Risky Business

When I booked an exhibition space before I'd painted a single piece...

Sometimes you’ve just got to say “what the fuck”… and make your move. (Devotees of 80’s films will know that one.)

And I did.

I booked an exhibition slot before I’d painted a single piece. Not only that, I had the completely unhinged notion of creating around twenty brand new paintings in eighteen months, an entirely new body of work, and completely different from what I’d been making before. So yes, I said “what the fuck”… but also: what the fuck was I actually thinking?

Well. I’m nine months in, with eight months to go. Since June, eleven paintings have left my brush. And I’ve added Napoleon on the Moon (painted in 2024) because it fits the theme… and because I like it. That’s the real curatorial criteria, isn’t it?

Now, here’s my dilemma...most people know my workspace is a tiny wooden room stuck to the side of my cottage. In winter it’s freezing. In summer it’s roasting. I’ve got windows along the west side so the light is gorgeous…until it isn’t, because the real problem is… the space is basically a shoebox. My “studio” is roughly 6’ x 5’. In that space I have - an easel, my desk and chair, a small table for my palette… and currently nine paintings stacked against one wall like a leaning tower of almost-dry lies.

My hallway is full of pieces hanging. My bedroom has another nine works. At this point, my cottage isn’t a home. It’s a painting storage facility with occasional sleeping. When I took part in a collaborative exhibition in 2024, the day after we hung the show, I came home and my workroom felt fresh. I could vacuum the corners. Clear cobwebs. Wipe the windowsills. Reset the space. I may have a cluttered brain, but I detest a cluttered workspace. I saw a TikTok where an artist said a tidy studio just means you’re spending more time cleaning than making art. He said this from the luxury of a space bigger than my entire house.

Also, I’m not a performative artist. I’m not throwing paint from a great distance or rolling around naked on the canvas as part of my “process.” I’m just trying to paint… in a room where I can barely take two steps without shoulder-checking a pile of oil paintings like I’m in an obstacle course.

And oh, what I would give to:

· move my easel out of the afternoon sunshine

· photograph work without the inevitable glare

· walk around without playing musical paintings

· and stop getting those lovely little stripes on my palms from moving canvases that pretend they’re dry until the second you pick them up and I guess not banging my head on the saddle that dangles above my head at my desk would be acceptable too…I wouldn’t call myself a total clean freak, but I do have clear tape on my easel… and I’m genuinely miffed that paint has strayed beyond it...even more so because it’s blue.

Limited space dictates everything. Sometimes I use pre-gessoed canvas simply because there’s nowhere to apply layers of gesso and store the canvas between coats. Small spaces also dictate design choices…my next piece is on a really large canvas (not huge, but big enough), and the painting I originally planned for it is on hold because I literally don’t have the physical room to work the way I need to.

So a different painting is going on instead, portrait format, 5 feet tall, because that’s the one I can manoeuvre without clearing a wall like I’m preparing for a hostage negotiation.

Portals Divine feels like a collection that will keep evolving long after the exhibition… but for the December hanging date, I’m planning another 6–8 pieces. Where I’m going to put them is anybody’s guess.

So if you don’t hear from me for a while, maybe send a rescue team. I’ll probably be under a pile of paintings, whispering “it’s tacky, not wet” like a prayer.

And next time I take advice from an 80’s movie… maybe I’ll go for Ferris Bueller instead.