I’ve noticed that disruption is sometimes romanticised, treated like a maverick force that shakes things up for the better. People talk about it as the dramatic turning point, the creative catalyst, the moment an artist “evolves.” In my experience, it’s usually far less poetic. Sometimes it arrives as a blunt message telling me to vacate my studio with two months’ notice. No build‑up, no gentle nudge, just a sudden shift that rearranges my entire practice (and life) in one stroke.
This latest disruption wasn’t curiosity or experimentation. It was a forced move, abrupt, inconvenient, and perfectly timed to collide with everything else already pulling me away from the studio. One minute I was working; the next I was mentally sorting tools, equipment, materials, and eleven years of accumulated “useful things” that suddenly needed to be boxed, carried, or rehomed. It was a complete dismantling of the foundation of what I do as a ceramic artist.

I got the news while I was in the studio, making work. It was around 7pm. My immediate thought was, Well, I guess this is how it all ends. I started imagining alternatives: selling my equipment, getting a part‑time job, moving abroad, or signing on and wrestling with the government’s benefits labyrinth. It took a few hours for the enormity of the situation to land. Panic, shock, and anger followed, anger at the idea that an arts organisation could decide it’s acceptable to throw out artists simply because they can’t balance their books despite the fact that they set up the space to begin with!!
This kind of disruption, the uninvited kind, has a strange way of revealing things. It showed me what my practice can withstand. It showed me what I can withstand. It showed me how I can adapt when the choice is adapt or disappear. It showed me that I have sooo much stuff and I do not need to buy anything for a long time. Will use what I have and be inventive and creative.
I won’t pretend it feels like a blessing. Blessings don’t usually involve negotiating licences and leases, floor plans, or the need to find a space that doesn’t require a second income. Seriously, the hunt for space was something else, it deserves it’s own story. I also won’t pretend it’s purely a curse either. Curses tend to shut things down. This disruption, irritating as it is, has pushed things open: new spaces, new ways of working that require me to make the rent every month. Not sure what those new ways are but I better get on with it.
The truth is, disruption never arrives at a convenient moment. It shows up when I’m already stretched, already juggling, already navigating the demands that pull me away from making. It doesn’t care about timing. It simply announces itself and waits to see what I’ll do next.
So is this disruption a blessing or a curse? I’m still deciding. Most days it feels like both, a mess with potential. What I do know is that my practice has survived every interruption so far. It ought to survive this one too.
If you’ve followed my work, supported it, or simply enjoyed watching it twist and turn over the years, now is a good moment to stay connected. Share this post, check in, keep an eye on what comes next — because the next chapter is being built in real time, and I’d love you to be part of it.












































