem with having a dedicated space — whisper it, ‘a studio’ — is that I can often have an overwhelming pressure to now create ‘art’, in the same way one might get a writing room all ready with a shiny new typewriter (okay, it was a laptop) that goads you into writing the next great literary masterpiece. The pressure to create a work of art to show family and friends to justify the effort and expense of creating a dedicated work space, a studio, can be debilitating. It didn’t take my other half very long to realise that a normal creative day for me involves hours of staring and pacing before finally removing more marks from the canvas than I’ve put on. In fact often that can actually be quite a successful day, artistically.

My space (not that retro social network)

My little shed is a physical space, a work space, a safe space, a messy space, a quiet space (occasionally a noisy drum ‘n’ bass space), a serious space.

And it’s my space.

I hope, like me, you can find a space to create and one day call it your studio.

It’s 5 years today (April 23rd 2026) since my mum passed away. This isn’t a piece about grief or losing a parent, but it is about a significant decision I made following that life-changing event.

It wasn’t like the day after she died, but I’d been getting increasingly itchy feet about wanting to concentrate on my own creative projects, which back then were various half researched, half drafted novels. I’d finished a novel (that had got me interest with an agent but unfortunately was never published) several years before and I’d not really written since because all hours had been spent building up my little publishing empire. I was full-on in the middle of running my book publishing imprint (I didn’t have time or money to spend during Covid learning to play guitar) where I took risks with my own time and money to publish a small cohort of authors in various genres from non-fiction, local history, children’s books and fiction. Perhaps I should have followed the words of my sales guy, an experienced book sales agent in the publishing industry, who had advised I find a niche. But that’s all connected with the theme of this post: the, so called, ‘second career’. In other words, if you’re a creative person where your brain just bugs you on a daily basis with more ideas than there are hours in the day, it’s a fair bet you’ll want to keep changing your career path to carve out time to spend your days trying to bring your imaginings to life.

I’ve always told people that I’m a jack of some trades, master of none. Since graduating in the 90s, my career path would probably look like an oxbow lake from the air. My first proper job was a computer programmer but after a few years it didn’t take me long to realise that, to me, it was utterly dull and a universe away from my love of graphics and computer games, which as a child of the 80s had inspired me enough to embrace my inner geek and learn coding, so I could work out how those little sprites moved across the screen.

But, looking back, one consistent element of my snaking ‘career’ (that word makes me shudder) has been moving into roles (mark that word up for the bin too) that have enabled me to be creative, such as interactive tv, web design, graphic design, copywriting, publishing and eventually fiction writing. I’ve become accustomed to letting my head be ruled by my passions instead of sticking to a solid career path, but I don’t recommend it if you crave a secure solid income, job security and climbing the career ladder in your chosen industry.

I often need something significant to push me into making a new decision about my life, so I can reflect on what I really want to do with my time on Earth. I can’t blame those early years of commuting to London in stressful jobs. On those train journeys I wrote stories, the carriage then filled with commuters reading newspapers, books or listening to iPods. Yes, I know that dates me. There was no watching Slopfix on smart phones back then. And yes, the early stories were bloody dreadful but I loved it, and it lead me to change career from tech into writing.

It took me a few years to come through my grief over losing Mum, and when I did start functioning again I was changed. I had lost my writing ‘muse’. Something I never thought would happen. The wirlwind of narrative ideas and characters and locations and scenes had ceased. I remembered years back when I was contacted by a writer who wanted me to publish a collection of poems which I thought were wonderful. When I asked him if he was going to write more he had told me that they were written some time ago, but following the death of his wife he had just woke up one day also bereft of muse. Honestly, that just terrified me. I just didn’t think it would ever happen to me. And then it did. My creative muse just vanished. I know this is often a symptom of grief, but was it really to do with losing Mum? Was I having a mid-life crisis? Had I been delusional about my creativity all this time? Was this how ‘normal’ people felt, not having a head full of creative ideas insisting they be realised? I’m glad to say, it didn’t last forever, so if this has happened to you then please read on.

I can’t exactly remember why I suddenly got the urge to do some painting and drawing, but it was a few years ago now. There were practical reasons of just being fed up of spending long days on the computer. Even if I was doing something creative, like book cover design, it was still on a computer, moving and clicking a mouse. Click, click, click. I had also been thinking back to my childhood, like you do, and reflecting on how I used to spend my time. I was either on a BMX, or playing Lego but mostly drawing. Drawing, drawing, drawing. I recently reconnected with a childhood friend and he remembered how good I was at art and how it had gone around at school between my mates at how surprised they were that I had got a shit mark for my exam. School killed my love of art, or at least fine art, if we want to call it that. The fine art teacher just didn’t seem to understand what art I liked at the time, so perhaps she might connect with me, adapt her methods, find a way in to inspire me, like a great teacher does. It was different back then. It was one size fits all. I was interested in graphic novels, comics and science fiction, and art at school was none of that. I just had no interest in going out into the grounds and rendering a charcoal drawing of tree bark. When I showed my effort to the art teacher she looked at it for a time before telling me, ‘You made most of this up, didn’t you?’ I confess, I did. I’d really enjoy that exercise now, but back then art education was wasted on me. The graphic design teacher was more inspiring and some of his early advice to me about various techniques like squaring up, composition and rule of thirds has served me well over the years so something must have stuck. But after having to do a dreadful watery painting of the Space Shuttle for a topic on ‘movement’ in my art exam, I just started to loath art. It didn’t help that I’d discovered a new passion: girls.

Throughout my life my mum would often say, after chuckling at silly cards I’d drawn for her birthday or other occasions, ‘You were always good at drawing. You should do more of that!’ Of course, to qualify this, I understand that any parent is not going to be very objective about the quality of the drawings their child hands them to be stuck on the fridge. However, I always found it came naturally to draw, but more importantly, I remembered how much joy visual art brought me. It was a time to escape into my imagination and illustrate the stories playing in my head or to copy heroes from my favourite comics or make my friends laugh with something daft.

I’m in good company being a ‘second career’ artist as there are quite a few well known artists who found their true vocation later in life including:

Henri Rousseau: nicknamed ‘Le Douanier’ which means customs officer, his previous role collecting taxes and tolls.

Vincent Van Gogh: His first calling was in the church as a priest, but he also worked as a teacher, bookseller and art dealer.

Paul Gauguin: He was a stockbroker before doing post-impressions.

And there are countless artists who had previous creative careers, with one famous one springing to mind: Andy Warhol who, before making pop-art global, was a commercial illustrator.

It’s probably the subject of another post, but obviously many creatives have multiple jobs, side hustles, or ‘portfolio careers’ as I liked to say to people when I often had a full-time job while working freelance doing creative stuff in my spare time. The reality is that it’s tough — not impossible — to make a good living from your art in an increasingly expensive world. The media only report on the over-night success stories because they are rare. Most ‘artists’ in whatever field work several jobs or have multiple income streams.

From my experience of changing careers once or twice before, I have found the things I learned in one industry can be used in another. For example, my tech skills have come in so handy for setting up new businesses, creating web sites, marketing, and recently, learning blogging systems like Substack! So, perhaps being a little older and hopefully a little wiser will help me in this new visual art adventure. Watch this space.

So, in summary, technically, I’m a ‘fifth career’ artist. If we assume a ‘career’ is defined as one with an aim to make a modest living where you need to pivot (another one for the cringe bin) to a new industry, climb a learning mountain, ingest new jargon and face associated imposter syndrome before gaining proficiency, then, ignoring random jobs and hobbies, I count my ‘careers’ as five, in order: IT, interactive tv, writing, publishing… and now… visual art. But that just sounds ridiculous, so if somebody wants to label me a ‘second career’ artist then I can live with that.