When the Studio Goes Quiet

There’s a moment each year when the studio changes its pace.

The tables are clear, the floor is swept, the kettle is quieter than usual and the hum of conversation is replaced by something softer. After months of workshops, shared learning, conversation and creativity, the studio goes quiet. It’s a shift you can feel — not empty, just calmer.

At first, that quiet can feel slightly unsettling.

We’re so used to measuring creativity by visible activity — full tables, busy days, finished pieces — that stillness can feel like nothing is happening. But over time I’ve come to understand that this quieter season is not a pause at all. It’s when the real thinking begins.

Winter is when ideas are allowed to breathe.

It’s the time of year when sampling becomes essential. New workshop ideas are tested, techniques are refined, and materials are pushed and pulled to see how they behave. Stitching is done, unpicked, and stitched again. Timings are adjusted, layers are simplified, and decisions are made so that each workshop will be both accessible and satisfying for those who take part.

Behind the calm exterior of the studio, there is steady, focused work happening. Samples are built carefully, notes are revised, and ideas that have been quietly forming throughout the year are finally given the space they need to develop properly. Some will become workshops in the coming months, others may sit patiently for another season, waiting until the moment feels right.

This quieter period is also when I return to my own making.

Alongside sampling for workshops, winter is often when I begin or finish work intended for exhibition. These pieces tend to grow slowly, combining mixed media, stitch, fabric, and layers of surface texture. I work intuitively, responding to materials and allowing the piece to evolve rather than forcing it towards a predetermined outcome.

More and more, this work involves the embroidery machine as a creative tool rather than a finishing one. I often start with my own photographs — landscapes, details, fleeting moments — and translate them into stitched surfaces. Once the image is loaded onto the machine, everything can change. By altering thread colours, stitch density, and layering, the original photograph is transformed into something quite different: less literal, more expressive, and entirely textile.

It’s a process that suits this season.
It takes time, patience, and a willingness to experiment — to let the machine do its work while remaining open to surprise.

Winter is also when the calendar quietly begins to fill.

Plans are made for the year ahead, dates are pencilled in, and a balance is sought between workshops, fairs, exhibitions and shows. It’s a thoughtful process — creating a rhythm that allows for teaching, making, and rest, without losing the joy that sits at the heart of it all.

Creativity doesn’t always need an audience.
Sometimes it needs space, warmth, and permission to wander.

As the days shorten and the studio rests, I’m grateful for this gentler pace — a season that allows for reflection, experimentation, and the slow building of what’s to come. Before long, the tables will be busy again, the kettle will rarely be off, and the studio will hum with shared creativity once more.

But for now, I’m embracing the quiet.

The work being done now — the sampling, the planning, the quiet experimentation — will surface in time. It will appear in workshops, in stitched pieces, in exhibitions and shows, and in moments of shared making around the studio tables. For now, it remains mostly unseen, layered and growing slowly in the background. And that feels exactly as it should. The quiet has a purpose, and when it’s time, the studio will speak again through the work itself.