• How can the lost art of marginalia exist in an increasingly digital world?

• RAMBLINGS: The story of how realising a water bottle would fit on my head led to me having a profound moment on a Kent beach to mark the summer solstice.

• ARTICLE: I often experience a weird tension between wanting to complete something as quickly as possible whilst knowing that doing so will fill me with a sense of loss at it being complete. Through trying to make sense of this I discover I am somewhat addicted to a peculiar tasting paradox.

• INTERVIEW: A silent interview with comedian Joe Lycett

• WORKSHOP: A two-day “Dancing with the Inner Critic” workshop on November 26th and 27th with myself and Simon Cavicchia.

• WORKSHOP: A day of Masks in London on 23rd October.

• BUY: EELS ARE COOL! Get a t-shirt to share this important message with the world.

• A photo of Old Father Jackdaw to encourage you to scroll to the end of the Substack and read about how you can financially support my work by Buying stuff in my shop, becoming a patron of my studio, become a paid subscriber or buying me a coffee (tip jar).

PODCAST VERSION OF THIS ISSUE

1. Hello

I normally have one or two main subjects that I want to explore in each issue of this Substack, but this time I felt a bit stuck getting started because there were lots of little things I wanted to share. I started to wonder whether I could turn any of these mini-musings into a full article, but realised that would mean padding them out with things I didn’t really want to write about and they’d end up feeling like some over-egged, corny LinkedIn “thought leader” piece. These little ideas felt more like marginalia that would happily live alongside a main article as a kind of literary side-show. If this Substack were handwritten, that’s probably what I would do, in much the same way as the doodles, notes and musings I used to fill my school books with, much to the annoyance of my teachers, who would reprimand me and tell me that wasn’t what successful students did.

Marginalia are almost as old as books themselves. They are the small doodles, notes and drawings made in the gaps and margins that offer an insight into the thoughts, opinions and imaginings of past readers and sometimes even the author. Some of the earliest surviving examples of marginalia are over a thousand years old. They provide a record of uncensored inner thoughts, air opinions, critiques and arguments, and capture conversations between generations of readers. These spontaneous scribbles have revealed political loyalties, religious disagreements, dark secrets and sometimes even provide an analogue version of what we might nowadays refer to as the Director’s Commentary. A famous example, attributed to the scribe of a fifteenth-century manuscript, is a hand-written note saying, “Nunc scripsi totum, pro Christo da mihi potum.” which translates as “Now I’ve written the whole thing. For Christ’s sake give me a drink.”

My little articles might not qualify as marginalia by this definition, but for me they are tangential thoughts that I want to share in a way that is unrelated to the main article. I want them to be handwritten in the margins, giving the reader the option to engage with them if they want to and maybe even add their own notes and thoughts. But the neatness of digital platforms has all but eradicated this as a form of writing. I had a similar issue when I published my first book, for which my daughter, then aged six, created some wonderful marginalia illustrations. I was able to include these in a beautifully haphazard and messy way in the physical paperback version of the book, but soon learnt it was impossible to do this in the Kindle version, so I never published a digital alternative.

I want to experiment though, and it seems the closest I can get to marginalia on Substack is to use the callout block quote function to share these mini-musings. It’s even more difficult to work out how to do this in the podcast version, as the listener would have to physically fast-forward past them if they’re not interested in being interrupted. But I’m going to give it a go as I need to get these little pieces out of my head and into yours. Maybe, through experimenting, I can reclaim a bit of the messy analogue joy that is all too easily lost in the digital age. (I might also put in a feature request to Substack for a “marginalia” option.)

I recently became captivated by a song called “Mouhamadodou Lo and his Children”. It is a hypnotic and warm instrumental piece with Mouhamadodou and his children speaking in Wolof over the music. The story behind the song is even more enchanting. Swedish music producer Karl Jonas Winqvist got into a taxi driven by Mouhamadodou Lo, only to realise he’d forgotten his wallet. The next day, Mouhamadodou and his children went to Karl’s studio to collect the money and spent the day playing around with music. Karl invited Mouhamadodou to sing over an instrumental track he’d been working on, and he reluctantly agreed, reading a poem he had written about the plight of Senegalese farmers and fishermen while his children improvised in the background. The result of this serendipitous encounter was this lovely piece of music.

Becoming Connie Cyclonic

Back in April this year, my studio building replaced its bottle-fed water cooler with a mains-fed one. Not only was this a great way to make sure we never ran out of drinking water, it also significantly reduced the amount of plastic used in the process. A couple of days before all of the empty water bottles were collected, I looked at one and thought, “That would fit on my head,” and quickly smuggled it into my studio.

I had no plans beyond this passing observation and, over the next couple of months, began to improvise with the bottle as the beginning of a mask. I had previously made a large mask of a character called Len, so I decided this time I wanted to create a more feminine character.I cut the bottle to give it a chin, added a nose and painted two big blue eyes with bold eyeshadow and lashes. I decided the mask was called Connie, after the brilliantly weird outsider musician Connie Converse. I settled on the surname Cyclonic because I have always been fascinated by hearing that word in the Radio 4 Shipping Forecast (for example, “…becoming cyclonic later.”). I loved the idea of becoming Connie Cyclonic.

The more time I spent with Connie, the more I got to know her. She had long black hair and a fringe, and wore a lovely long tiger-print dress. I decided that Connie would make her first public appearance at the Samphire Hoe Solstice Celebration - a wonderful, nature-focussed art residency that I was taking part in later that month. As the residency was organised by the Bee Friendly Trust, Connie wanted to wear black-and-yellow striped socks and gloves, and a pair of chunky Crocs decorated with paintings of various bugs and bees.

Connie decided she wanted to do something in the strange blue tower at Samphire Hoe, and I helped her come up with something we called “An Intimate Audience with Connie Cyclonic”. This involved members of the public queuing outside the tower and coming in one at a time for a kind of fortune-telling experience. But instead of using tarot, Connie used a combination of Oblique Strategies cards, Animal Top Trumps and Panini World Cup football stickers. I spent another week making a strange little box with three compartments for the cards, each one numbered so that the audience could choose the order in which they were drawn.

As I pictured what this would be like, I realised that I was creating a world in which Connie felt very much at home and would be inviting people into it. I realised that music felt important and found an old portable tape player on eBay, onto which I recorded Connie Converse’s album How Sad, How Lovely.

On arriving at Samphire Hoe, I realised that Connie wouldn’t have anything to sit on in the tower, so I spent the day making a huge, oversized throne out of driftwood. Late that afternoon, members of the public came to see Connie with questions that were important to them and, as she sat in silence with the tinny tape recorder playing in the background and the sea crashing against the rocks outside the window, she offered random cards as an answer. It was a weird and wonderful experience for everyone who came, but the thing that surprised me most was how utterly lovely it was to be Connie.

The next morning, a wonderful artist called Nicolas led a Solstice procession to the beach. Everyone wore masks they had made, or decorated their hair and bodies with seaweed and other found objects. I decided that, despite the heat and a dangerous lack of peripheral vision, I wanted to complete the procession as Connie. I find it hard to describe my experience other than to say that being Connie felt like it liberated parts of me that I didn’t know needed liberating. As she couldn’t see very well, she had to have her arm held for the entire walk to the beach. I noticed that she didn’t resist being looked after in this way, accepting and appreciating her limitations.

To help her stay peaceful and grounded, she played her little tape player as she walked, pressing pause whenever the group stopped to talk or listen to Nicolas. When people spoke to Connie, or Nicolas asked her which way the group should go, she simply paused to feel whatever she was feeling. There was no rush to respond, no pressure to come up with the right answer, only to indicate what she wanted with a gesture. The whole experience of being non-verbal felt utterly joyful, like a lifting of pressure through not having to find the right words.

When the group reached the beach, Connie wanted to walk into the water. As the waves hit her Crocs and soaked her socks, it felt right. She continued walking until the water reached her thighs, then simply turned to look at the beach and all the humans on it. There was no need to perform, no concern about being perceived as weird or misunderstood. Just a sense of peace and connectedness with everything. Other artists in the group walked out into the sea to join her, holding hands and looking back at the land.

When Connie left the sea, I realised that I would have to say goodbye to her and become me again, but I had no idea how to do this. I felt a reluctance to disconnect from this strange but liberating part of myself. I lay down flat on the stony beach and gradually removed her head. As I did, my eyes filled with tears and I felt a huge amount of emotion being released. Then a little kid who had been hanging around with us all weekend said to me, “I knew it was you inside there!”, which felt like the most perfect transition back to reality.

I’ve no conclusions to any of this. I’ve worked with masks for many years now and appreciate how they can give us access to parts of ourselves that are unknown, unowned or atrophied. But the whole experience of becoming Connie Cyclonic felt like one of the most profound creative experiments I have ever undertaken. One that only happened because I realised that a water bottle would fit on my head.

I recently discovered that the amazing weir and lock at Richmond was created in response to the unforeseen side effects of demolishing the original London Bridge. The original bridge’s arches were so narrow that they formed a kind of dam, maintaining a navigable water level further upstream. When the bridge was removed, the river around Richmond dried up at low tide to such an extent that people would picnic and even play cricket on the exposed riverbed. Richmond Lock was built to hold this water back on the ebb tide, bringing an end to riverbed cricket but making the river navigable once again.

2. The paradoxical grief of completion

I recently completed the kayaking stage of my River Thames Project. I only decided to use a kayak back in May, so I completed it in a relatively short space of time: eleven trips over three months, covering the section between Castle Eaton in the Cotswolds and Putney Bridge in London. During that time I experienced a familiar paradox. I felt compelled to complete this part of the project as quickly as possible whilst also knowing, deep down, that I would feel a sense of sadness and loss as soon as it was complete. I’ve experienced this many times before and know it isn’t simply a case of imagining that achieving a goal will change anything significant. For me, it feels much more nuanced and confusing than that.

In the 1920s, the Soviet psychologist Bluma Zeigarnik investigated an intriguing observation that waiters seemed remarkably good at remembering unpaid orders but quickly forgot them once the bill had been settled. This became known as the Zeigarnik Effect: the tendency for unfinished tasks to occupy our minds more readily than completed ones. It helps explain why cliffhangers are so compelling, why awkward conversations linger in our thoughts and why half-finished jobs seem to demand our attention long after we’ve stopped working on them.

The Zeigarnik Effect is usually presented as an argument for the satisfaction of completion: finishing a task releases the mental tension created by leaving it unfinished. But I wonder whether, for me, there is something else going on. I wonder whether I actually find meaning in dwelling within the mental tension of something that is incomplete but within my power to complete. I experience this to a lesser extent when I discover a new television series that I love. I can’t help but binge-watch as many episodes as I can, even though I know that every episode I watch brings the ending closer.

Donald Winnicott, a British psychoanalyst, believed that much of what makes life meaningful happens in what he called potential space. He described this as an intermediate area that exists somewhere between our inner world of imagination and the external world of objective reality. It is neither entirely fantasy nor entirely real, but a place where we play, create, imagine and make meaning. Winnicott saw this as one of the most important aspects of healthy human development, arguing that the creativity found within potential space is not simply something artists do, but a way of engaging with life itself.

For Winnicott, children first encounter potential space through play. A teddy bear is neither simply a toy nor a living companion, yet for a child it can become both at once. As we grow older, this capacity transfers from toys to things like art, music, literature, religion, relationships and other creative practices. Whenever we become deeply absorbed in something that feels simultaneously real and imagined, structured yet free, we are inhabiting potential space.

This makes me wonder whether I experience an unfinished project with a well-defined end point as a kind of potential space that exists between the anticipated completion of the project and the objective reality of its incompletion. This tension between wanting to complete it as soon as possible whilst also wanting to savour it and not let it end seems to invite me into a wonderfully meaningful state of flow that I have come to find quite addictive.

I find it helpful to consider that it is maybe never the project that enchants me, but the potential space itself. Perhaps the tension between completion and incompletion is not something I am trying to eliminate at all, but the very condition that allows me to experience this particularly immersive and meaningful way of engaging with life. Once the project is finished, that possibility quietly disappears. This helps me realise that what I have previously thought of as post-project grief may not arise from the project ending at all, but from the loss of the particular way of engaging with the world that the project had made possible.

This leaves me contemplating a rather beautiful paradox. The only way I can continue experiencing this particular way of engaging with life is to keep moving towards the very thing that will eventually make it disappear.

“Generic Existential Distraction” is a genre of music I have invented to describe the type of music people play outdoors. It’s that style of music people seem to default to when sitting by a river, in a park or in another public space: a kind of nondescript musical distraction from confronting the existential nature of silence. All Auto-Tune with unremarkable lyrics, melody or rhythm. Nobody seems to be enjoying listening to it. They simply seem reassured by its presence. It feels more like a comfort blanket for reality.

3. The silent interview

For two and a half years I was the host of the world’s first silent podcast featuring special guests. Every week I released two minutes of silence I had recorded face to face with a plethora of different people – artists, musicians, comedians, authors… even my dog! The project ended after 100 episodes and still exists online as an exhibition of collected silence at soundofsilence.org.uk.

So when comedian Joe Lycett recently started his Silent Interview, lots of people got in touch to tell him about my podcast. Being a good egg, Joe contacted me to make sure I was OK with the similarities between his project and mine, and invited me to be a guest. (To be clear, I’m a fan of Joe’s work and loved that he too was celebrating the absurd beauty of silence.)

So Joe and I met recently to record a wonderful silent interview in Greenwich park which you can watch here on Instagram and Youtube.

4. Workshops and events

Some workshops and events that you might be interested in coming along to.

Playing at the Edge: Dancing with the inner critic

26th & 27th November 2026

Bloomsbury, London

£495 + VAT. Limited to 12 attendees.

I’m very excited to say that Simon Cavicchia and I have a date for our Playing at the Edge workshop. This two day workshop uses a variety of creative experiments to help us get to know and better understand our inhibiting idealised self images, our inner critic and the effect this has on realising our full creative potential.

Participants will be invited to participate in a variety of Gestalt Psychology techniques, creative practices, masks, improvisational experiments, mindfulness practices and a variety of other methods to help them become more aware of their attachments to fixed self images and other ways in which they inhibit their spontaneity.

If you’d like to know a little bit more about this work then you can watch my 2017 talk about dancing with my inner critic or read about “poster’s on the super ego’s bedroom wall” in Issue #7 of this Substack.

..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.

Mask Workshop
23rd October 2026
Bloomsbury, London
£145 + VAT. Limited to 10 attendees.

If you like what you read about masks issue #6 then is the workshop for you. It is my absolute favourite workshop to run. A day of using masks to explore parts of our personality that we have lost touch with or didn’t know existed. We will spend the morning getting to know different masks and the afternoon putting them in different playful and bizarre scenarios and situations.

Previous participants say:

“Simply the best workshop ever.”
“Possibly the most liberating experience you might ever have.”
“I’ll never forget the bits of me I met for the first time at the mask workshop.”
“Very weird. In a very, very good way.”
“A truly magical experience”
“It is like going home with a bunch of new friends inside yourself!”

To keep it playful and intimate the workshop is limited to just 10 places so if you’d like to come along the grab a place ASAP as they sell out quickly.

..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.

5. EELS ARE COOL t-shirt now available

I dedicated much of issue 8 of this Substack to eels and how much I loved learning about their weird and mysterious lives. The little drawing I made to accompany the piece became unexpectedly popular with fellow eel enthusiasts, so I have produced some lovely 100% cotton T-shirts to help you share the message with the world.

Yellow screen print on a charcoal Gildan Heavy Cotton T-shirt. Available in S, M, L and XL. Get one now and become one of the eel elite.

..:: BUY EELS ARE COOL T-SHIRTS HERE ::.

6. Support my work

I recently found a rather beleaguered-looking jackdaw walking around outside my flat. It didn’t seem able to fly very well, so I went and got it a monkey nut, which it scuttled off with into a bush to eat. A few days later I found this distinctive-looking creature on my windowsill eating from my bird feeders. Unlike the other jackdaws, it didn’t fly away when I approached, and we sat and ate breakfast next to each other. I named it “Old Father Jackdaw.”

One morning I heard a commotion and looked out of the window to find the other jackdaws attacking Old Father – pecking his body and pulling the feathers from his head. I shooed them away and he came up onto the windowsill to recover (with a little bald patch that makes him look like a monk). I’ve no idea whether Old Father Jackdaw is ill (he doesn’t have any bird flu symptoms) or is simply being rejected because of his bedraggled condition. Either way, I have become very protective of him.

I want this Substack to be free and accessible for everyone irrelevant of financial means (the podcast version too) and this is an important principle in much of my work. When I do charge for things, like art or workshops or events, I strive to do so in a way that doesn’t exclude those who do not have the financial means to participate.

So, when people do support my work financially it means so much and helps me continue to work in this way and do things like spend a month making a mask out of a water bottle just because it fits on my head.

If you can afford to do so you can support my work in a number of ways, be that buying me a coffee from £1, buying some art from my shop, becoming a patron of my studio or becoming a paid subscriber to this Substack. (And if you can’t afford it then I absolutely love you getting this for free.)

1. Buy some art from my shop. I have a big selection of prints, original art, books, badges, t-shirts, posters and more.
   .:: VISIT MY SHOP HERE ::.
   

2. Become a patron of my studio. For a one-off donation of your choice you become an official patron with a badge, a certificate, a behind the scenes blog and your name added to the scroll of honour in the window of the studio.
   .:: BECOME A PATRON HERE ::.
   

3. Buy me a coffee from £1. Like a tip jar.
   .:: BUY ME A COFFEE HERE::.
   

4. Become a paid subscriber of this Substack. I didn’t even know this was an option until a few people spontaneously did it! You don’t get any extra content or anything but you do get my eternal gratitude!

   .:: BECOME A PAID SUBSTACK SUBSCRIBER HERE ::.

• I realise that, after 13 issues, I have got into a bit of a routine writing this Substack and experiment with breaking it.

• RAMBLINGS: Is synaptic pruning a good metaphor for thinking about how we need to regularly maintain our creative gardens?

• ARTICLE: A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.

• WALK: I’m leading an Art walk along the Thames as part of the Kingston walking festival on Sunday 12th July. Come make stuff and look at stuff.

• WORKSHOP: A 2 day “Dancing with the Inner Critic” workshop on November 26th and 27th with myself and Simon Cavicchia.

• BUY: My new WE ARE CRABS t-shirt.

• A photo of a juvenile wood duck that jumped into my kayak as I was writing this issue, to encourage you to scroll to the end of the Substack and read about how you can financially support my work by Buying stuff in my shop, becoming a patron of my studio, become a paid subscriber or buying me a coffee (tip jar).

PODCAST VERSION OF THIS ISSUE

1. Hello

When I started writing this Substack exactly a year ago, I became so immersed in the process that I had often completed the next issue within a few days of the previous one going out. I was so excited about sharing what I had written that it took a lot of discipline not to send it out straight away and instead wait until four weeks had passed to keep the regular rhythm going.

But my experience over the last few issues has felt noticeably different. I still have as many ideas for things I want to write about, and I still absolutely adore the writing process, but something subtle seemed to be shifting in my relationship with it all. I found myself putting off starting an issue until less than a week before it was due to go out and, on some occasions, finishing it the day before publication. This became even more time-pressured as I then had the podcast version to record, edit, master and upload.

I decided to spend some time this month reflecting on all of this and came to the conclusion that I had somehow accidentally turned the once-exciting process of writing into too much of a routine for it to remain as exciting as it originally was. The tiniest morsel of it beginning to feel like “work” had started to creep in, so I concluded that now was the time to experiment with disrupting it.

This whole thing started somewhat by accident. I had written a Mailchimp newsletter for around fifteen years, a sporadic thing that listed the workshops and events I had coming up, along with other bits of news I thought people might be interested in. But as the years went by, Mailchimp became more and more expensive and seemed to add endless features that I never used, so I decided to switch to Substack. I noticed that many people were using it less as a newsletter platform and more as a home for long-form writing, so it felt like a good opportunity to start writing longer pieces based on whatever had captured my interest over the previous month. I then accidentally launched a podcast in the process of trying to make an accessible audio version of it all.

Back then, there was no routine as I was making it up as I went along. But over time a routine for creating the Substack and podcast has emerged: 1) I collect thoughts and ideas for the next issue in my phone’s notes app, 2) I pick three of these and write the pieces that end up in the Substack, 3) I use the content of the Substack as a framework for recording the podcast and 4) I release it all into the wild every four weeks. And this routine has worked well for me. I’ve loved writing the 13 issues so far, the audience continues to grow and I’ve had some lovely feedback. So at some level, it feels ridiculous that I want to change something. But my intuition, and previous experience of similar things, tells me that I need to disrupt my own process in order to re-access the excitement and naivety I felt at the start, otherwise I suspect I’ll have run out of momentum and interest by issue 20.

Gordon MacKenzie tells a wonderful story in “Orbiting the giant hairball” about developing a creative workshop for managers at Hallmark Cards. Recalling the pitch he gave to management before running the first session, he writes: “[The workshop]… is called ‘Grope’. The object would be to expose the participants to a three-hour bombardment of non-rational experiences that would leave them wondering, ‘What the hell was all that about?’” Gordon ran the workshop and it was a huge success. Despite its bizarreness, it received great feedback. He was asked to run it a second time, and then a third, but each time he noticed that something important was missing.

Reflecting on this, he wrote: “In our first Grope session, because we had been willing to flow without structure, we opened ourselves to the creative energy that is extruded from chaos. I took that formula to a second workshop where, consequently, the experience became structured, linear… formulary rather than seminal. I was no longer facilitating a Grope session; I was conducting a Rote session.”

I realised that perhaps my changing relationship with this Substack was because I too had moved from grope to rote. So for this issue I experimented with moving back towards my own version of grope. As a reader, you may notice nothing different. But for me it has made creating this issue the most exciting and immersive one yet. Instead of sitting down to write, I went out on my kayak to a stretch of the River Thames I had never paddled before and recorded a flow of consciousness onto my Tascam audio recorder. (Which I accidentally dropped in the river, causing the screen to stop working so I had no idea whether it was recording or not.) I then turned this audio into a very raw and unpolished podcast episode and listened back to it in order to tease out the themes for writing this Substack. And here we are.

One of the magical things I discovered about starting in this way was that “writing” whilst doing a repetitive motion, in this case paddling the kayak, seemed to give me access to a much richer flow of spontaneous thought. It reminded me of a great exercise that theatre director Keith Johnstone once taught us. Keith would invite us up on stage to perform a repetitive task, such as miming washing up, whilst having a spontaneous conversation with another improviser. He was keen to point out that, in real life, people washing up would not talk about washing up itself (e.g. “Now I am washing up a plate”) but would either talk about something entirely unrelated or be in silence. It was a wonderful way of bringing the body into the experience of the improviser, one that seemed to disturb the internal censor just enough to allow a more natural and free-flowing chain of thought to emerge.

I had this experience in mind when James Traeger told me he wanted to give a talk on tennis at my experimental Inexpert conference, where people were invited to speak on subjects they had little or no expertise in. I suggested that, whilst James gave his talk, I would bounce tennis balls at him for him to serve back, and he sportingly agreed. It ended up being one of the highlights of the conference because not only was he talking about something he didn’t know much about, but his chain of thought was continually interrupted by the repeated physical action of having to hit the tennis balls. The result was a deeply human and beautifully imperfect talk.

But even though I have thoroughly enjoyed the strange and experimental process of writing this issue, I feel somewhat ashamed to admit that it does feel risky. And if I am completely honest, the entirety of that risk is to do with whether you, the reader, will reject it in some way. I have spent a lot of time writing these and slowly building a lovely audience for both the Substack and the podcast. That audience continues to grow each month, so part of me is screaming that this is not the time to start messing with a successful formula. I genuinely write this Substack for me because it helps me make sense of my experience and bring meaning into my life, but as all the risks I am feeling right now seem to be about losing audience, I realise that perhaps this has become more about numbers, stats and followers than I would like to admit. And this is something I want to gently let go of so that I can fully reconnect with the original spirit of it all.

A degree of unfamiliarity is important in my own creative practice and, I think, the process of writing this and recording the podcast has inevitably become more and more familiar over time. Philosopher and writer Rachel Jones, drawing on the work of Luce Irigaray, writes: “When we seek to make the strange familiar, we avoid the problem of meeting with the stranger… we avoid letting ourselves be moved, questioned, modified and enriched by the other. Part of the artistic work of becoming lies in remaining open to the strange in its strangeness; being prepared to lose ourselves in the encounter; risking not knowing as the condition of possible transformation.”

So, with the greatest respect for you as a reader, I realise that what you think of all of this and how you respond to it is of far less importance than the wonderful experience I had of making it and reconnecting with the original fizz and excitement of not really knowing what I am doing.

Synaptic pruning

A well-known neuroscience aphorism says that “neurons that fire together, wire together”. In other words, when two neurons in the brain repeatedly fire at the same time, the connection between them strengthens. This is part of how we learn. The more often we do something, from playing a musical instrument to opening a door, the more the brain lays down and reinforces that particular pathway until it becomes automatic. Synaptic pruning is the brain’s way of doing the opposite, a kind of quiet neural gardening in which it gets rid of connections it no longer needs, trimming away the weak and unused so that the pathways it relies on can work more efficiently.

I first came across the term synaptic pruning in an article I stumbled across in 2025 that explained how and why the brain does this important bit of routine maintenance. In early childhood, the brain creates a huge surplus of neural connections, partly to maximise its ability to learn and adapt as we try to make sense of the world. But as we get older, a number of these connections are either never used or become less and less useful. These weak or unused connections are chemically tagged and specialised immune cells in the brain, known as microglia, break them down and clear them away, making the whole system more coherent and efficient.

Pruning begins around the age of two but increases steeply during the teenage years and into our late twenties, helping us develop more “adult” capacities such as decision-making, emotional regulation and abstract thought. The thing I remember most vividly about this article, though, was the suggestion that synaptic pruning may be part of the reason teenagers can become more withdrawn and monosyllabic, simply because of the intense amount of change and remodelling their brains are going through.

This Substack became a teenager last month and it was that which reminded me of the synaptic pruning article. It made me wonder whether there was a kind of pruning that needed to occur in order for my relationship with it to mature and for me to continue accessing an exciting, spontaneous flow in writing it. What are the redundant processes and rituals that have now become superfluous and need to break down in order to make space for new ones?

It strikes me that this kind of neurological gardening is important to all creative practice: paying attention to the balance between novelty and familiarity, and noticing when we are becoming so hard-wired into comfort and routine that we drift away from the very practice we set out to explore. And I should say that I have nothing against comfort zones. I like having a comfort zone and regularly roll my eyes at overly macho articles that suggest we should always be striving for discomfort. But what feels important to me here is finding a kind of sweet spot of discomfort where we feel safe enough to move towards the unknown without becoming overwhelmed by it, and in doing so reclaim some of the magic of not quite knowing what we are doing, but doing it anyway.

2. The hobgoblin of little minds

“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

I am by nature inconsistent. I am a living and breathing contradiction. I change my mind. My mood alters, ebbing and flowing like a somewhat unpredictable tide. What I believe today may not be what I believe tomorrow. I will often begin a sentence and, by the time I reach the end of it, have changed my mind and need to start again. I have chains of thought that flash across my brain like bolts of lightning and, before long, I find myself somewhere far away from where I thought I was. It has taken me many years to accept this and embrace it as a natural part of being human. But appropriately, my level of acceptance is wildly inconstant.

I’m not entirely sure what Ralph Waldo Emerson meant by this quote but it has stuck with me as a kind of honouring of the natural inconsistency of human experience and the perils of striving for the opposite. A certain type of structure is important to me in my work. A structure that provides just enough of a frame or a constraint to enable a kind of focussed, spontaneous freedom. I find a totally blank page an unhelpful starting point in the same way that I find an overly prescriptive structure very disabling. My imagination needs something in the middle - an enabling constraint.

Hobgoblins lurk in the shadows waiting for these loose structures to emerge before pouncing on them and feasting until all of their rough edges have been rounded off. They feed on spontaneity and contradiction, slowly turning what was once supple and alive into something rigid, rote and deadened. There is no bargaining or reasoning with a hobgoblin. This is what they do and what they love. The only way to scare one away is to expose it to nonsense: something so bafflingly illogical that it cannot tolerate it. Only then will it let out a little shriek of discomfort and retreat back into the shadows, where it patiently resumes its watch.

“One is fruitful only at the cost of being rich in contradictions. If a man never contradicts himself, the reason must be that he virtually never says anything at all.” Friedrich Nietzsche

3. Workshops and events

Some workshops and events that you might be interested in coming along to.

Playing at the Edge: Dancing with the inner critic

26th & 27th November 2026
Bloomsbury, London

£495 + VAT. Limited to 12 attendees.

I’m very excited to say that Simon Cavicchia and I have a date for our Playing at the Edge workshop. This two day workshop uses a variety of creative experiments to help us get to know and better understand our inhibiting idealised self images, our inner critic and the effect this has on realising our full creative potential.

Participants will be invited to participate in a variety of Gestalt Psychology techniques, creative practices, masks, improvisational experiments, mindfulness practices and a variety of other methods to help them become more aware of their attachments to fixed self images and other ways in which they inhibit their spontaneity.

If you’d like to know a little bit more about this work then you can watch my 2017 talk about dancing with my inner critic or read about “poster’s on the super ego’s bedroom wall” in Issue #7 of this Substack.

..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.

Art Walk with Steve XOH: Kinsgton Walking Festival

12th July 2026
£5
From Kingston Station to Hampton Court Station along Thames towpath

I’m doing an art walk as part of the Kingston Walking Festival this Sunday.

🐦‍⬛ Paint sticks
🐦‍⬛ Make zines
🐦‍⬛ Decorate tiles
🐦‍⬛ Look at creatures and wildlife
🐦‍⬛ Take part in a river survey/litter pick (optional)
🐦‍⬛ Or just do what you want.

..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.

4. “Hello, we are CRABS” t-shirt

This drawing started off as a page in the little zine I made to encourage people crab fishing to be kinder to crabs. (See issue #4 for the full story.) I liked it so much that I had it printed onto a t-shirt with the intention of never making it available for sale.

But many people have since commented on it and requested one so I have got a load screen-printed on lovely 100% cotton heavy Gildan t-shirts.

Get one to impress and educate and support our 200 million year-old crustacean friends.

..:: BUY CRAB T-SHIRTS HERE ::.

5. Support my work

One of my favourite moments of recording the podcast on a kayak was when this juvenile wood duck jumped out of the water and sat on my feet as I passed through a lock. It was one of an infinite number of moments that would never have happened had I followed my usual process and recorded in my studio. What I particularly loved about it was this was a moment that occurred whilst I wasn’t recording. I’m sure there is some rich metaphor about wonder and attachment in that!

I want this Substack to be free and accessible for everyone irrelevant of financial means (the podcast version too) and this is an important principle in much of my work. When I do charge for things, like art or workshops or events, I strive to do so in a way that doesn’t exclude those who do not have the financial means to participate. So, when people do support my work financially it means so much and helps me continue to work in this way.

If you can afford to do so you can support my work in a number of ways, be that buying me a coffee from £1, buying some art from my shop, becoming a patron of my studio or becoming a paid subscriber to this Substack. (And if you can’t afford it then I absolutely love you getting this for free.)

1. Buy some art from my shop. I have a big selection of prints, original art, books, badges, t-shirts, posters and more.
   .:: VISIT MY SHOP HERE ::.
   

2. Become a patron of my studio. For a one-off donation of your choice you become an official patron with a badge, a certificate, a behind the scenes blog and your name added to the scroll of honour in the window of the studio.
   .:: BECOME A PATRON HERE ::.
   

3. Buy me a coffee from £1. Like a tip jar.
   .:: BUY ME A COFFEE HERE::.
   

4. Become a paid subscriber of this Substack. I didn’t even know this was an option until a few people spontaneously did it! You don’t get any extra content or anything but you do get my eternal gratitude!

   .:: BECOME A PAID SUBSTACK SUBSCRIBER HERE ::.

• A new pointless project helped me realise the importance of meaning in organising my scattered attention.

• RAMBLINGS: I wonder why spring draws human beings into the peace and tranquillity of nature, only for them to fill it with noise and distraction.

• ARTICLE: The importance of leaping then looking with any creative endeavour.

• EVENT: I’m back at the Solstice Festival at the amazing Samphire Hoe nature reserve on the 21st and 22nd June 2026 along with some other fascinating artists.

• WORKSHOP: A 2 day “Dancing with the Inner Critic” workshop on November 26th and 27th with myself and Simon Cavicchia.

• WORKSHOP: Masks - 10th July 2026.

• BUY: A print of my favourite recent painting “The days of the brindled cow” in my shop.

• A photo of Connie Cyclonic, my weird new mask, to encourage you to scroll to the end of the Substack and read about how you can financially support my work by Buying stuff in my shop, becoming a patron of my studio, become a paid subscriber or buying me a coffee (tip jar).

PODCAST VERSION OF THIS ISSUE

1. Hello

I decided in May that I am going to walk the entire length of the River Thames. The idea, imaginatively named “The River Thames Project”, came to me after a number of long Thames walks earlier this year and noticing how much I enjoyed getting to know different parts of the river that flows past my studio.

As soon as the idea came to me, I felt an incredible sense of excitement. I ordered a Thames Path Ordnance Survey map and started plotting my first adventure. I’ve always wanted to visit the source of the river, so heading there felt like the obvious first to do. Poppy the dog and I booked an Airbnb in the Cotswolds and spent three days exploring the 21km stretch between Thames Head and Castle Eaton.

I’ve been on many little trips with Poppy over the years and, whilst it has always been lovely to spend time with her, I’ve often been left feeling that something was missing. There was usually a restlessness lurking somewhere beneath the enjoyment. But this trip felt completely different. I loved nerdishly planning every aspect of the three-day exploration and became totally immersed in the experience from the moment we arrived. Each evening, as Poppy and I rested our tired legs and fell asleep together on the Airbnb sofa, I felt an immense sense of satisfaction.

On the drive home, I realised that the thing that had made this trip feel different was that it was part of something bigger. Looking back on previous trips, I can see that simply heading somewhere beautiful doesn’t quite meet an intrinsic need I seem to have for an experience to feel meaningful. This time, without consciously planning it, every mile walked felt connected to a larger fascination: my desire to walk the entire length of the Thames and get to know the river more intimately. Since then I’ve planned further trips, both solo and with friends who live near different parts of the river. I even got inflatable kayak so that I can explore stretches where the path isn’t navigable. This has, in turn, spawned a whole new fascination with river access and the right to roam.

Whilst the excitement of the project isn’t the only thing I think about, having it quietly sitting in the background of my day-to-day life feels like it has contributed something significant to my overall sense of wellbeing. When I have big gaps in my diary, instead of wondering how to fill them, I find myself excited by the possibility of completing another part of the adventure. More than anything, the experience of how this project has made me feel has helped me realise just how much I need things to feel meaningful.

I wrote a few issues ago about how I find the human obsession with purpose somewhat nonsensical and suspect it may be connected to our struggle to make peace with uncertainty, mortality and other existential inconveniences. I’ve never been particularly excited or motivated by having a purpose, a goal or an objective. At the same time, I know I can feel restless in the face of pure leisure or experience a perfectly pleasant day as somehow incomplete. What I realise now is that it is less the activity itself that matters to me and more whether I can find a sense of deep meaning within it.

Edward Deci and Richard Ryan wrote about what they called Self-Determination Theory and suggested that human wellbeing emerges when three psychological needs are met: autonomy, competence and relatedness (feeling connected). Whilst I don’t totally relate to their particular framing, I have recently come to realise that I experience myself as thriving when my needs for freedom, agency and meaning are met. (There is a whole other article I could write about why both freedom and agency are on this list.) What I do like about Deci and Ryan’s idea, however, is the suggestion that wellbeing isn’t dependent on a single thing. For me, all three of these needs need to be met.

What I realise was missing from previous trips away with Poppy was that, whilst I was experiencing the freedom to go where I wanted and a sense of agency through the choices I made, there was nothing larger holding the experience together. Whilst I’d like to be the sort of person who can simply go away and relax with no particular agenda, I’ve noticed that attempting this often leaves my attention scattered, which in turn makes me feel restless and unsettled. This time was different. Being part of a larger and deeply fascinating project somehow transformed the experience. It was as though the concept of The River Thames Project provided just enough scaffolding for my attention to organise itself around something meaningful.

Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi is known for his wonderful research into the human phenomenon of flow. He describes flow as a state in which attention becomes deeply absorbed, self-consciousness fades and our experience of time becomes distorted. In other words, a state of total involvement with whatever is happening right now. Taking Csikszentmihalyi’s work a step further, a recent academic paper (Wain et al.) suggests that for some people, in particular those who are neurodiverse, flow may be more than simply an enjoyable state of immersion. Their research suggests that flow may play an important role in emotional regulation and wellbeing.

As I reflected on my own experience, I began to wonder whether part of what the Thames Project had given me was not simply a sense of meaning, but a meaningful way to organise my attention. This helps me understand how I could hypothetically travel to the same place, walk the same stretch of river and yet experience it completely differently depending on how focused or fragmented my attention was. It seems that the scaffolding of a seemingly pointless but deeply fascinating project gave my attention somewhere to gather. And that was enough to transform a pleasant walk into an experience of flow, meaning and wonder.

The existential habit of commoditising nature

The warmer weather has brought more people to the places where I normally find stillness, silence and solitude. Whilst a selfish part of me would quite like these places to be available exclusively for my own escape from humanity, I recognise that they are important to many other people too. The thing I find difficult is not so much that other people are there, but the way in which they choose to be there.

I have a real sensitivity to noise. To be more precise, I have a real sensitivity to human-generated noise. Whilst I can take great pleasure in a terrifyingly loud thunderstorm or a cacophony of jackdaws on my windowsill, a TikTok video played on a phone 300 metres away can trigger an almost primal response in me. It can make me feel as though I either need to run away as fast as I can, or grab the offending phone and throw it into the river/sea/off a cliff. Clearly, neither of these are healthy adult responses. So instead, I’ve found myself wondering why, when encountering the beauty and stillness of nature, people often seem compelled to fill the space with noise and distraction.

Many hundreds of years before the invention of our modern distractions, the 17th Century French philosopher Blaise Pascal observed: “I have often said that all the unhappiness of men arises from one single fact, that they cannot stay quietly in their own chamber.” Pascal was interested in understanding what he referred to as diversion. He believed that human beings are haunted by a number of uncomfortable realities: our mortality, our insignificance, uncertainty, suffering, loneliness and the fact that, when we think about it long enough, we realise that we ultimately control very little. A diversion, therefore, was not necessarily valuable because of the activity itself, but because it distracted us from confronting these realities. This perspective helps me find a little more compassion when confronted with a boat full of noisy people drifting past with a very loud Bluetooth speaker as I try to sit quietly with my crow friends. Perhaps these people are not being inconsiderate but are simply doing their best to avoid spending too much time alone with their existential dread.

But whilst I like this hypothesis, I still feel like a somewhat dysfunctional and slightly malfunctioning creature when I react so viscerally to noise in nature. I want to better understand why so that I can take more responsibility for my part in it. The most obvious explanation is that, due to my poor sensory gating (the ability to tune out background sensations such as sound), what others experience as mildly irritating can feel to me like an invasion of attention. I feel that I lose a sense of choice over the focus of my here-and-now experience, which can trigger a fight-or-flight response. But I also wonder whether there is something more going on than simple sensory sensitivity.

The philosopher Albert Borgmann wrote about the difference between experiences that invite our full participation and attention, and those that simply provide us with a commodity to consume. Borgmann distinguished between what he called focal things and practices, which draw us into participation and relationship, and devices, which deliver a desired experience with as little effort or involvement as possible. Writing in the 1980s, he uses the example of the difference between building a fire and using central heating. Historically, keeping warm involved gathering wood, building and tending a fire, and sitting around it with others. The fire became a focal thing and the acts of gathering, tending and sharing its warmth became a practice.

The invention of central heating transformed this relationship. The outcome is essentially the same, we stay warm, but the activity itself has been outsourced to a device. What was once a focal thing and practice is now largely hidden from view, with warmth arriving at the touch of a button and regulated by a thermostat. What was once foreground in our experience now fades into the background.

This makes me wonder whether part of my reaction to loud music in nature is that nature itself has become a focal thing for me, a place of quiet solitude that feels almost like a sacred sanctuary and is essential for my self-regulation. Perhaps the music feels so jarring because it redirects my attention away from the natural world and towards somebody else’s chosen experience. This doesn’t necessarily mean one approach is right and the other wrong (even though I really want to say that of course it is!) It may simply be a clash of values and different strategies for meeting human needs. I seek immersion, stillness and a sense of encounter to self-regulate, whilst others may be seeking connection, celebration, stimulation or escape to achieve the same outcome.

I’m left wondering whether modernity has resulted in nature becoming a device in many of the situations I am describing. A backdrop to our experience rather than the focus of it. Perhaps stillness and solitude have become commodities, blank canvases that feel too irresistible to leave unfilled. So we reach for noise, distraction and stimulation to fill them. Not to encounter the world around us, but to escape ourselves. And in doing so, we risk missing the mysteries that nature is quietly whispering to us.

2. Start before you are ready

I recently went on my first ever trip to Canada. I’ve always wanted to visit but, for one reason or another, it has never happened. I was invited on this trip to give my strange keynote talk entitled “9 Wonky Projects, interspersed with thoughts on creativity and the human condition (Featuring a bingo machine)” at a conference. It is a talk I have deliberately constructed so that: a) I simply tell stories about weird projects and invite the audience to make sense of them in their own context and b) it can never be delivered the same way twice because my little bingo machine decides what I am going to talk about. Not only has it become my most favourite talk to give, it has also turned out to be one that people seem to enjoy. Over the last few years I have delivered it, or more accurately a unique version of it, at festivals, conferences, galleries, creative seminars and for organisations across the public, private and charitable sectors.

I would love to say that the origins of this talk involved months of robust academic research and careful planning, but the reality is that I came up with the title before I had any idea what the talk would entail. In the summer of 2020, a company I was interested in working with got in touch and asked whether I could give an online keynote. I really wanted to work with them but felt a sense of despondency at the thought of either writing a brand new talk or dusting off one I had already given elsewhere. So, without thinking it through too much, I replied to their email saying that I would like 60 minutes for a talk entitled “9 Wonky projects, interspersed with thoughts on creativity and the human condition (Featuring a bingo machine)”. They replied almost immediately to say it sounded weird and wonderful, and we set a date. I then sat back and thought to myself, “I’ve absolutely no idea how to do this.”

The mantra of “leap then look” has become increasingly important in my work. I know how easily I can fall into the trap of overthinking or over-designing something to the point that I drift away from the messy, intuitive idea that sparked it in the first place. I also know that many of my spontaneous ideas initially appear rather nonsensical. If I spend too long scrutinising them, I will almost inevitably conclude that they are ridiculous and abandon them before they have had a chance to become something more interesting. Over time, I have come to realise that if I want to nurture the more spontaneous part of my creativity, I often need to act before I have had time to talk myself out of it.

The Sound of Silence podcast is a good example of this. On a run one day I followed a chain of thought that somehow ended with me deciding to host the world’s first silent podcast featuring special guests. The first thing I did when I got home was register the domain soundofsilence.org.uk and announce to the world on social media that I would be launching it a month later. I also declared that there would be a total of 100 episodes, all recorded face to face and released every Tuesday morning. Only then did I sit back and think to myself that it was a rather stupid idea and that I had absolutely no idea how to go about doing it. But having made a public declaration and financially committed to it by paying for the domain, it became a little harder to back out. Over the next two years I recorded and broadcast 100 episodes of silence with special guests that were listened to by thousands of people around the world.

Many other projects have started in a similar way. The Imperfect Portrait Experiment happened because I wanted to feel more confident drawing portraits and less anxious about doing them. So the next day I went to London’s Trafalgar Square with a large sign that simply said FREE PORTRAITS. Even some of the bigger projects in my life began in a similar fashion. Leaving a “normal” job, for example, started with me handing in my notice with no particular plan other than a sense that it felt like the right thing to do and that something would work out. (I should probably add that the way I have written about this makes it sound remarkably calm and confident. The reality was that it felt utterly terrifying for quite some time.)

The concept of rapid prototyping emerged in the late 1980s and early 1990s as an innovative approach to design and product development. Organisations such as IDEO helped popularise the practice of beginning with a crude, often imperfect concept in order to test, learn and improve. I like to think of rapid prototyping as the practice of starting before you are ready with the sole objective of failing cheap, fast and happy. (As opposed to spending huge amounts of time, money and effort perfecting an idea only to discover that it doesn’t work.) In many ways, leap then look feels grounded in the same philosophy. It is the practice of responding to an idea, opportunity or question quickly and simply, before I have had time to overthink it, in order to discover what happens next.

This feels like a very important part of any creative practice. Many of the creatives I work with seem to get stuck in the planning and strategising phase of their work, waiting for the elusive moment when something finally feels “ready” to launch. But the reality is that if we are doing something we have never done before, it will probably never feel ready. Or, perhaps even worse, we end up spending so long making an idea feel familiar, safe and less scary that we gradually round off the unique brilliance and wonkiness that made it interesting in the first place.

The American philosopher Donald Schön wrote about the importance of what he called “reflection-in-action”, the process of learning in the very moment of finding ourselves in a situation we could never have fully anticipated. He argued that it is difficult to understand a situation in the abstract and that understanding develops through our interaction with it. As he famously put it, “The situation talks back.” Whilst this can be somewhat anxiety-provoking, I have come to adore discovering what a project is about through doing it, rather than knowing exactly what it will become before I begin. As Søren Kierkegaard famously observed, “Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”

I once again turn to the natural world for inspiration and guidance in this. Nature is a perpetual rapid prototype, constantly responding to what it encounters and becoming something new in the process. Nature is never in a rush, yet everything is always exactly as it needs to be. And even though I know I am part of nature, I have come to realise that readiness is largely a human obsession.

3. Workshops and events

Some workshops and events that you might be interested in coming along to.

Solstice Festival at Samphire Hoe

20th & 21st June 2026
Samphire Hoe, Kent
FREE

I’m very much looking forward to returning to Samphire Hoe again this June for the Solstice Festival. I had no idea what I was going to last year but was delighted to discover that Samphire Hoe is an incredible nature reserve created from the spoils of the channel tunnel.

This year, I will be joining 15 other artists who will make, perform, improvise and generally be inspired by the place and the creatures that live there. Various activities will take place all day on Saturday 20th June and at 11am on Sunday 21st June there will be a Pollinator Pilgrimage in which we will all parade around Samphire Hoe and take in the work that has been created.

There’s no need to book, just come along and immerse yourselves at the visitor centre, out on the dunes/grasslands/wetlands or down on the wonderful beach. The whole even is being organised by The Bee Friendly Trust who do important work to help our bees survive and thrive.

.:: MORE INFO HERE ::.

Playing at the Edge: Dancing with the inner critic

26th & 27th November 2026
Bloomsbury, London
£495 + VAT. Limited to 12 attendees.

I’m very excited to say that Simon Cavicchia and I have a date for our Playing at the Edge workshop. This two day workshop uses a variety of creative experiments to help us get to know and better understand our inhibiting idealised self images, our inner critic and the effect this has on realising our full creative potential.

Participants will be invited to participate in a variety of Gestalt Psychology techniques, creative practices, masks, improvisational experiments, mindfulness practices and a variety of other methods to help them become more aware of their attachments to fixed self images and other ways in which they inhibit their spontaneity.

If you’d like to know a little bit more about this work then you can watch my 2017 talk about dancing with my inner critic or read about “poster’s on the super ego’s bedroom wall” in Issue #7 of this Substack.

..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.

Mask Workshop

10th July 2026
Bloomsbury, London
£145 + VAT. Limited to 10 attendees.

If you like what you read about masks issue #6 then is the workshop for you. It is my absolute favourite workshop to run. A day of using masks to explore parts of our personality that we have lost touch with or didn’t know existed. We will spend the morning getting to know different masks and the afternoon putting them in different playful and bizarre scenarios and situations.

Previous participants say:

“Simply the best workshop ever.”
“Possibly the most liberating experience you might ever have.”
“I’ll never forget the bits of me I met for the first time at the mask workshop.”
“Very weird. In a very, very good way.”
“A truly magical experience”
“It is like going home with a bunch of new friends inside yourself!”

To keep it playful and intimate the workshop is limited to just 10 places so if you’d like to come along the grab a place ASAP as they sell out quickly.

..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.

4. Buy “The days of the brindled cow” print

The brindled cow thought it had defeated winter, wandered out into the fields mocking the fading season. Winter wasn’t happy with this and struck a bargain with spring and borrowed back three extra days. Winter then briefly returned with a biting cold and fierce storms and finished off the cow for good.⁠
⁠
This old Irish folk tale warns of false springs and those warmer days at the start of April where we may erroneously believe winter is over, only for it to return with a vengeance. In times gone by this cautionary tale was vital to ensure that cattle weren’t put on the hills too early. In modern times it simply reminds us to carry an umbrella and a warm, waterproof jacket into late April.⁠

I absolutely loved painting this on an old table top I found by the river. I think this was because the story behind it imbued it with meaning so much that I was actually a little sad when it was finished.

I’ve added it as a lovely full colour limited print to my shop if you would like to adorn your wall with it. (The original is also available to purchase - send me an e-mail if you are interested.)

..:: BUY BRINDLED COW PRINTS HERE ::.

5. Support my work

Our studios recently moved from a water cooler to a filtered tap thing. This was much appreciated as it meant that we no longer would run out of water but also that we could eliminate the use of those big plastic bottles. On the day the switch happened I saw an empty bottle laying in the coridor and immediately thought “that would fit on my head.” Over a number of weeks the bottle turned into a mask called Connie Cyclonic, a mysterious silent creature who uses a strange box of mystery to answer questions people ask about their lives. Making Connie and her accessories became a bit of an obsession for a couple of months, the project expanding as my imagination ran wild with stories about her.

I want this Substack to be free and accessible for everyone irrelevant of financial means (the podcast version too) and this is an important principle in much of my work. When I do charge for things, like art or workshops or events, I strive to do so in a way that doesn’t exclude those who do not have the financial means to participate.

So, when people do support my work financially it means so much and helps me continue to work in this way and do things like spend a month making a mask out of a water bottle just because it fits on my head.

If you can afford to do so you can support my work in a number of ways, be that buying me a coffee from £1, buying some art from my shop, becoming a patron of my studio or becoming a paid subscriber to this Substack. (And if you can’t afford it then I absolutely love you getting this for free.)

1. Buy some art from my shop. I have a big selection of prints, original art, books, badges, t-shirts, posters and more.
   .:: VISIT MY SHOP HERE ::.
   

2. Become a patron of my studio. For a one-off donation of your choice you become an official patron with a badge, a certificate, a behind the scenes blog and your name added to the scroll of honour in the window of the studio.
   .:: BECOME A PATRON HERE ::.
   

3. Buy me a coffee from £1. Like a tip jar.
   .:: BUY ME A COFFEE HERE::.
   

4. Become a paid subscriber of this Substack. I didn’t even know this was an option until a few people spontaneously did it! You don’t get any extra content or anything but you do get my eternal gratitude!

   .:: BECOME A PAID SUBSTACK SUBSCRIBER HERE ::.

• I noticed some midges on my run and that led to me reminiscing about the cold war and the importance of not following the rules.

• RAMBLINGS: I find the act of making incredibly therapeutic as I am able to make meaning of the micro-tonal gaps in between words and language.

• ARTICLE: Has the concept of “professionalism” morphed into something that has become a performative solemnity to defend against anxiety and the unknown?

• OPEN STUDIO: I’m part of the 2026 Kingston Studios Art Trail - come visit my studio on the 16th and 17th May.

• WORKSHOP: Simon Cavicchia and I are very excited to be running our 2 day “Dancing with the Inner Critic” workshop on November 26th and 27th.

• WORKSHOP: I’m running a paper cutting workshop at the brilliant New House Art Space in Guildford on the 13th June.

• WORKSHOP: Masks - 10th July 2026.

• EVENT: I’m back at the Solstice Festival at the amazing Samphire Hoe nature reserve on the 21st and 22nd June 2026 along with some other fascinating artists.

• BUY: My iconic “I don’t want to be a cowboy anymore” prints in my shop.

• A photo of Poppy the dog at the source of the river Thames to encourage you to scroll to the end of the Substack and read about how you can financially support my work by Buying stuff in my shop, becoming a patron of my studio, become a paid subscriber or buying me a coffee (tip jar).

PODCAST VERSION OF THIS ISSUE

1. Hello

I’m enjoying spring immensely. The combination of the early May sun and a cool breeze feels like the perfect climate for me to do things in minimal clothing but without overheating. I’ve realised that the in-between seasons of spring and autumn are my favourites as they avoid the extremes of summer and winter and instead offer a calm, transitional state.

And despite my weird enjoyment of perilous evening runs in the dark, I’ve really been enjoying running in the spring evening light. The only mildly unpleasant thing is that the warmer weather has brought big swarms of midges to the riverside that I suddenly find myself running through. I’m calling them “midges”, but they’re impossible to identify while I’m running - they’re tiny and move in a chaotic, swirling way. But, as I haven’t noticed any bites, I’m assuming they’re some kind of non-biting midge or midge-like fly. (Or I run too fast for them.)

I find their crazy midge dance fascinating. It appears totally random, yet somehow brilliantly choreographed at the same time. In medieval times, these swarms were sometimes thought of as dancing spirits - souls of the dead moving through the air, or fair folk and unseen beings that coule be more easily spotted at the threshold between day and night.

As I ran, I started to wonder about the origin of the word “midge”, which then led me to think about the musician Midge Ure and whether he might have been given that nickname because of his height and a tendency to dance erratically in a swarm. I was slightly disappointed to discover that neither of these things are true, and that his name actually came from an evolution of an anagram of his real name, Jim.

Thinking about Midge Ure reminded me that, at school, I once did a project about his band Ultravox. The brief was to write about a favourite band or musician and, for some reason, I wrote a double-header piece on Ultravox and The Beatles. I remember feeling like a bit of a weirdo, as everyone else chose artists who were in the charts at the time. Nobody in my class had heard of Ultravox and most people considered the Beatles to be ancient history. I can’t remember what grade I got, but I do remember that just before I handed it in, a friend of mine altered “Midge Ure” to read “Midget Urine” and “John Lennon was shot by Mark Chapman” to read “John Lennon was shot by Steve Chapman” without me noticing. My teacher wasn’t amused.

One of the things that captivated me about Ultravox as a child, beyond their music, was the video for their song “Dancing with Tears in My Eyes”, which told the story of a nuclear meltdown leading to a catastrophic explosion that wiped out a population. I grew up with the threat of nuclear war seemingly ever present in the news and developed a strange mix of terror and morbid fascination with it. I remember watching disturbing films such as Threads, When the Wind Blows and The Day After on TV, which showed the full horror of nuclear war. As I ran, I found myself wondering what else was appearing in popular culture at the time in response to that ever-present threat.

When I got home, I did some research and was surprised to learn that the German pop song 99 Luftballons was also about nuclear war. Released in 1983 by the band Nena, it tells the story of balloons released at a concert being mistaken on radar for incoming enemy missiles, triggering a chain of events that leads to nuclear war. The English version, “99 Red Balloons”, which I would have heard on the radio, softens some of the sharper edges of the original, so it’s easy to see how my younger self wouldn’t have picked up on it.

Learning the meaning of 99 Luftballons reminded me of the true story of Stanislav Petrov, often described as “the man who saved the world”. Petrov was a Soviet lieutenant colonel stationed at a secret early-warning bunker near Moscow at the height of the Cold War. On 26th September 1983, the system he was responsible for reported a sudden incoming attack of US nuclear missiles. The protocol required him to pass this information up the chain of command so that a retaliatory strike could be authorised, but something in his gut told him it wasn’t real, and he chose not to report it as a confirmed attack.

Petrov later described his experience: “I had a funny feeling in my gut. All the data suggested that the alarm was real. If I had sent the report up the chain of command, nobody would have said a word against it. I made a decision, and that was it. There were 23 minutes of waiting. It was a very tense moment. I just sat there waiting.”

Petrov’s gut feeling proved to be right. The warning was a false alarm, triggered by sunlight reflecting off clouds that the system mistakenly interpreted as missiles. Had he followed the rules he was instructed to follow, all-out nuclear war may have ensued, potentially changing the course of humanity forever. He later said of the incident, “People don’t start wars. Computers do.” Having started my run thinking about midges, I ended it reflecting on how Petrov’s story is a powerful reminder of the importance of instinct. It is an important story of how rules, designed to protect and keep us safe, can sometimes lead to the disaster if human judgement is removed. Often, when we encounter the unknown or feel unsafe or out of control the default can be to add in more rules, more procedures and more policies. But this can end up with the opposite outcome where we are so rigidly bound that the importance of spontaneous human intuition is suppressed.

There is an important balance to strike here between freedom and structure. The academic Barry Mason wrote a paper entitled “Towards Safe Uncertainty” that has been a big influence on my work. Mason suggests that, as anxiously wired human beings, we instinctively gravitate towards safety and certainty, putting rules and structures in place to make everything as controllable and predictable as possible. But in reality, this often serves only to maintain the very status quo we are trying to escape. Instead, he proposes that we aim for a balance of “safe uncertainty”, where we hold onto only the bare minimum of essential rules and structures to mitigate the biggest risks, leaving everything else open to spontaneous intuition. I like to think of this as living in a state of “just enoughness”, where structure and guide rails support free and safe creative self-expression without suppressing and stifling it.

The microtonal power of therapeutic art
When I was a kid, I remember seeing an interview with Paul McCartney where he was sitting at a piano and said something like, “All the songs ever written, and that will ever be written, are hidden in these keys.” It blew my mind to think that such variety could emerge from just 88 black and white keys. I (mis)quoted McCartney many times over the years in various workshops and conversations, until I realised that what he said isn’t quite true. Or at least, it isn’t true once we look beyond a Western perspective of what music actually is.

Western music notation has its roots in ancient Greece, where letter names were first used to describe pitches. This approach was developed and formalised further in medieval Europe by the monk Guido of Arezzo around the year 1000 AD. The seven-note diatonic scale became widely adopted through monasteries, the church and early systems of musical education. Over time, Western instruments and tuning systems evolved around this framework, eventually settling into the familiar A–G system we now take for granted. These notes underpin the vast majority of music created and consumed in the West.

But other musical systems developed independently of this framework. Indian classical music uses the raga system, that predates Guido of Arezzo by well over a thousand years, is based on a far more nuanced understanding of pitch, often described as containing 22 microtonal divisions (known as shrutis) within an octave. Arabic maqam music uses notes that fall between standard Western pitches, and Indonesian gamelan and Chinese pentatonic scales adopt entirely different ways of organising sound. This helps explain why those of us conditioned to Western music often find listening to music played on unfamiliar scales strange or unsettling. Our ears have been trained to expect a particular set of intervals and patterns of tension and release. When we encounter something different, it can feel recognisable enough to be music, but unfamiliar enough to feel slightly “wrong”. (Even though I am a fan of the album Trout Mask Replica, this probably explains why it is also painful to listen to, as Captain Beefheart took great care to try and break as many rules of music as possible.)

But all of these systems, no matter how many notes they divide an octave into, are ultimately simplifications of something far more continuous. In reality, pitch is not made up of discrete notes at all, but of a continuous flow of frequencies with no fixed boundaries between them. The scales we use are simply grids that we overlay to help us understand, interpret and create music. But no matter how fine that grid becomes, there is always something happening in between. (I did a bit of reasearch and found that if you divided an octave into the smallest pitch differences most humans can detect, you’d end up with somewhere in the region of 120–240 distinguishable steps.)

Language works in a similar way to musical notation. It’s an incredibly useful system that allows us to communicate and express ourselves, but it is also a kind of grid, a simplification of something far more complex. In the same way that there are always frequencies between the notes in music, there is always meaning in the spaces between words. This is why non-verbal forms of creative expression, such as drawing, painting, movement or sculpting, can give us access to a subtle meaning that language alone cannot.

Even though I enjoy writing and have found ways to weave intricate and interesting stories, I have always struggled to find words that satisfactorily describe my inner experience. That’s not to say I don’t know what I feel, just that no words seem to match my experience with the precision I’d like. I often think of those children’s toys with differently shaped blocks and corresponding holes. It feels like I can sense the exact shape of the hole, but can’t find the right shaped words to fit it. The words lack the precision to fully match the feeling. They too become an oversimplified grid laid over something far more nuanced.

I have found making to be a much more profound way of making sense of my internal world and processing difficult thoughts, feelings or experiences. Back in 2018, I experienced a mild form of PTSD after being a first responder at a road traffic accident. (I’ll spare the details here, but if you’d like to hear the full story, I talk about it with Johnnie Moore on his Unhurried Moments podcast.) Even though I was able to mentally process what had happened, my body remained in a state of hyper-vigilance for weeks afterwards. It was only when I made two drawings of images that seemed to be seared into my brain that my nervous system began to calm and re-regulate. Those drawings didn’t lead to any obvious insights or “aha” moments, but the act of creating them resolved something within me. The process of making was fluid enough to create the precise shape to fit the precise hole.

This is just one of many examples where the power of analogue making has helped me process, resolve or integrate something where words lack the precision needed. In our “Playing at the Edge” workshop, gestalt psychotherapist Simon Cavvichia and I encourage participants to use paints, pens, clay and other creative practices to get to know their inner critics. By working in a non-verbal way people often discover new ways of relating to their super-ego, or at the very least feel less constrained by it, even if they can’t quite put into words exactly why.

I find it sad and somewhat frustrating how society has been conditioned to perceive art, and this all begins in school. I’ve long thought that art education should be split in a similar way to how English is divided into English Language and English Literature. “Art Technique” would teach students the skills needed to create technically accomplished work and potentially pursue art professionally. But “Artful Practice” would focus on the therapeutic power of creativity and on developing personal practices that support young people throughout their lives.

Artful Practice would teach children from an early age that the primary purpose of making is not simply to produce something impressive, but to explore, make sense of and help regulate their inner world. Sadly, my experience at school, and the experience of many others, was that art was treated as something only a talented few were capable of succeeding in and that, if you weren’t one of those people, it should be consigned to being a hobby indulged in only once the “important” work was done.

2. The performative solemnity of the consummate professional

One of the things that has become easier for me over many years of working with groups is worrying less about what to wear. In truth, this has historically been something on my mind beyond just “work” situations, and I’m not entirely sure why. I don’t really have any desire to look a particular way. Maybe when I was a teenager or in my early twenties I was keen to signal that I was alternative by having long hair and wearing t-shirts featuring obscure bands, but I feel well past that stage now. I think it all comes down to trying to strike an impossible balance between feeling comfortably myself and also fitting in. At a deeper level, it’s probably about a fear of rejection or humiliation.

I have a few memories that may sit at the root of all this. One is of my incredibly cool cousin visiting when I was a teenager and, in what was probably a well-intended bit of unsolicited advice, critiquing my clothes. I recall feeling even more self-conscious after that. I also remember going to a factory Christmas party shortly after I started work at around age 18 and being mocked for wearing a baggy sweatshirt and scruffy black jeans while everyone else wore shirts or jackets. “Nice to see you’ve made the effort, Steve!” is one shame-inducing line that has stayed with me.

And then there was a 1960s evening at the factory social club where people were encouraged to come in fancy dress, and I arrived to find I was the only one who had bothered to dress up. I think I had consciously made an effort that time off the back of the earlier critique, but still ended up feeling embarrassed and ashamed.

When I first started doing creative work with businesses, I struggled to strike a balance between being professional enough that people would listen to me and want to work with me, while also not feeling like I was wearing something performative that stopped me from fully being myself. I liked Jonno Hannafin’s concept of the Perceived Weirdness Index, where he suggests that if we are not weird enough we become assimilated, but if we are too weird we are rejected. The art, he says, is to be “just weird enough.” But while that helped a little conceptually, I still found myself obsessing over how to hit that elusive sweet spot.

But over time, this has become less of a concern for me. I’ve come to realise that I’m at my best when I feel comfortable in what I’m wearing. And if somebody cannot get past how I look in an initial meeting, then things are only going to become more difficult further down the line when I’m inviting them into stranger and more creative work. I’m happy to compromise to a degree so I don’t come across as a lunatic or someone trying too hard to be different, but beyond that, I know I won’t find it easy to get into creative flow if I feel even a slight incongruence with my clothing.

This approach has generally worked well for me, but there have been a few occasions where expectations have clashed. I remember taking my shoes off while leading an all-day workshop in a carpeted room because it’s what I’d do if I walked into someone’s home and later hearing that participants found it distracting and strange. I also remember joining a Zoom call with a potential client about a workshop and them commenting on my wearing a hat, suggesting it didn’t seem professional and that I wasn’t taking things seriously. I didn’t hear from them again.

I’ve become fascinated by the concept of professionalism, particularly how it manifests in the world of business through rituals, language and appearance. The word professional comes from the Latin profiteri: pro meaning “forth, in public” and fateri meaning “to confess or acknowledge”. So originally, to be professional simply meant to openly declare something about oneself. (I was hoping to find a rabbit-hole connection between the words profiteri and profiterole, but was disappointed to discover there wasn’t really one.)

Between the 16th and 18th centuries, the meaning of “professional” evolved to describe someone with a vocation requiring specialist knowledge, such as law, medicine or theology. The industrial revolution then gave rise to larger, more bureaucratic organisations, and the mechanistic philosophies that underpinned them led to a growing desire for more standardisation, separation and uniformity of humans. New standards of dress, formal language and emotional restraint emerged, becoming increasingly associated with trust, reliability and status.

More recently, as corporate capitalism became the dominant organisational model, the idea of professionalism evolved further. Over time, the concept has moved from meaning “I publicly commit to this way of being” to something closer to “I am paid to be this way.”

While I’m sure many people feel comfortable in and even enjoy this way of being, the socially constructed and performative nature of “professionalism” seems to have slipped from conscious awareness, becoming a kind of secret code that quietly excludes and rejects difference. The late academic Ralph Stacey was a big influence on my work. He described organisational life as a complex pattern of human relating that is as predictable as it is unpredictable, as controllable as it is uncontrollable and suggested that organisations create rituals, routines and norms to reduce the anxiety this generates. Stacey argued that many of the unquestioned norms in organisational life function as a “fantasy defence to protect…against the anxiety that uncertainty and ambiguity generate.” So arguably, professionalism is not simply a standard to aspire to, but an agreed social performance designed to reduce anxiety and keep anything outside the norm at bay.

Carnival was a tradition in medieval Europe during which social rules were temporarily suspended and roles reversed. In the period leading up to Lent, peasants would dress as kings, men would dress as women, and satirical performances would mock the clergy and the monarchy. While it wasn’t always consequence-free (hence the use of masks and costumes), authorities often tolerated this brief suspension of normal social order.

The Russian philosopher Mikhail Bakhtin wrote extensively about Carnival in his book Rabelais and His World (1965). In it, he suggests that Carnival wasn’t simply a release from oppressive norms, but a temporary reordering of society in which people could experience social rules and hierarchies as less fixed, natural or absolute than they normally appeared. It allowed many of the suppressed aspects of life, such as humour, contradiction, chaos, and the reality of the body and its needs, to rise to the surface. It is possible that this is part of the reason such practices were tolerated by those in power. As a time-bound expression of these human impulses, Carnival may have acted as a temporary “release valve”, allowing people to briefly express these parts of themselves without fundamentally destabilising the dominant power structures.

I have always found the designated carnival moments of modern capitalist life rather odd. The office Christmas party is one example that comes to mind. Putting aside the fact that I never knew what to wear to these things, I always found them excruciatingly strange. It was a single evening where people were allowed to let their hair down, where hierarchy and structure were awkwardly suspended and where people did and said things that, if done in the office, boardroom or factory, would likely result in a disciplinary process. And then the next day, the performative solemnity of the consummate professional returned, as if nothing had happened. It always felt to me like these were contradictory experiences of forced fun or mandated free self-expression, but with an underlying awareness that certain lines still should not be crossed. (I’m using Christmas parties as just one example here. I’m sure there are many others.)

So, it seems to me that the modern cult of professionalism slowly rounds off the beautiful wonkiness of being human. It tends to value only those parts of us that help maintain existing structures of power, status and capitalist ideals such as growth, productivity and efficiency, demanding that we leave the rest of ourselves at the office door or factory gate. And yet, the reason I’m often invited into professional environments is because they are seeking something different. But when I show up as my natural self, through my appearance, language, way of working or way of thinking, this difference can be perceived as unprofessional and either rejected or, perhaps worse, gently dampened and smoothed.

I’ve seen many other creatives encounter this same dilemma. They are invited in because they are strange, fascinating and experimental but, because they don’t fit the established norms, they are either rejected or end up bending themselves so far out of shape that they lose the very essence that made them valuable in the first place. I often think there is nothing more heart-breaking than a clown having to wear a business suit to get a corporate gig.

I’m left with a sense that embodying an element of carnival in my work is incredibly important. To notice the pull towards conforming with the often overly solemn norms of professionalism, while still finding ways to live and express who I am, how I think and what I do. And it is equally important to make sure that I am able to do this work within the everyday life of an organisation, not just as a mandated “fun” part of an agenda.

This means I often have to walk away when none of this feels possible. It isn’t the safest or easiest way to earn a living, but it feels far preferable to slowly suffocating my creative spirit.

(My article in issue #1 of this Substack entitled “Four lightly held philosophies for living a creative life talks more about all of this, especially the idea of learning to live below our means to do the work in which we feel free.)

3. Open Studio - Kingtston Art Trail 2026

I’m excited to be part of the KAOS Kingston Art Trail again this year and am throwing open the doors of Studio Two on the 16th and 17th May from 11am-5pm.

Come browse some original art, see what I’m working on, have a chat, make a badge, make a zine and buy some art stuff from my little pop-up shop including prints, t-shirts, books, badges and more.

There’s no need to book but you will need to DM or e-mail me (stevexoh@gmail.com) to let me if know you are coming/when you have arrived as I will need to let you in the building. (Please note studio two is on the first floor and unfortunately there is no working lift)

This year’s Art Trail has 26 different studios on it to visit with 57 artists taking part, so you can spend an entire day exploring a number of different weird worlds as well as taking in some wonderful nature along the Thames.

..:: OPEN STUDIO INFO HERE ::.

4. Workshops

I’ve some new workshops in the diary that you might be interested in coming along to.

Playing at the Edge: Dancing with the inner critic
26th & 27th November 2026
Bloomsbury, London
£495 + VAT. Limited to 12 attendees.

I’m very excited to say that Simon Cavicchia and I have a date for our Playing at the Edge workshop. This two day workshop uses a variety of creative experiments to help us get to know and better understand our inhibiting idealised self images, our inner critic and the effect this has on realising our full creative potential.

Participants will be invited to participate in a variety of Gestalt Psychology techniques, creative practices, masks, improvisational experiments, mindfulness practices and a variety of other methods to help them become more aware of their attachments to fixed self images and other ways in which they inhibit their spontaneity.

If you’d like to know a little bit more about this work then you can watch my 2017 talk about dancing with my inner critic or read about “poster’s on the super ego’s bedroom wall” in Issue #7 of this Substack.

..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.

Paper Cutting Workshop
13th June 2026
New House Art Space, Guildford
£10-20

I’m running a paper cutting workshop at the wonderful New House Art Space in Guildford.

This two hour workshop invites you to play with paper cutting and ideas of negative space, imperfection and seeing the world through an inverted lens - noticing the wonderful emptiness created by shapes.

You need no previous experience and experienced paper cutters are also welcome to immerse themselves in this almost meditative practice. We will mainly work in the studio space but will venture out briefly to take inspiration from the sights, sounds and smells of Guildford to help us imagine our final piece.

All materials are provided and you will get to take your final piece home with you.

..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.

Mask Workshop
10th July 2026
Bloomsbury, London
£145 + VAT. Limited to 10 attendees.

If you like what you read about masks issue #6 then is the workshop for you. It is my absolute favourite workshop to run. A day of using masks to explore parts of our personality that we have lost touch with or didn’t know existed. We will spend the morning getting to know different masks and the afternoon putting them in different playful and bizarre scenarios and situations.

Previous participants say:

“Simply the best workshop ever.”
“Possibly the most liberating experience you might ever have.”
“I’ll never forget the bits of me I met for the first time at the mask workshop.”
“Very weird. In a very, very good way.”
“A truly magical experience”
“It is like going home with a bunch of new friends inside yourself!”

To keep it playful and intimate the workshop is limited to just 10 places so if you’d like to come along the grab a place ASAP as they sell out quickly.

..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.

5. Solstice Festival at Samphire Hoe

I’m very much looking forward to returning to Samphire Hoe again this June for the Solstice Festival. I had no idea what I was going to last year but was delighted to discover that Samphire Hoe is an incredible nature reserve created from the spoils of the channel tunnel.

This year, I will be joining 15 other artists who will make, perform, improvise and generally be inspired by the place and the creatures that live there. Various activities will take place all day on Saturday 20th June and at 11am on Sunday 21st June there will be a Pollinator Pilgrimage in which we will all parade around Samphire Hoe and take in the work that has been created.

There’s no need to book, just come along and immerse yourselves at the visitor centre, out on the dunes/grasslands/wetlands or down on the wonderful beach. The whole even is being organised by The Bee Friendly Trust who do important work to help our bees survive and thrive.

.:: DOWNLOAD THE FLIER HERE ::.

6. Buy my iconic cowboy print

Back in July 2022 my “I don’t want to be a cowboy anymore” painting was displayed on billboards and digital displays all over the UK as part of the brilliant Artichoke Trust’s “The Gallery” - a project that aimed to transform advertising space into a gallery, accessible to all, that could display art made in response to some important themes.

My cowboy painting was created in response to the theme “straight white male” and it was a very strange experience being out and about and then suddenly seeing it displayed at scale.

I sold the original painting back in 2023 but I’ve a limited print run of it in my shop, available in A3 and A4 sizes, each signed and numbered by me.

..:: BUY A4 AND A3 COWBOY PRINTS HERE ::.

7. Support my work

I wrote about my love of the river Thames back in issue #9 of this Substack. Since then, this love has turned into somewhat of an obsession and I began a project to try and walk the entire Thames path from source to sea in stages. Recently Poppy the dog and I took a trip to the Cotswolds to walk from the source to Castle Eaton. It was such an amazing experience to see this mighty river begin as some damp soil and gradually morph into puddles, a trickle and then a become a flowing river. I cannot wait to fill in the gaps in my progress chart and have even bought a kayak so I can explore the parts of it that don’t have a footpath.

I want this Substack to be free and accessible for everyone irrelevant of financial means (the podcast version too) and this is an important principle in much of my work. When I do charge for things, like art or workshops or events, I strive to do so in a way that doesn’t exclude those who do not have the financial means to participate.

So, when people do support my work financially it means so much and helps me continue to work in this way. If you can afford to do so you can support my work in a number of ways, be that buying me a coffee from £1, buying some art from my shop, becoming a patron of my studio or becoming a paid subscriber to this Substack. (And if you can’t afford it then I absolutely love you getting this for free.)

1. Buy some art from my shop. I have a big selection of prints, original art, books, badges, t-shirts, posters and more.
   .:: VISIT MY SHOP HERE ::.
   

2. Become a patron of my studio. For a one-off donation of your choice you become an official patron with a badge, a certificate, a behind the scenes blog and your name added to the scroll of honour in the window of the studio.
   .:: BECOME A PATRON HERE ::.
   

3. Buy me a coffee. Like a tip jar.
   .:: BUY ME A COFFEE HERE::.
   

4. Become a paid subscriber of this Substack. I didn’t even know this was an option until a few people spontaneously did it! You don’t get any extra content or anything but you do get my eternal gratitude!

   .:: BECOME A PAID SUBSTACK SUBSCRIBER HERE ::.

• I like it when people get in touch with interesting facts in response to this Substack and when somebody recently told me about “rainbow crows” it led me down a fascinating rabbit hole into the world of bird vision.

• RAMBLINGS: An important part of my work is ending projects well, ending them intentionally and ending them at a peak. I reflect on the importance of this as well as the differences I perceive between a project and a practice.

• ARTICLE: A disappointing trip to Battersea Power station left me wondering about the dangers of cultural monocultures and “golf course” creativity.

• PODCAST: Heather Ebanks invited me onto her Creatively Eccentric podcast and we had a lovely rambling chat about human creativity.

• OPEN STUDIOS: Come wander around in my brain (Studio Two) on 18th April or 9th, 10th, 16th, 17th May.

• WORKSHOP: Masks - 10th July 2026.

• WORKSHOP: Super Secret Musical Improv (SSMI XLI) - 8th May 2026.

• I share a photo of me dressed as a pirate ready to give a talk to 200 primary school teachers back in 2011 to encourage you to scroll to the end of the Substack and read about how you can financially support my work by Buying stuff in my shop, becoming a patron of my studio, become a paid subscriber or buying me a coffee (tip jar).

PODCAST VERSION OF THIS ISSUE

1. Hello

One of the things I enjoy most about writing this Substack is that people send me things. Often this takes the form of an email or a DM on social media sharing an interesting fact or bizarre story, but occasionally I’ll receive a physical object in the post. And because so much of what I write centres around my various creaturely obsessions, a lot of what I receive reflects that. I’ve learnt a lot about jays, and where to find them, from someone who is an expert. I get sent crab facts and photos of crabs that people around the world have encountered. And recently, I was sent a physical book that I now treasure as a kind of sacred object for many reasons.

The book is an old children’s book called “Strongwing”. It is a story about rooks, but that’s only one of the reasons I love it. The cover is fascinating, especially for a children’s book, as the rook depicted on it looks slightly terrifying and is a strange mix of black, purple and blue. Inside, the sense of wonder continues with a series of slightly odd illustrations alongside the largest font size I think I’ve ever seen. But what I love most is how the life of the book itself seems to tell a parallel story.

In the inside cover is sticker that reads:

London County Council
Awarded to John O’Neill
St Mary’s Boy’s School for progress in reading.
July 1953

Somebody has carefully coloured in the strange black and white illustrations using coloured pencils. I have no idea if this was John O’Neill or a subsequent owner of the book, which makes me wonder how many hands it has passed through in the 73 years since it was presented as an award. (I can’t help but wonder if it was handed out in a school assembly or in a classroom, how John felt to receive it, and whether he was a nature nerd who loved it or thought it was a bit rubbish and worried it might ruin his tough image.) The book itself is a fascinating read. Rooks are one of my favourite birds, so I’m invested in the storyline whatever happens. But what I found most interesting is how it offers a glimpse into 1950s life, and what it reveals about the culture of the UK at that time.

There are lots of subtle messages woven through the story about strength and status. A sense that being better than others, rising to the top and becoming admired by all, is what one should aspire to. There are also some interesting gender dynamics, even in the corvid world: “Oh dear! You must be careful because you are not as strong as me. The wind could not blow me off the tree, I am much too strong.” (Strongwing talking to a female rook he has just met. This is a theme that continues throughout) It made me wonder how much of this was intentional, and how much simply reflects the culture of the time in which the book was written. Either way, it feels like there are layers in here that extend far beyond a simple children’s story.

But it was another recent “gift” that captivated me and led me down a creaturely rabbit hole. I received a message from someone who told me that the number-one animal fact in their household was that crows are actually rainbow coloured. My immediate thought was noooo, that’s not true, and I assumed it was a child’s vivid imagination at work. But there was something about it that intrigued me, especially having spent a lot of time feeding Crow up close and noticing flashes of purple and blue on her feathers when the sun hits them at a certain angle. So I began to look into it and discovered that it is, in fact, somewhat true.

It all starts with the fact that birds have a different set of colour receptors, known as cones. Humans have three types of cones that detect red, green and blue and the combination of these creates the palette of colours that we experience. Most birds, on the other hand, have four cones that detect red, green, blue and, most importantly, ultraviolet. This means they can see colours that we don’t even know exist. On top of this, birds have oil droplets in their eyes that sit in front of each cone and filter the incoming light, increasing the precision of their colour detection. (The downside of this, and presumably one reason humans don’t have it, is that the oil reduces the amount of light entering the eye, meaning a bird’s vision is incredibly precise in daylight but less effective in low light.) And if this wasn’t enough, some birds also have light-sensitive proteins in their eyes called cryptochromes, which are thought to respond to light influenced by magnetic fields, potentially providing a kind of sat-nav-like overlay on top of this already brilliantly pimped-up vision.

So, taking all of this into account, whilst we can never know what a crow actually sees when it looks at another crow, it seems likely that they appear far more colourful to each other than they do to us. This makes me wonder if the strange bluey-purple hue of Strongwing on the cover of the book wasn’t, in fact, an accident, but a wise choice. It also raises the question of whether there is a different, hidden storyline in the book itself that is only visible to corvids. And maybe that’s also true of the everyday story we find ourselves in, that we’re moving through a world that is far more vivid than we’re able to perceive.

The art of the intentional ending
Writing about (not) marking the tenth edition of this Substack in the last issue got me thinking about how many I will actually end up doing. I remember writing the first two and wondering if I’d ever stick with it long enough to get to ten. Now I’m realising that I have so much to write about each month that it will likely keep going for at least another 10, 20, 30 issues. I even spent some time working out when issue 100 would come out. (For those wondering, the answer is Friday 19th February 2033. Mark it in your diary!)

Part of my reason for reflecting on all of this is that a key aspect of my creative practice, and something I feel I’ve become good at, is knowing when to kill a project. I pay particular attention to endings. Even though they are inevitable, I can easily develop a pattern of avoiding them. I seem to have found a somewhat stoic approach to endings, even though I don’t fully subscribe to stoic philosophy. My earliest memories of this are saying goodbye to family pets as they left for their final trip to the vets. I remember being about nine, sitting up late with my cat Sally the night before she died. The same was true of my rabbit Skippy. They were very sad occasions and I felt a lot, but when the time came to say goodbye, I felt ready. (My parents had my beloved dog Toby put down while I was away on a school trip, which made that ending much more difficult.) This relationship with endings, and recognising when something needs to come to a close, has carried through into many areas of my life. In my creative work, it has become especially important for me to give as much attention to endings as I do to every other part of its lifecycle.

In his fascinating book The Denial of Death, cultural anthropologist Ernest Becker suggests that because human beings are aware that they are alive and that they will die, we have the unique capacity to experience existential anxiety. This creates a tension that can manifest as a simultaneous fear of insignificance and impermanence, meaning we are caught between fearing both life and fearing death. Becker goes on to suggest that, to cope with this, we create what he calls “immortality projects” - ways of making our existence feel meaningful by leaving a mark that, at least symbolically, transcends death. Many things can take this form: careers, family, wealth, status, creative work - anything that, often at a level outside our conscious awareness, says “I matter and that will continue in some way”. (He acknowledges that his writing of the book is itself part of this.) In fact, Becker suggests that culture itself is simply a system of shared immortality projects.

The fascinating thing about immortality projects is that Becker suggests they are not optional, but psychologically necessary for us to function as a creature that is aware of its own mortality. He doesn’t suggest this is something we should, or even could, avoid, only that it is an important pattern in human experience to become aware of.

It is this existential awareness, which I find exciting rather than depressing, that makes impermanence such an important part of my work. I have a rule of thumb for any new project: it must end intentionally, end well, and end at a peak. Before I even recorded the first episode of the Sound of Silence podcast, I publicly announced that there would only ever be 100 episodes. For my experimental Inexpert conference in 2018, I made it very clear that it would only ever happen once. And for my What the February?! Instagram project, I declared that the fourth year would be the final one, despite thousands of people around the world now taking part in this strange annual tradition.

These advance declarations can be challenging, especially when a project turns out to be something I really enjoy or that really takes off. Towards the end of the Sound of Silence podcast, it was receiving between 8,000 and 10,000 downloads per episode and starting to gather a lot of press interest. Inexpert proved to be an utterly exhilarating and ground-breaking experiment and many people got in touch asking when the next one would be. What the February?! was not only attracting more and more participants, but was also growing my Instagram following exponentially and increasing sales in my online shop. The pull towards the common-sense, perhaps capitalist, instinct to repeat, scale up and grow was very strong. But I knew in my heart that this would be driven by my own attachment to “success”, rather than an acceptance of the impermanence of all things.

One of the dangers that Ernest Becker warns about is that, if immortality projects remain unchecked, they can become dangerously entangled with our sense of identity. The project shifts from something we do to something we are, meaning that any threat to it begins to feel like a threat to our very existence. And, given that everything eventually fades and dissolves, failing to end a project at a peak can result in our sense of identity and self-esteem slowly slipping away. I didn’t want to identify solely as ‘the silent podcast guy’ or ‘the curator of the weird anti-conference’ or ‘the artist who dares people around the world to do weird creative stuff every February’. Although it was incredibly tempting to anchor my sense of self-worth and success in these projects, I knew that at some point they would fade, or I would simply get bored with them, and that this could lead to a significant psychological crash. At the same time, I have to admit that I also just get a kick out of doing the opposite of common sense and ending projects at the very moment society would advise otherwise.

In 1988, musician and artist Fred Deakin co-founded the creative agency Airside. The agency went on to produce ground-breaking designs and interactive art installations for the likes of the V&A, the Big Chill and Bestival, winning dozens of awards from institutions such as D&AD, Design Week and the BAFTAs. Then, in 2012, at the pinnacle of their success, they decided to close.

Fred told me the story of how Airside ended:

“We’d just done an MBA at London Business School and all they said to us was, ‘What’s the exit strategy for Airside: buy, sell or merge? Do you want to buy another company and get bigger, sell the company and cash in, or merge, which is kind of a half-way house?’ We thought, ‘No, we’re not going to do any of those, so screw you. We’re going to have a really big party and go out with a bang, just like all the best bands.

I’ve seen many friends running similar ventures and, at the end of their cycle, they say, ‘Okay, time to sell,’ then stay for another three to five years with the golden handcuffs, watching the beautiful thing they created being slowly tarnished by hack-handed corporates. It’s a common fate, I think, to feel that slow death.

But life is too short to spend years doing things you don’t feel drawn to. There’s that classic Zen analogy: you have to be like a surfer, knowing the wave will inevitably crash. And it’s the art of falling off the surfboard that’s the key, not trying to stay on the wave to the very end.”

But I’m still unsure about this Substack. It feels different to my other projects, and I don’t feel the need to think about when it will end. One reason for this is that I’m still enjoying watching how it grows and connects me with people around the world. Another may be that, as I sort of started it by accident (see issue 1), I never really thought about impermanence. But when I reflect more deeply, I realise the main difference is that writing this every four weeks isn’t a project - it is a practice. A practice that is just for me and, alongside my running, meditation, or sitting by the Thames observing nature, helps me maintain a sense of wellbeing, physically, mentally and maybe even spiritually. I don’t feel the need to predetermine an end point for any of those practices, so I don’t feel the need for one here either.

I find this distinction between project and practice really helpful. For me, a project is an impermanent expression of something, bound within the temporal boundaries of a start and an end. It sits separate from my underlying and ongoing sense of self. It isn’t who I am, but simply a fleeting expression of it. A practice is something else entirely. It is an unending tuning into my moment-by-moment experience, a process that gradually reveals deeper layers of the mystery of who I am and what this bizarre human experience is. And although this too will one day come to an end, I don’t feel the need to decide exactly when.

2. The lost soul of Battersea

For as long as I can remember, Battersea Power Station has intrigued me. I recall passing it on the train as a child many times, struck not only by its size, but also by its solid, art deco industrial form. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to go inside this imposing, cavernous building. I have a vague memory of recurring dreams from childhood about vast brick structures, so there was something about the power station that both fascinated and unsettled me - something I could imagine experiencing as both awe-inspiring and overwhelming.

Construction of “Station A” began in 1929, with “Station B” completed in 1955, adding two more chimneys to create the now-iconic four-chimney structure. It was one of the largest coal-fired power stations in Europe and, at its peak, supplied around 20% of London’s electricity. After more than fifty years of operation, the station closed in 1983 due to the declining viability of coal-fired power generation, alongside its inefficiency and pollution relative to more modern oil, gas and nuclear alternatives. After decades of failed redevelopment attempts, the Grade II* listed building was eventually redeveloped by a Malaysian consortium and reopened to the public in 2022, breathing new life into this London landmark.

It was on one of my recent long Thames walks that I found myself passing the power station and realised that I could finally go inside. I imagined being awestruck as I entered the cavernous, slightly eccentric art deco, marble-floored turbine halls that had been historically described as cathedrals of power. But as I walked through the doors for the first time, I experienced an immense sense of disappointment and sadness. I found myself in a shopping mall. A shopping mall that looked like any other in the world. Low ceilings, fluorescent lights, generic stores. I decided I wanted to get out of this part as quickly as possible and find the old spaces, but I was trapped in a one-way route that meant the only way back to the entrance was to walk through more of the mall. After finding my way back outside, I was so discombobulated by the experience that I decided to just head home. I felt sad about the gap between what I had imagined and what I found. It felt like biting into a much-anticipated exotic fruit only to discover it had gone rotten in the middle. I spent the next few hours wondering why it had disturbed me in this way.

I have since found out that there are some areas of the building that are more reflective of the original space, but even these have had their openness broken up by new floors, escalators and mezzanines. The original openness has been subdivided, and even looking at photos of these areas leaves me with a sense that something essential has been lost. I recognise that part of this reaction is personal, shaped by my own attraction to empty spaces and large, abandoned industrial structures, but the way Battersea Power Station has been repurposed made me curious about what it says about modern society more broadly. It felt as though the soul of the building had been carved up and conveniently packaged into bite-sized chunks of commercial modernity. It’s true that the building was crumbling and falling into disrepair, so arguably this redevelopment saved it. But at what cost? And what does it say about society when the only way we can save something is by making it more like everything else, and entirely commercial?

The German philosopher Walter Benjamin wrote extensively about art, culture and modernity, and how mass reproduction can change our relationship to meaning and experience. One of his core ideas is what he calls a “loss of aura” - that when something is reproduced or standardised, it loses its unique, unrepeatable presence. He describes aura as an object’s “presence in time and space, its unique existence at the place where it happens to be”. When that uniqueness is eroded through repetition, standardisation and the norms of modern, commercial design, that aura begins to fade. Through this lens, the building of Battersea Power Station remains, but what constituted its presence has been fundamentally altered. The modernisation and subdivision of the space mean that the meaning we make of the building has irrevocably shifted. The place I imagined I would encounter with a sense of reverence and awe has been commoditised in such a way that it comes with its own instructions about what meaning I should make of it, rather than leaving that for me to uncover in my own way.

The anthropologist Marc Augé might describe the modern interior of Battersea Power Station as a “non-place” - a space that lacks identity, history and meaningful human connection. Non-places seem to be an inevitable byproduct of capitalism, where the unique meaning of an empty space is flattened as it is turned into something that can be compartmentalised, replicated and made to generate profit.

A similar pattern shows up in the natural world. Ecosystems thrive when they are allowed to remain messy and complex. When they are neatened and controlled for ease of human use, they tend to lose their natural diversity and vitality. I met the forester Jim Reilley a few years ago for the Glen Dye Podcast. He spoke about the art of forestry and the importance of forests being allowed to remain “biologically untidy”, as opposed to what he called “golf-course forests” - landscapes that have been artificially tidied for human ease. In nature, messiness equals diversity, and diversity equals resilience. By contrast, there is a fragility to monoculture, as it is far less able to adapt and respond to inevitable change.

And for me, this is also why our messy, “biologically untidy” creative self-expression matters. There is a constant pull to tidy it up, to make it more palatable and more easily consumed, but something essential and unique is lost in the process of doing so. In the same way that monocultures reduce resilience in nature, a kind of human monoculture begins to emerge when we all start to move towards replicable “golf-course creativity” because it fits more comfortably within the structures of a capitalist society.

What I experienced as absent in the interior of Battersea Power Station, and what often feels absent in many modernised spaces, is an invitation into awe and mystery. The sense of encountering something I don’t fully understand, and having to make meaning of it through my own imagination because of its utter uniqueness. And whether it is a building, a forest or our own way of making a mark in the world - when everything becomes more uniform, something essential disappears. It therefore feels vital to resist the pull towards a more normative form of creativity, and instead keep that sense of uniqueness alive through our own imperfect, uncensored creative expression.

3. Podcast - creatively eccentric

Since I started the accidental podcast version of this Substack, it has connected me with other podcasters around the world, including Heather Ebanks, who presents “Creatively Eccentric” - a podcast about radically redefining what it means to be creative in a world that still prefers conformity.

Heather and I recently had a lovely, meandering conversation about all things creative and the importance of moving towards one’s natural-born weirdness. You can listen to the episode ‘Why Being Misunderstood Might Be Your Creative Superpower’ via the link below, or search for it on all podcast platforms.

And, if it’s the kind of thing you have time to do, why not subscribe, rate and review Heather’s podcast? It is vital to support independent podcasters and help them not get buried in this deluge of big-budget, corporate, celebrity shows.

..:: LISTEN HERE ::.

4. Workshops

A few different workshops coming up that you might be interested in.

Mask Workshop
10th July 2026
Bloomsbury, London
£145 + VAT. Limited to 10 attendees.

If you like what you read about masks issue #6 then is the workshop for you. It is my absolute favourite workshop to run. A day of using masks to explore parts of our personality that we have lost touch with or didn’t know existed. We will spend the morning getting to know different masks and the afternoon putting them in different playful and bizarre scenarios and situations.

Previous participants say:

“Simply the best workshop ever.”
“Possibly the most liberating experience you might ever have.”
“I’ll never forget the bits of me I met for the first time at the mask workshop.”
“Very weird. In a very, very good way.”
“A truly magical experience”
“It is like going home with a bunch of new friends inside yourself!”

To keep it playful and intimate the workshop is limited to just 10 places so if you’d like to come along the grab a place ASAP as they sell out quickly.

..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.

Super Secret Musical Improv (SSMI XLI)
8th May 2026
Waterloo, London
£95. Limited to 16 attendees.

SSMIs happen at various times in the year they are an opportunity to come together with a curious, friendly and supportive bunch of people and improvise songs, scenes and musicals. No previous experience is necessary, nor is any ability to sing, improvise or be funny. In fact, any of the above can prove a disadvantage.

Previous participants have described these sessions as “life enhancing”, “beautiful” and “I need SSMI like I need to breathe.”

.:: FIND OUT MORE HERE ::.

5. Open Studios

I’ve a number of Open Studios taking place over the next couple of months where you can come and visit my little creative home, have a chat and buy some art stuff.

18th April 2026 - Koppel Kingston Open Studio
The entire building of 38 studios will be open for this one. Come visit me in Studio Two as well as a number of other artists in their homes. Come chat, look at some original art and buy discounted stuff from my little pop-up shop.

9th, 10th, 16th, 17th May - Kingston Artists Open Studios (KAOS 2026)
The annual KAOS event that sees studios across the borough throw open their doors. Studio Two will be part of the Kingston Studio art trail so come visit me as part of a whole double-weekend of art.

There’s no need to book any of these but if you would like more information then drop me an e-mail.

STUDIO TWO
Koppel Kingston
29 Thames Street
Kingston-upon-Thames
KT1 1PH

..:: MORE INFORMATION ABOUT STUDIO TWO ::.

6. Support my work

One of the first bits of paid work I landed when I started working for myself 15 years ago was delivering a talk at a primary school teachers’ inset day conference. The day had a pirate theme (I’ve no idea why), and I was told everyone in the audience would be wearing pirate headscarves. They said I could wear one too, if I liked. I liked the idea of joining in, but hadn’t a clue why I had been asked to speak at such an event. I felt like a total imposter as someone with no experience of teaching children. There is a mantra in performance improvisation that goes, “If you are going to die, die big and spectacularly.” So I decided that if I was going to flop in front of this esteemed audience of 200 teachers, I would do so spectacularly dressed as a pirate. I share a photo of that day now to encourage you to scroll to the end of this Substack to find out how you can support my work.

I want this Substack to be free and accessible for everyone irrelevant of financial means (the podcast version too) and this is an important principle in much of my work. When I do charge for things, like art or workshops or events, I strive to do so in a way that doesn’t exclude those who do not have the financial means to participate.

So, when people do support my work financially it means so much and helps me continue to work in this way. If you can afford to do so you can support my work in a number of ways, be that buying me a coffee from £1, buying some art from my shop, becoming a patron of my studio or becoming a paid subscriber to this Substack. (And if you can’t afford it then I absolutely love you getting this for free.)

1. Buy some art from my shop. I have a big selection of prints, original art, books, badges, t-shirts, posters and more.
   .:: VISIT MY SHOP HERE ::.
   

2. Become a patron of my studio. For a one-off donation of your choice you become an official patron with a badge, a certificate, a behind the scenes blog and your name added to the scroll of honour in the window of the studio.
   .:: BECOME A PATRON HERE ::.
   

3. Buy me a coffee. Like a tip jar.
   .:: BUY ME A COFFEE HERE::.
   

4. Become a paid subscriber of this Substack. I didn’t even know this was an option until a few people spontaneously did it! You don’t get any extra content or anything but you do get my eternal gratitude!

   .:: BECOME A PAID SUBSTACK SUBSCRIBER HERE ::.

• I actively avoided doing anything “special” to mark the tenth issue of this Substack and got so interested in why the number ten feels meaningful to humans that I ended up doing something special and writing about it.

• RAMBLINGS: I reflect on my time on Ocracoke island in January 2023 and how fully embracing a sense of loneliness created a chain of events that connected me to so many people and things.

• ARTICLE: I recently read about the amphioxus, a primitive marine creature from 500 million years ago, and it helped me better understand why I’ve always been suspicious of the idea that logical, linear thought is the saviour of the human race

• BUY: Stuff in my online shop

• OPEN STUDIO: Come visit my studio (and others in the building) on 18th April 2026.

• WORKSHOP: Paper cutting in my studio - 28th March 2026

• WORKSHOP: Masks - 10th July 2026.

• WORKSHOP: Super Secret Musical Improv (SSMI XLI) - 8th May 2026.

• A photo of a giant guinea pig DJing at a modern folklore festival to encourage you to scroll to the end of the Substack and read about how you can financially support my work by Buying stuff in my shop, becoming a patron of my studio, become a paid subscriber or buying me a coffee (tip jar).

PODCAST VERSION OF THIS ISSUE

1. Hello

I decided a couple of issues back that I didn’t want to do anything special to mark the tenth edition of this Substack. For a moment I considered doing something different with the format, maybe asking readers what they would like in it, or writing about how it has been to produce these long-form pieces over the last ten months. But within seconds of coming up with these ideas, I realised that I hated them because they were way too obvious. (Not Keith Johnstone’s definition of obvious, which relates to uncensored spontaneous self-expression, but the definition that is more aligned with common sense, cultural trends and what everyone else would do!)

I got a bit annoyed with myself for even feeling that issue number ten was significant. It is just another number and another piece of writing that I am doing because I love getting lost in the process of following abstract chains of thought. I started to wonder why ten feels so significant anyway and decided to try to find out more about why this progression from single digits to double digits feels meaningful to humans.

The most obvious explanation I came across is that ten feels important simply because we have ten fingers. From the earliest days of human history the number ten has likely felt meaningful even before language fully developed. And then, as language and concepts such as mathematics and science emerged, the number ten took on even more significance. The Pythagoreans believed that ten was the most perfect number and revered a geometric shape called the Tetractys, which arranged the first four numbers (1, 2, 3, 4) in rows that not only added up to ten but made a really cool triangle shape. The Pythagoreans loved this idea so much that they believed the number ten and the Tetractys contained the entire structure of reality and represented proportional balance, the hidden structure of the cosmos. (To be fair, it’s as good as any other theory I’ve heard.)

As society has evolved, so has our interest in the significance of ten. A 2014 scientific paper published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences (PNAS) suggests that existential reflection increases for humans near decade boundaries of age (i.e. 29, 39, 49 etc). And whilst the process of ageing and experiencing time is continuous, the cognitive experience of approaching a new decade signals a boundary that we simultaneously treat like an ending and a beginning, prompting a moment of life evaluation. We can experience it as the metaphorical conclusion of one chapter and the start of another. Or, to adopt a more modern metaphor, the number nine is like the end-of-level boss in a computer game that we must work out how to defeat before progressing to the next level.

A Threshold Guardian is an archetype that appears in human storytelling throughout the ages. We find threshold guardians in folklore, myths, legends, and more recently in books and films. A threshold guardian is a being or an obstacle that stands between the protagonist’s present reality and whatever lies beyond. Often the threshold guardian tests the hero’s resolve and readiness for the next stage of the adventure, forcing them to dig deeper than they have before in order to defeat or overcome it. In Greek mythology the three-headed dog Cerberus guards the entrance to the underworld, preventing the living from entering and the dead from leaving. In many folktales (and children’s stories) a troll guards a bridge and demands a toll or sets a challenge before people can pass to the other side. And in one of the most memorable scenes in The Lord of the Rings films the Balrog blocks the heroes’ escape from Moria across the Bridge of Khazad-dûm

I like the idea that the progression from 9 to 10 feels significant and worthy of ceremony or celebration because, at some level, we experience it as facing and overcoming a temporal threshold guardian. And having crossed that threshold, we find ourselves in a new realm of experience where the potential for novelty, difference and adventure feels much richer.

So maybe that’s why I couldn’t help but think about marking the occasion of issue 10, even though I really didn’t want to, because it felt a bit too meh!

(And I of course now realise that by writing all of this about not wanting to do anything significant to mark issue ten, I accidentally have.)

The totem of aloneness

February saw the three year anniversary of moving into my flat. I normally pay little attention to anniversaries such as this, but this one always feels significant. I had spent much of the previous year house-sitting which, whilst an exciting adventure, was also a time of deep uncertainty and anxiety. So finally finding a stable base felt like a much needed change. But the anniversary of moving into my flat also feels significant because it is inextricably connected to a bizarre, dream-like experience of living on a remote island for a month in the depths of winter.

The island adventure began when my American friend Jim sent me an email saying, “How is your housing situation? I have an idea for you if you are looking for something in January. It would be a very unique experience.” I originally met Jim ten years earlier at a strange creative experiment in the mountains of Spain and we reunited at the same event in the summer of 2022. We bonded further that week through a number of unusual experiences, including getting lost in the Spanish summer heat and accidentally coming face to face with a wild boar. We kept in touch regularly after this, so when I told Jim that I was running out of properties to stay in he was keen to help.

Initially when I read Jim’s email I thought that maybe he had a quirky flat in London that I could stay in, or a remote cabin in the forests of Scotland. But when he told me the property was on Ocracoke Island I jumped onto Google Maps to find out where on earth this place was. As the map loaded I saw this strange-looking, long sliver of land around 30 miles off the coast of North Carolina and thought to myself, “There is no way I can go and live there for a month!” But part of me was intrigued, so I did some research and discovered that the island has a 26km long sandy beach, is virtually deserted in the month of January and is home to a plethora of wildlife, including Atlantic ghost crabs. (This last fact alone sealed the deal for me.)

So I accepted Jim’s kind invitation and told him that I liked the thought of officially making it an art residency. Jim built on this and suggested that the art could be inspired by the places, people and creatures of the island – including the famous “ocracats”. I loved this and proposed that fellow artist jdwoof could come along, as she is known for painting amazing portraits of creatures, including cats. Jim agreed and, as the date for heading off to the island approached, Jo and I invited patrons to help us raise money for art materials. Many people generously obliged.

On the 8th January 2023 I boarded a flight at London’s Heathrow Airport bound for New York, before taking a connecting flight to Wilmington, where I met Jim and his wife Laura. From there we drove three hours through rural North Carolina to the remote ferry terminal at Cedar Island and boarded a ferry across the Pamlico Sound. Three hours later, I finally arrived on Ocracoke Island and the the adventure became very, very real.

Jo wasn’t arriving for another ten days, so when Jim and Laura left I found myself totally alone and very quickly started to think that this whole thing was a terrible mistake. There are no holidaymakers and very few residents on the island in the depths of January and the house I was staying in was some way from the main town. My aloneness very quickly turned into loneliness: a despairing feeling in which I felt no desire or motivation to make any art. What made this feeling worse was that I had £750 worth of art materials on the table that our generous patrons had paid for. It started to feel like the pile of supplies was tormenting me, saying “Come on! You’re supposed to be an artist. Be productive and make some art.”

I felt terribly down, lost and lonely. I know from past experience that when I feel these kinds of feelings, trying to fight or resist them only makes them more entrenched, and that the best thing I can do is move towards them. So I decided that I needed to feel even more lost and lonely and headed off on my weird bike to the remotest part of the beach, knowing it would be the furthest away from human beings that I could be. The beach was totally deserted and my only company was the crashing of the winter waves and the occasional passing pelican or dolphin. I hid my bike behind a sand dune and walked on, trying to stay close to what I was feeling in order to get to know it better. After a while I came across an interesting piece of driftwood and decided that it might be a nice thing to paint. A little further on I found a slim tree trunk and a sheltered place in the dunes where I could sit and work. I wanted to honour how I was feeling so I painted the words “I need to be alone” onto the driftwood before nailing it onto the tree trunk that I had decorated with little black and white shapes and creatures. I realised that I had created something akin to a totem of aloneness, a celebration of the experience of being alone, and I felt a little more connected with myself through the process of making it. I dug a hole, planted the totem in the sand in the middle of the beach and headed off to try and remember where I had left my bike.

I got to know the island a little better over the following few days and discovered that there was one bar that was open for a few hours each evening. As it was the only place to go, I decided to give it a visit. As soon as I opened my mouth to order a drink, the handful of locals present heard my accent and asked what I was doing on Ocracoke at this time of year. I told them I was an artist doing an art residency on the island for the month of January. One of the locals looked at me and, after a short pause, asked in a very serious sounding tone “Are you the one who left that thing on the beach?” My immediate thought was that I had done something wrong. Ocracoke is a nature reserve, and maybe my impromptu art installation was illegal or offensive. I reluctantly admitted that I had made it and was surprised when the man shouted to the others in the bar, “Hey, this is the guy who made the thing on the beach! We love it. It is all over the Ocracoke Facebook group.”

And from that point on, everything changed. I got to know the locals in the bar and they got to know me as the British artist who made things out of driftwood. Many of the locals worked in the one shop on the island or in the couple of eateries that were open, so I started to get to know people outside of the bar too. I let go of the need to use any of the art materials and simply visited the beach each day with my black and white paints to see what the ocean had left for me to work with. Some days there was nothing, which I took as a sign to take a day off. Some days there were huge pieces of wood that took me most of the day to decorate. I even found an old cigar box that I turned into a geocache-style bit of buried treasure, with some cryptically painted signs (also driftwood) hinting at the location.

When Jo arrived on the island we continued to make all sorts of art from things that we found, which connected us with even more locals. We ended up meeting one of the presenters from Ocracoke Community Radio who invited us both to appear on his show. As a result of this, we met a local journalist who wrote a two-page article about us for the Ocracoke Observer website and the subsequent newspaper.

On the 31st January we left Ocracoke to begin the very long return journey and the whole experience of the last month started to feel like a strange dream. I had run out of house-sitting properties by this point, so I moved straight into my rented flat and began to reflect on what that last month had been about. What I kept coming back to was the experience of that initial day on the beach and making the totem of aloneness. It struck me that by moving towards the things I was trying to get away from - feeling lost, lonely and disconnected - I had discovered company and connection in spontaneous, organic ways that were much more exciting than any formal introductions that Jim could have made in advance.

I’m fascinated by the difference between aloneness and loneliness. I have a real need for self-regulating alone time, but I also know that, very suddenly, this can tip into feeling lonely and I don’t fully understand what causes this shift. Psychologists have long argued that our experience of loneliness evolved as a warning signal, indicating that important social needs are not being met, and prompting us to change our behaviour in the same way that hunger motivates us to seek food. In fact, some neuroscientists have suggested that loneliness may function as a form of “psychological hunger” – a biological signal, similar to hunger or thirst, that motivates us to seek connection for survival.

But whilst I like this concept, I still don’t fully understand what it is that satisfies this psychological hunger when I can be sitting in exactly the same room, yet oscillate between feeling peacefully alone and painfully connection-starved. In their 1981 research, Perlman and Peplau defined loneliness as the gap between the social connection we want and the connection we feel we have. In other words, when aloneness is voluntary it can result in an experience of calm and self-regulating solitude. But when it feels imposed or unwanted it can mutate into dysregulating loneliness.

Philosopher Hannah Arendt offers a deeper perspective on this. She makes a distinction between solitude and loneliness. For Arendt, solitude is being “two in one” with oneself – being objectively alone but still in dialogue and in deep contact with our inner experience (I use the word dialogue to mean a kind of connection that includes language, but also emotions, senses and sensations.) Arendt goes on to suggest that loneliness results from the loss of that internal dialogue and deep contact with our being. This means that, regardless of whether we are physically alone or not, this disconnection from our here-and-now experience can result in a sense of emptiness or alienation where we feel that we do not belong anywhere, not even in ourselves

But the bit that really excites me about Arendt’s work is her thoughts on the paradoxical nature of all of this: that intentionally practising solitude can actually protect against loneliness. This helps me make sense of my early Ocracoke experience. By intentionally moving into the empty, desolate landscape, far away from other humans, I entered a space where aloneness was simply the condition of the environment, softening the experience of loneliness into solitude. Finding the materials and becoming immersed in making the totem helped restore that “two-in-one” relationship with myself. The process of making it became a kind of non-verbal dialogue in which I was both listening to and responding to my here-and-now experience, eventually resulting in a physical artefact.

Placing the artwork on the deserted beach then formed a kind of social bridge between me and the Ocracoke community who remained on the island during the cold winter months. By moving intentionally towards solitude, I had unintentionally found connection.

NOTE: For those of you wondering what happened to the art materials that initially sat on the table tormenting me, we donated everything we didn’t use to the island’s school.

2. My distant uncle who was a happy little stomach on a stick

Amphioxus are tiny, translucent sea creatures that burrow into the sandy seabed. Only the front end of their body sticks out as they filter-feed, capturing plankton from the water that passes through their gill slits. Fossil evidence shows that amphioxus-like creatures have existed in this way for over 500 million years and, in that time, their form has changed very little - a very simple design that has turned out to be incredibly effective in evolutionary terms.

I first learnt about amphioxus from the book 7 ½ Lessons About the Brain by Lisa Feldman Barrett, an esteemed neuroscientist and psychologist whose work challenges many traditional assumptions about how the brain works. Feldman Barrett begins the book by introducing amphioxus as a distant relative of ours, sharing a common ancestor that lived during the Cambrian period. While amphioxus retained this original body plan, other animals that eventually gave rise to vertebrates evolved more complex features and systems to support more complex needs such as movement, evading predators and hunting. Amphioxus, however, remained essentially a translucent “stomach on a stick”, while these new creatures required additional systems: a cardiovascular system to pump blood, a respiratory system to take in oxygen and expel carbon dioxide, as well as hormone systems, waste management systems and muscle systems to balance and coordinate a much more complex body.

Feldman Barrett uses this evolutionary process to challenge dominant beliefs about our brain’s primary function. She suggests that “the brain’s job is not thinking… it is running a little worm body that has become very, very complicated.” In this view, the main function of the brain is allostasis – the process of continual change by which an organism adjusts its internal functions to maintain physiological stability. Feldman Barrett therefore suggests that the brain’s main role is simply to manage resources. She compares it to a complex financial investment firm, comprising a number of dedicated divisions and departments that “invest energy in the hope of earning a good return: food, affection, protection.”

I get excited by anything that challenges dominant narratives, but especially when it is about how we perceive ourselves as a species. While I am interested in neuroscience, I have always thought it is fundamentally flawed in that it is a field in which human brains are studying human brains, using equipment created by human brains, and a scientific method that has collectively been agreed as robust by human brains. It all feels a little biased to me. If it were a different species doing all of this, perhaps a totally different life-form from another planet, then I’d be much more inclined to believe the findings were real and accurate.

What really fascinates me about Lisa Feldman Barrett’s work is that it invites us to rethink the brain’s role in terms of creativity. Her research shows the triune brain model to be flawed and the left-brain/right-brain theory to be terribly oversimplified. As a result, the brain begins to look less like a thinking machine and more like a set of highly professional accounting departments managing resources to meet the body’s needs. (I can’t help but wonder whether the brain is light grey because that’s the dress code for the accountants in there.)

So maybe the brain actually has far less to do with creativity than we have been led to believe. Its role may simply be to ensure we have the energy and sense of safety required to express it - a support function enabling something much more mysterious and exciting to arise from elsewhere within us. This perspective completely flips the dominant narrative that the brain and its tendency towards logical, linear and rational thought are the source of everything humanly brilliant.

The wonderfully weird comedian Emo Philips sums up this exciting shift in perspective:

“I used to think that the brain was the most wonderful organ in my body. Then I realised who was telling me this.”

3. Buy stuff in my shop

I normally pick out one thing to highlight in this section but, not only can I not think of what to feature in this issue, it also seems to make little difference to what anyone buys anyway! I might highlight a particular print, but then sales of a T-shirt suddenly go up. Or I might put on a special deal on zines and loads of people buy What the February?! books.

So, for this issue, I’m just going to let you know that my little online shop is open 24/7, 365 days of the year. You can buy original art, limited edition prints, zines, books, badges, T-shirts and more at prices that I have chosen in the hope of keeping things affordable whilst still earning a living.

..:: VISIT MY SHOP HERE ::.

4. Open Studio - 18th April 2026

My first open studio of 2026 takes place on Saturday 18th April. I love these days as they are a chance not only to meet people, but to invite them into my world.

This April event is part of the Koppel Kingston Open Studios, so not only will you be able to come and see me in Studio Two, you will also be able to visit a number of other artists based in the building.

I’ll have lots of original art to see, my little pop-up shop, badge making, zine making, or you can just come along to chat and hang out.

There’s no need to book and I’ll be there all day, but if you would like more information just drop me an email at stevexoh@gmail.com

..:: OPEN STUDIO INFO HERE ::.

5. Workshops

A few different workshops coming up that you might be interested in.

Mask Workshop
10th July 2026
Bloomsbury, London
£145 + VAT. Limited to 10 attendees.

If you like what you read about masks issue #6 then is the workshop for you. It is my absolute favourite workshop to run. A day of using masks to explore parts of our personality that we have lost touch with or didn’t know existed. We will spend the morning getting to know different masks and the afternoon putting them in different playful and bizarre scenarios and situations.

Previous participants say:

“Simply the best workshop ever.”
“Possibly the most liberating experience you might ever have.”
“I’ll never forget the bits of me I met for the first time at the mask workshop.”
“Very weird. In a very, very good way.”
“A truly magical experience”
“It is like going home with a bunch of new friends inside yourself!”

To keep it playful and intimate the workshop is limited to just 10 places so if you’d like to come along the grab a place ASAP as they sell out quickly.

..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.

Paper cutting with Stevexoh
28th March 2026
Studio Two, Kingston-upon-Thames, KT1 1PH
Tickets: £10-£20 Limited to 16 attendees.

I’ve been wanting to run a workshop at my studio since I moved in and have only just got around to setting one up.

This two hour workshop invites you to play with paper cutting and ideas of negative space, imperfection and seeing the world through an inverted lens - noticing the wonderful emptiness created by shapes.

You need no previous experience and experienced paper cutters are also welcome to immerse themselves in this almost meditative practice. We will mainly work in the studio space but will venture out briefly to take inspiration from the sights, sounds and smells of Kingston-upon-Thames to help us imagine our final piece.

All materials are provided and you will get to take your final piece home with you.

..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.

Super Secret Musical Improv (SSMI XLI)
8th May 2026
Waterloo, London
£95. Limited to 16 attendees.

SSMIs happen at various times in the year they are an opportunity to come together with a curious, friendly and supportive bunch of people and improvise songs, scenes and musicals. No previous experience is necessary, nor is any ability to sing, improvise or be funny. In fact, any of the above can prove a disadvantage.

Previous participants have described these sessions as “life enhancing”, “beautiful” and “I need SSMI like I need to breathe.”

.:: FIND OUT MORE HERE ::.

6. Support my work

Here’s a photo of a giant guinea pig DJ’ing at a recent local community festival to encourage you to scroll to the end of this Substack. I took this photo at the annual Seething Festival in Surbiton - a brilliantly weird community gathering that centres around local folklore in order to preserve the tradition of oral storytelling and how important it is in the community. (I mention the history of Seething Wells in the last issue of this Substack.) That said, I have absolutely no idea of the relevance of the giant guinea pig to any of this but I see it annually at this event. (And at the annual Sardine Festival).

I want this Substack to be free and accessible for everyone irrelevant of financial means (the podcast version too) and this is an important principle in much of my work. When I do charge for things, like art or workshops or events, I strive to do so in a way that doesn’t exclude those who do not have the financial means to participate.

So, when people do support my work financially it means so much and helps me continue to work in this way. If you can afford to do so you can support my work in a number of ways, be that buying me a coffee from £1, buying some art from my shop, becoming a patron of my studio or becoming a paid subscriber to this Substack. (And if you can’t afford it then I absolutely love you getting this for free.)

1. Buy some art from my shop. I have a big selection of prints, original art, books, badges, t-shirts, posters and more.
   .:: VISIT MY SHOP HERE ::.
   

2. Become a patron of my studio. For a one-off donation of your choice you become an official patron with a badge, a certificate, a behind the scenes blog and your name added to the scroll of honour in the window of the studio.
   .:: BECOME A PATRON HERE ::.
   

3. Buy me a coffee. Like a tip jar.
   .:: BUY ME A COFFEE HERE::.
   

4. Become a paid subscriber of this Substack. I didn’t even know this was an option until a few people spontaneously did it! You don’t get any extra content or anything but you do get my eternal gratitude!

   .:: BECOME A PAID SUBSTACK SUBSCRIBER HERE ::.

• I realised that walking the Thames towpath is like reading a book about the river, with the space between bridges being unique chapters and stories in their own right.

• RAMBLINGS: I reflect on the nature of boredom as a shift in our relationship with time and suggest that these are experiences to be curious about, rather than avoided.

• ARTICLE: A piece of my art was modified and re-shared on Instagram without my permission and led me to reflect on the difference between meme culture and art culture.

• BUY: Get hold of a copy of my (now viral) 10 Year plan in a variety of forms.

• PODCAST: Jim the Podcast Sherpa invited me onto his crazy podcast about podcasts to talk about my podcast!

• WORKSHOP: Masks - 20th March 2026.

• WORKSHOP: Super Secret Musical Improv (SSMI XLI) - 8th May 2026.

• A lovely photo of Poppy the dog at an eerie ruined abbey to encourage you to scroll to the end of the Substack and read about how you can financially support my work by Buying stuff in my shop, becoming a patron of my studio, become a paid subscriber or buying me a coffee (tip jar).

PODCAST VERSION OF THIS ISSUE

1. Hello

I recently decided to walk from Fulham to my studio in Kingston along the Thames towpath. It took me just under four hours to cover nearly 23km. As I hadn’t planned to do this and didn’t have the appropriate footwear, I had blisters for two days afterwards. I’d never normally consider such a walk, especially with the plethora of tubes, trains and buses available in London that get me home much quicker. But despite the cold and the rain, the thing that made the idea of this walk utterly irresistible was the river.

I never intended to live by the Thames. I had been house-sitting for almost a year and was getting ready to go and live on Ocracoke Island for a month when I was told I needed to vacate my current house-sit. It was very thoughtful that my landlord gave me two months’ notice but, as I was about to leave the UK for four weeks, it meant I had to find somewhere to live urgently. In the end, I took the first flat I could find in the area that was within my budget and, on the day I returned from Ocracoke, picked up the keys and have lived there ever since.

It’s strange thinking that, even though I knew the River Thames was nearby, I had never imagined it becoming such an important part of my new neighbourhood. Over the weeks and months of getting used to living in the area, I spent more and more time by the river. It became a place that I would go to when I felt I needed soothing, holding or simply to be close to nature. In the summer of 2023, the grassy banks between Surbiton and Kingston became my studio. At least once or twice a week, I would head there with a rug, some pens and some paints and just sit and make stuff. Much of the time I would paint sticks and give them, for free, to any passers-by who wanted one. I discovered that this was a wonderful way of meeting local people and starting to feel part of the community. As well as getting to know individuals, I made some connections that led to collaborations and securing a regular stall at the local farmers’ market. Many of the people I met by the river went on to become patrons of my studio, helping me transition to an indoor space to make art.

I’ve always been fascinated by the Thames. Even though I have lived in and around London for a very long time, I never get bored of it. Over the years I have done a number of long Thames walks, the longest being in the summer of 2025 when I walked 58,000 steps from Surbiton to Tower Bridge. On this recent walk I realised that what fascinates and engages me so much on these adventures is the sense that the river is telling a story as I make my way along its banks. Each stretch of the towpath between bridges becomes a distinct chapter that brings both continuity and novelty to the story. The stretch between Southwark Bridge and Blackfriars Bridge is about cosmopolitan art and culture and the chasm between elitist art and street art. Between Waterloo and Westminster the story is of soil buried beneath layers of concrete laid over generations, now nurturing the growth of commerce and the anonymous bustle of city life. The story between Kew and Richmond is of green spaces, trees, and urban wildlife finding space to breathe as the city continues to spread and grow in every direction.

Even along the same stretch of path, the Thames tells a subtly different story on each walk. The ever-changing tide reveals or conceals storylines, exposing different layers of the river’s past. The recognisable form of the Thames was likely carved during the Anglian Glaciation around 450,000 years ago, and there is evidence of human settlement along its banks dating back as far as 10,000 years, which means these stories are simultaneously modern, old, and ancient.

I am always a little disappointed that the southern towpath ends at Surbiton, but that in itself is an interesting part of the story. This area is known as Seething Wells, a name that arose from a gradual corruption of Siden Wells, an area marked on 18th-century maps as being the site of a medicinal spring. The towpath likely became inaccessible when a Victorian waterworks was built in the 1850s. The newly constructed Lambeth Waterworks Company’s site at Seething Wells was part of public health reforms that moved London’s water supply upstream from the polluted tidal Thames, amid growing concern about cholera in the city. (Seething Wells played an important role in Dr John Snow’s research, which helped demonstrate that cholera was spread through contaminated water.)

The waterworks were eventually closed in the 1980s, but the vast and strangely beautiful empty filter beds remain. They now tell a new story of an ongoing battle between those who want to preserve them as a haven for riverside wildlife and those who want to concrete over the site to build a huge complex of offices. It is this current chapter of the Thames’s story that moved me to create my little “Creatures of Seething” tile trail along the towpath, to invite people to bring to mind the diversity of wildlife that calls this place their home. My own piece of marginalia in the storybook of the river Thames.

The existential importance of being bored
My relationship with time seems to have shifted in 2026. As I look back over the last few years, my enduring memories are of moments where time dragged and of desperately finding ways to kill it. This wasn’t all the time. There were, of course, moments of immersion and flow, in which I would be so absorbed and fascinated that the passing of minutes and hours didn’t even register as a conscious thought. But they seemed to be becoming more fleeting and precious, so much so that I found myself trying to seek them out or manufacture them, which I soon learned is a guaranteed way to make them not happen. I’ve always thought that you can’t consciously enter flow, just as you can’t know you’ve been in flow until you’re no longer there. The very act of pausing, noticing and saying to myself “Oh, I’m in flow” means that I’m already out of it.

My best selling T-shirt is one with an ominous blue cat emblazoned with the words “I AM VERY BORED.” I made this painting in one of those restless moments where I found myself sitting in my studio, terribly bored and trying to find ways to kill time and make the day pass more quickly. Inspired by the Buddhist philosophy that “the obstacle is the path” I decided that rather than try to escape my boredom, I should love it so much that I paint it. Two hours later I realised that by moving towards my boredom I had transformed it into a wonderful creative flow state and accidentally come up with a great T-shirt design.

I have had a close relationship with boredom since I was a kid. I think it all started at secondary school, when I suddenly found myself in situations where I genuinely had no interest or fascination in the experience. Prior to this, I had always found ways to let my imagination run wild. At primary school I had been rewarded for such creativity, but secondary school was a totally different experience. I would try really hard to be a good student and concentrate and do my best, but I found it impossible to manufacture interest on demand. A few years ago I was rooting through my parents’ loft and found an old school report from when I was about 14 or 15 years old. I found it fascinating to read.

I remember cringing on report days, knowing that, other than maybe an B for effort in art, it wouldn’t be a glowing appraisal of my abilities. My parents wanted the best for me and would conclude from these remarks that I just wasn’t trying hard enough, even though my experience was that I was absolutely doing the best I could. It was only when I re-read these reports later in life that I realised that, for the vast majority of the seven years I was at secondary school, I was totally and utterly bored.

I’m fascinated by boredom and why it’s regarded as such a negative thing. I find it strange that, in school at least, the responsibility for managing it seems to be placed solely on the student. And why is saying “I am bored” as an adult such a taboo, or regarded as rude or childish? At least as an adult I have more agency to remove myself from situations in which I feel bored. At school this wasn’t an option. If I followed my instincts and did something different, like doodling or getting up to leave the classroom, I would be told that my lack of interest was putting my entire future in jeopardy.

The only bits of school I remember being interesting were the bits in between lessons. I remember creating a school radio station in a cupboard with my friends, a great idea until we realised that we wouldn’t be able to broadcast much because we had to be in lessons. I remember making a swing out of a chair and some rope tied to a support beam, and pushing a friend on it so high that his feet went through the polystyrene ceiling tiles. Occasionally a lesson would become momentarily interesting, like the time in an A-level law lesson when a budgie flew into the classroom through an open window. (It is a long story as to why I ended up accidentally doing A-level law. The summary being that it didn’t turn out to be as exciting as I had imagined and I graduated with a grade U.)

The German philosopher Martin Heidegger coined the term Dasein to describe the human way of existing - a form of life that knows it exists and relates to the world as something to be fully lived and in which meaning can arise. Heidegger explored the concept of boredom through the lens of Dasein and suggested that it is an experience in which our relationship with time alters. When we are absorbed in flow, finding meaning in the here and now, time is no longer at the forefront of our experience but quietly recedes into the shadows. But when we experience boredom, time becomes loud and visible. It becomes figural in our awareness, pulling focus away from our here and now experience. This shift in attention causes us to experience time as faltering, suffocating and devoid of meaning, as if the mysteries of the world have suddenly stopped offering themselves to us.

I’m not a fan of our human obsession with purpose. I don’t understand why it feels so important to try and pin down and define something that feels much more exciting when allowed to remain open and amorphous. I find it far more helpful to pay attention to meaning. When I find meaning in something, I feel in a state of flow, fully present and fulfilled. My relationship with time feels symbiotic, and I experience a sense of synchronicity and connection within myself and with my environment. The concept of purpose feels like it excludes more than it defines. Focusing on purpose means we may not notice the wonderful invitations to make meaning that dance on the edges of our awareness. I have found as much meaning in moments of creating art, writing this Substack and being a parent as I have in watching the waves, learning about eels or tidying my flat.

I have found more of those moments of meaning in the first month of 2026 than usual. Moments when I suddenly realise hours have passed because I have been so absorbed in something. What I find fascinating is that nothing has really changed externally - I live in the same flat, participate in the same activities, visit the same places. And while I still have moments of boredom, or feel restless and frustrated, I realise that these are moments when my relationship with time has shifted for reasons that are, in themselves, fascinating and worthy of reflection.

2. Memes vs. Art

I drew this at 9am on January 1st 2020 in response to feeling rather overwhelmed at the thought of a new decade and wondering how on earth I could summon the energy to get through it. It went on to become one of my best-selling prints, especially once lockdown hit a few months later and the flow chart became an important psychological anchor for people over the two years that followed.

It was a very strange and discombobulating time but I was pleased that my anxious doodle ended up bringing hope and amusement to many people. One thing I notice, reflecting back on lockdown, is that my relationship with Instagram was different back then. From 2020 to 2023 I adored it. I loved that this simple app meant I could make some art, upload it, and people across the world could see it. I started my What the February?! annual challenge on Instagram around the same time, which made the platform feel even more like a place where I could connect with a wonderful and supportive community around the world.

But as many independent creators will tell you, the platform has changed significantly since then. Even though I have more followers now than I did back in 2020, fewer people see my work. The platform now prioritises video over still images and human faces over abstract artwork. Maybe to my detriment, I refuse to play the game of changing what I do simply to satisfy an algorithm whose motivation is to keep people distracted long enough to make money from advertising. Over the six years since I posted that doodle, I have totally fallen out of love with Instagram.

I have always strived to only post new things that I have made, but in January 2026 I thought to myself “I am done with Instagram” and, as an act of resignation, I re-posted the 10 Year Plan. I had anticipated that even fewer people would engage with something old, so I was utterly surprised when it very rapidly went viral. Within a week the post had amassed over one million views and thousands of shares. It was as if Instagram knew what I was thinking and decided, as a one-off, to bring my work to a huge new audience, which I begrudgingly appreciated, especially as it led to increased sales of the print in my shop.

But one re-share of my artwork caught my eye. It was my 10 Year Plan but it had been altered using an imperfect copy of my handwriting to make it all about fitness and working out. What was more alarming was that my signature had been removed from the piece and replaced with the tag of a fitness influencer with 100,000 followers. My brow furrowed when I saw this. I have had my signature removed from things in the past, which isn’t great, but is all part of the rich mix of sharing stuff online. But the fact that the image had been altered and somebody else’s details added didn’t sit right with me.

What confused me though, was that the creator had tagged me with a comment that said “Inspo by @stevexoh”, which felt like they were trying to acknowledge their source, so I decided to let it go. But that night it kept playing on my mind. This was my work, and somebody had plagiarised it in order to appeal to their already substantial audience and grow their following.

I decided to practise being assertive and added a comment to the post, saying “Hmm. It would have been nice to be asked for permission before you posted this unauthorised collab!” A number of my followers also added comments, calling out the lack of ethics and artistic integrity in repurposing my work in this way. (I very quickly requested that this was done in a way that was assertive but also kind - comment on the act, not the person.) After a day or so, the post was suddenly removed and I received a very apologetic DM from the creator, who said they had clearly misjudged the post, made a mistake and thanked me for being kind in pointing this out. I replied that it really wasn’t a problem and explained my perspective as a professional artist. It felt like the situation was resolved in a mutually adult way.

But the thing that really struck me about the exchange of messages was when the creator said, “I loved your meme and meant to showcase it with credit, not cause any disrespect.” My immediate thought was that this clearly isn’t a meme - it is art. But then I stopped and realised what had happened. Two people, one from the world of meme culture and the other from the world of art, had suddenly collided.

I realised that this is exactly how meme culture works. Nobody pauses to research the origins of a meme - it is opened, laughed at, and forwarded. Memes have become culturally regarded as open-source images that can be modified and passed on, becoming their own variations. It is rare that the originator of the image is known, so even rarer that somebody would think of crediting them. And that’s what the 10 Year “fitness” plan poster had gone out of their way to do, which explains why they were so shaken by my reaction and that of my followers. They had tried to do the right thing by crediting me in a comment as they shared their own remix of my work. In the art world this is regarded as unethical and unacceptable, but within meme culture this is actually more considerate than the norm.

I have found this whole experience fascinating. The viral nature of my 10 Year Plan protest re-post plunged my work into a world where the norms and practices were different from what I was used to. It has made me wonder about the real difference between art and memes. If I put aside my own biases, I’m left wondering what actually separates them. After all, all art is theft at some level. Everything is a remix of everything else. And whilst I don’t agree with what happened, I am genuinely curious about the norms in these two worlds and how they might co-exist. As meme culture continues to grow and expand, what does this mean for artists who simply want to share their work and be credited for the time, effort and experience they poured into it?

3. Ten Year Plan - buy one!

Given that I’ve just written about the 10 Year Plan it would be silly to not use this section to remind you that you can buy one, in a variety of forms, from my online shop.

A4 limited edition art silk print: This is the original look and feel and a lovely 290gsm signed and numbered print.

A5 limited edition mini prints: A smaller version available in six colours each signed and numbered on 285gsm matt paper.

A6 greetings card. The smallest version on a glossy card with envelope.

.:: VISIT MY SHOP HERE ::.

4. Podcast interview

I came across Jim the podcast Sherpa and was fascinated by the crazy imaginative world he has weaved around his show where he talks about podcasts from around the world.

Jim's story is that he was kidnapped by microphones and taken to a cabin, atop Mount Podcastia where he now gazes out across the world spotting new podcasts to talk about. This story enchanted me enough to e-mail Jim and tell him about "Creative Adventures - An accidental Podcast".

Not only did Jim enjoy it, he invited me onto his show to talk about it and we had an energetic and meandering chat about everything from silence, creativity, following a thread and much more.

You can listen to the interview on all podcast platforms.

.:: Apple ::.
.:: Spotify ::.
.:: ACAST ::.

5. Workshops

A couple of workshops coming up that you might be interested in.

Mask Workshop
20th March 2026
Bloomsbury, London
£135 + VAT. Limited to 10 attendees.

If you like what you read about masks issue #6 then is the workshop for you. It is my absolute favourite workshop to run. A day of using masks to explore parts of our personality that we have lost touch with or didn’t know existed. We will spend the morning getting to know different masks and the afternoon putting them in different playful and bizarre scenarios and situations.

Previous participants say:

“Simply the best workshop ever.”
“Possibly the most liberating experience you might ever have.”
“I’ll never forget the bits of me I met for the first time at the mask workshop.”
“Very weird. In a very, very good way.”
“A truly magical experience”
“It is like going home with a bunch of new friends inside yourself!”

To keep it playful and intimate the workshop is limited to just 10 places so if you’d like to come along the grab a place ASAP as they sell out quickly.

..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.

Super Secret Musical Improv (SSMI XLI)
8th May 2026
Waterloo, London
£95. Limited to 16 attendees.

SSMIs happen at various times in the year they are an opportunity to come together with a curious, friendly and supportive bunch of people and improvise songs, scenes and musicals. No previous experience is necessary, nor is any ability to sing, improvise or be funny. In fact, any of the above can prove a disadvantage.

Previous participants have described these sessions as “life enhancing”, “beautiful” and “I need SSMI like I need to breathe.”

.:: FIND OUT MORE HERE ::.

6. Support my work

I often mention Poppy the dog in this Substack, but I don’t think I’ve ever included a picture of her. We’ve had a lot of adventures over the 10 years she has been in my life. This is a photo of when we visited the ruins of Waverley Abbey in Surrey (a place that also is home to the most amazing Ewe tree). I love this photo as she looks simultaneously like she is shouting with joy, totally bored or is screaming, terrified by the eerie, crumbling ruins around her.

I want this Substack to be free and accessible for everyone irrelevant of financial means (the podcast version too) and this is an important principle in much of my work. When I do charge for things, like art or workshops or events, I strive to do so in a way that doesn’t exclude those who do not have the financial means to participate.

So, when people do support my work financially it means so much and helps me continue to work in this way. If you can afford to do so you can support my work in a number of ways, be that buying me a coffee from £1, buying some art from my shop, becoming a patron of my studio or becoming a paid subscriber to this Substack. (And if you can’t afford it then I absolutely love you getting this for free.)

1. Buy some art from my shop. I have a big selection of prints, original art, books, badges, t-shirts, posters and more.
   .:: VISIT MY SHOP HERE ::.
   

2. Become a patron of my studio. For a one-off donation of your choice you become an official patron with a badge, a certificate, a behind the scenes blog and your name added to the scroll of honour in the window of the studio.
   .:: BECOME A PATRON HERE ::.
   

3. Buy me a coffee. Like a tip jar.
   .:: BUY ME A COFFEE HERE::.
   

4. Become a paid subscriber of this Substack. I didn’t even know this was an option until a few people spontaneously did it! You don’t get any extra content or anything but you do get my eternal gratitude!

   .:: BECOME A PAID SUBSTACK SUBSCRIBER HERE ::.

• Hearing a Pavement song, whilst running, triggered a chain of thought about “normal” being excruciatingly grey and got me unstuck in writing this issue.

• RAMBLINGS: Eels. Are. Cool.

• ARTICLE: I have always been drawn to the outsider and reflect on what it is about the passionate, unconventional weirdo that I find so alluring.

• BUY: I’ve put all of the little zines I’ve been making in my shop and you can now buy them in a variety of colours with a sweet little envelope. Buy some here.

• WORKSHOP: Masks - 20th March 2026.

• WORKSHOP: Super Secret Musical Improv (SSMI XLI) - 24th April 2026.

• A beautiful photo of Crow sitting on my lap at twilight to encourage you to scroll to the end of the Substack and read about how you can financially support my work by Buying stuff in my shop, becoming a patron of my studio, become a paid subscriber or buying me a coffee (tip jar).

PODCAST VERSION OF THIS ISSUE

1. Hello

I always listen to the same music when I run. On shorter runs I listen to my Liked Songs on shuffle, but on longer runs I have specific music for specific routes. I’m not sure why I do this, but I imagine it has something to do with the comfort of the music synchronising with particular locations. Over time, each bend, turn, or landmark becomes associated with a specific song or lyric, which seems to work as both a motivational boost and a navigation aid.

My current long run begins outside my flat, heads south-west through residential roads, leads out onto the southern bank of the Thames, crosses Hampton Court Bridge, follows the north bank to Kingston, and then loops back to where I began. My chosen music for this specific run is Pavement’s “Live Europeaturnén MCMXCVII” album. I can’t remember why this album ended up being paired with this route but, over the last year, they have become inseparable. I know that the Geddy Lee line in “Stereo” should be playing as I pass the hairdressers in Thames Ditton, the opening bars of “Stop Breathing” play as I begin the first part of the northern Thames towpath and if I make it to Kingston Bridge before “Range Life” has finished then I know that I have run a good time.

Running has become a very important thing for me. There are of course significant physical benefits to this, but the main reason that I do it is to support my own mental health. Often I feel a tension in my body or a horrible stuckness in my brain and running seems to shake all of this up in a way that allows me to access a more regulated and grounded state. Running also seems to help me find me a way out of creative stuckness. There is a point in each run where I suddenly seem to have access to a previously obscured plethora of creative ideas and abstract thoughts. If I’m stuck writing a talk or designing a workshop, I’ll often go for a run, knowing that by the time I get back I’ll have ideas, or at least that the stuckness will have loosened a little. Big, immersive projects like Sound of Silence (the world’s first silent podcast featuring special guests) emerged in this way. I have also found that running helps immensely when writing this Substack.

I’ve noticed that I go through a repeated emotional journey in writing these pieces that goes something like this:

1. “I really loved that last edition.” [Satisfaction]

2. “I don’t think I can write anything new that will be as good.” [Despondent]

3. “Oooh. I’ve suddenly had some ideas of what to write about.” [Excitement and flow]

4. I spend a few hours writing and then step back and think “Gah! this is rubbish. I can’t do it.” [Deeper despondency and self doubt]

5. I walk away and forget about it and hope nobody will notice if I never write again. [Give up]

6. I come back to it after about a week or so and, on revisiting it, think, “Actually, I quite like this” and see a way to tweak it to fall in love with it. [Excitement/flow]

7. I finish it, record the podcast version and send it out into the world.[Excitement and sense of achievement]

8. Go back to step 1

It is a frustrating process and, while it is somewhat helpful to realise that it is cyclical and that each stage eventually resolves itself, that is little consolation when I am in the despondent stages and thinking, “But this time there really isn’t any way out of this.”

I’ve come to use running as a way to help me through steps 4-6. Often, when I return from a run, I’ll re-read what I’ve written and start to see a form or a few threads that I like and want to develop further. Sometimes the flow state of running connects me with new ideas or themes that I want to explore. Very occasionally, the music I’m listening to directly inspires something.

This is rare, because listening to the same music on every run means there’s unlikely to be anything I haven’t already noticed. But on a recent run I heard a lyric in Pavement’s “Type Slowly” that completely unlocked the flow I needed to start writing this issue.

“People of the bay - it’s excruciatingly grey”
Stephen Malkmus, 1997

I felt quite depleted by the end of 2025 for various reasons. Emotionally heavy, bored, restless and frustrated. It felt like all the things that used to spark and ignite me no longer did and I was hungry for something without knowing what was missing. I realised that various circumstances, some beyond my control and some self-imposed, had constrained me, cutting me off from the kind of wanton fascination and experimentation that brings me to life. I also realised that December and the festive period had somehow channelled me into a way of living that felt far too '“normal” for me.

Hearing that lyric, whilst in the flow state of running, helped me put words to something I already intuitively knew: that “normal” feels excruciatingly grey to me. This might explain, in a strangely reassuring way, why my life has unfolded with as little “normal” as possible in it. Malkmus’s words, likely written about his experience of everyday San Francisco life, helped me realise that when I feel this deep frustration, boredom, and restlessness, there simply isn’t enough random, iridescent colour in my day-to-day.

Paul Watzlavick’s work about patterns of stuckness has been a big influence on me. Watzlawick describes these patterns as things that we instinctively reach for in order to resolve a situation, but which end up making it even more stuck. I like to refer to these as ever tightening loops of common sense, where we rely on the patterns of the past to help us escape from the patterns of the past. My rule of thumb for breaking out of a stuck pattern is to move towards the counter-intuitive, the nonsensical, the strange.

When everything feels excruciatingly grey, my default response can be to search for a better shade of grey. But without contrast, even grey loses its meaning. I’ve learnt that the way out of this stuckness is not to look for a less excruciating version of the same thing but to seek, or at least be open to, experiences and experiments that introduce a colour that doesn’t make much sense in my current day-to-day palette.

Eels
I found myself tumbling down a fascinating eel rabbit hole recently and realised how much I love these experiences: rare moments when something spontaneously piques my interest so deeply that I can’t help but seek out more information to satisfy a particularly strong flavour of curiosity. I think I’ve been like this since I was a kid and I remember being obsessively into things as diverse as sharks and London buses at different ages. More recently, I’ve noticed that these fascinations tend to focus on creatures, usually ones that are misunderstood, shrouded in mystery, or just very, very weird. (This Substack is a great paper trail of some of my creaturely obsessions: Issue 4 = crabs, Issue 5 = salema porgy, Issue 6 = crows.)

I’ve always found eels interesting. I have a vivid memory of going fishing with my dad as a child, watching him accidentally catch one and seeing it wriggle and wrap itself around his hand as he tried to get it off the hook. I also remember my mind being blown later in life by discovering that all European Eels, the ones we find in UK rivers, are born in the Sargasso Sea - a strange expanse of water in the North Atlantic. But although I was interested, this information alone wasn’t enough to ignite an obsession. That changed when I started reading Late Light by Michael Malay, a book I’d been given because of my interest in creatures. Reading isn’t my forte for many reasons, but I found myself enjoying the first chapter in which Malay describes coming to the UK and becoming fascinated by things I take for granted having lived here all my life: species of trees, indigenous birds, cultural customs, and so on. But when he mentioned that the subsequent chapters would be dedicated to four creatures he’d become obsessed with, another part of my brain came online.

The first of these chapters was simply entitled ‘Eels’. Seeing it written in bold in the middle of the page made me realise that I even love the way the word eel looks, as it resembles a creature in its own right. But it was reading Michael’s accounts of waiting at the mouth of the River Severn, at night, for the glass eels to arrive from the Sargasso Sea that I became captivated. He went on to explain that these juvenile eels arrive with no predetermined biological sex and that it is only decided once they reach fresh water and spend time in their new habitat.

But the bit that really hooked me, like an eel, was learning that nobody knows where eels come from. Nobody has ever witnessed an eel mating. They simply drift up from the depths as weird, translucent, leaf-shaped organisms, emerging from the same dark and mysterious place that the adult silver eels descend to in order to mate and then die. (Having completed a 3,000-mile journey, metabolising their own bodies after giving up eating once they reached maturity!)

I love the mystery of eels. I especially love that with all of our human knowledge, technology and communication that we still don’t know where these little snake-like fish come from. It feels important to me to maintain an element of mystery in my life. To allow things to be unknown, unfinished and unresolved - including my knowledge of myself. For me it feels imperative that I remain somewhat of a mystery to me, even though this can be frustrating or overwhelming at times.

Mystery gives birth to wonder in the same way that the dark depths of the Sargasso Sea gives birth to eels. We don’t know how or why they float up from the darkness, but they do.

(I made a little zine entitled “Eels are cool” containing some of these facts.)

2. Outsiders welcome

At 18 I was working in a factory, something I can romanticise in my memory but which, on reflection, I actually found really hard. I didn’t particularly mind the manual labour or the shift work. In fact, working with big, expensive, high-tech machines felt like an upgrade from the run-down salad-packing factory I’d worked in previously.

What I struggled with was trying to fit into the factory culture. The people I worked with were almost exclusively men who were older than me, some by only a few years, others by a much larger margin. I was quite happy interacting with the machines and drawing cartoons during breaks, whereas my colleagues would chat, read the newspaper, or do crosswords. (Most of the machines only needed human intervention if something went wrong, or once they reached a certain point in their process.)

But often I’d find myself thrown into a conversation that I not only didn’t want to be part of, but didn’t know how to participate in. I felt awkward and embarrassed when my colleagues launched into noisy banter, boasting about the exploits of their weekends, while I stood on the sidelines smiling every now and then and hoping nobody would ask me a question. Even though I liked playing football, I had absolutely zero interest in talking about it. And as a much younger, skinny, tall lad with long hair and an interest in weird alternative music, I was often the subject of a gentle ribbing - something I could never quite work out as being playful and good-natured or more aggressive, closer to bullying. But I survived by keeping my head down and getting really good at running all the machines so that at least the supervisors would give me an easier time.

I had few friends at the factory, which didn’t bother me too much, as escaping human interaction felt much more desirable. But one summer a young Irish lad called Brendan came to work in our department during his break from university in Dublin. Brendan and I immediately hit it off. He was also a bit weird, had long hair and, as I was soon to discover, a brilliantly alternative taste in music. We would talk about The Velvet Underground, My Bloody Valentine, and Spacemen 3, all to the backdrop of bemusement or the occasional bit of piss-taking from our older colleagues.

On the day Brendan left to go back to uni, he presented me with a mixtape he’d titled “Various Savouries”. I thanked him and, at the end of my shift, excitedly put it into the tape player of my battered old VW Polo. From that point on, everything changed. That little C90 cassette blew my mind. It introduced me to songs, bands, and musicians that I still listen to and would list among my favourite artists. (Including Pavement, who would end up getting me unstuck enough to write this blog many years later).

But there was one song on the tape that stopped me in my tracks. It started with a weird recording of a kid’s toy saying “This is a pig. Do you hear the frog?”, followed by a strange, ghostly, childlike voice asking, “Hi, how are you?” What followed was three and a half minutes of music that I couldn’t work out was either the best thing I’d ever heard or the worst. What made it even more of a mystery was that I’d already lost the inlay card for the cassette, and with no emails or social media in the early 90s, the only way to contact Brendan was by letter. Later that week I wrote to him, begging him to tell me who the track was by. While I waited for a reply I became obsessed with the song, playing it over and over again. I played it to some of my music-loving friends to see if they recognised it, but they unhelpfully suggested that it was so weird that maybe Brendan had recorded it in his bedroom as a joke.

Eventually I received a letter with a Dublin postmark and excitedly opened it to discover that the mystery song was “Walking the cow” by Daniel Johnston, a singer-songwriter from Texas. Brendan went on to tell me that Daniel had somewhat of a cult following due to his unusual low-fi style. In fact, when he created his early albums he had no means of reproducing them so used to play them over and over again for each recording. Brendan also told me about Daniel’s shadow side. His demons. That he was diagnosed with schizophrenia, plagued by paranoid thoughts and an obsession with the devil. That he had been arrested a number of times, caused his father’s plane to crash, and spent time in a psychiatric institution. And it was on hearing this that I fell in love with Daniel. A beautiful misfit of a creature who seemed unconventional and unpredictable, but who made such incredibly raw and uncompromising music that it hit deep in my heart.

My interest in outsiders began with Daniel but went on to include other musicians.

Lucia Pamela — a woman born in 1904 who lived a seemingly unremarkable working life but built her own instruments to create soundscape worlds she sang over in a bright, enthusiastic, child-like voice. (Including an album about living on the moon.)

Wesley Willis - a Chicago street musician born in 1963 who lived much of his life on the margins of society but created hundreds of surreal songs over simple keyboard rhythms, delivered in a gruff, monotone voice and punctuated by random bits of product placement. (He was also known for greeting people with a headbutt, leaving him with a distinctive permanent mark on his forehead.)

And The Shaggs - a teenage sister band from New Hampshire, formed in the late 1960s, who recorded raw, naïve songs with strange rhythms and wonky timing that later earned them cult status as outsider musicians. (The band was formed following a prophecy from a mysterious fortune teller, made to their grandfather, predicting they would become a famous musical group.)

(I must also give honourable mentions to The Legendary Stardust Cowboy, Connie Converse and Shooby Taylor.)

The world of visual outsider artists also opened up to me, introducing me to a host of singular, self-taught artists such as Bill Traylor, Aloïse Corbaz and Howard Finster, whose imperfect, unpolished and raw work moved me to make more of my own weird and wonky art. I began to realise that my practice would develop in a way that was more aligned with who I am and what is important to me by turning to the outsider for inspiration, not the expert. This became a philosophy that has since shaped all of my work whether visual art, music, talks, or writing.

I’ve often wondered what it is that attracts me to the brilliant and often tortured weirdo. (I use this term with great love and affection.) Part of it is maybe that I see something of myself in them in a way that I’m not totally conscious of. I’ve never really felt that I fitted in anywhere, and I just make art for me because it helps me make sense of myself, the world, and my place in it. I also actively avoid being part of a “thing”, or a club, or a movement, and I have an allergic reaction to labels. (See issue 4.)

But I think there is more to it than that. When I encounter work that comes from the raw self-expression of an outsider artist, in whatever medium they work in, I feel it in my body. I will often see a piece of work and experience a visceral attraction and I’m not entirely sure why. Like hearing Daniel’s music for the first time: I loved it and I had absolutely no idea why. It is as if the rawness, naivety and uncensored, spontaneous self-expression of the artist seeps into me, stimulating awe and wonder.

I feel I must emphasise something at this point that is very important to me whenever I talk about outsider artists. I am always keen to make very clear that I’m not engaging with their work as some sort of weird spectacle or freaky side-show. I genuinely adore it, am moved by it, am fascinated by it and I want to fight a corner for these artists in whatever way I can. I also appreciate that their marginalisation is often their day-to-day life experience and not some romantic artistic ideal. They exist on the edges due to circumstance, not choice, and that reality inevitably shapes the texture, tone and rawness of their work.

I feel sad, frustrated, and angry when I see the work of an outsider squashed or rejected by experts, or by society in general, simply because it is different or challenging. Videos of The Legendary Stardust Cowboy getting mocked on a US variety show or of Shooby Taylor being booed off stage at The Apollo in New York, show how big budgets and huge audiences can be used to mock and humiliate those who are doing something brilliantly different from the mainstream. The same dynamic exists today in programmes like The X Factor, which often include a “token outsider” in each episode who is there less to be heard than to be humiliated for comedy effect. I cannot help but wonder if all of this arises from a fear of the unknown and of anything that might challenge our fixed beliefs about who we are and what it means to be a creative human.

(It is worth adding that Shooby Taylor later said about the Apollo incident: “I was hurt, very hurt because I got booed off…I figured, ‘Oh, I did it wrong.’ But after months and months of thinking about it, I said, ‘I did it the way how I wanted to do it!’)

There are many ways the outsider influences and inspires me, but I think the most vivid is witnessing what becomes possible when someone gives themself unbridled permission to be uncompromising in their artistic expression. To make, or perform, or sing, or write, or move simply because this thing needs to get outside of you. You don’t have time to wait, or to train, or to refine and perfect. The process is more important than the performance, so at a deep level it really doesn’t matter what others think of it.

I strive to make art in this way. It is just for me. I simply need to get it out of me in a way that might bring catharsis or meaning or help me truly understand what is going on in my inner world. And this isn’t always easy. I occasionally watch Daniel Johnston’s first-ever TV performance before I play an open mic, to remind myself of all of this. But mainly it reminds me how hard I can find it and makes me admire and appreciate the outsiders who seemingly find unconventional ways of doing this so naturally.

3. Little zines

I love the process of creating zines. Making a little book by folding paper and then using the 8 pages as a constrained canvas to tell a story. I think of zines a bit like haiku - the constraint forces a different type of creative expression.

I’ll normally have a few zines with me when I’m out to give to people as they are a great way of cutting through the social awkwardness and much more exciting than a business card.

And I’ve finally got round to adding some of them to my shop in a variety of different colours and designs, each coming with a sweet little hand-written envelope.

.:: GET ONE HERE ::.

4. Workshops

A couple of workshops coming up that you might be interested in.

Mask Workshop
20th March 2026
Bloomsbury, London
£135 + VAT. Limited to 10 attendees. (Only 2 spaces left)

If you like what you read about masks issue #6 then is the workshop for you. It is my absolute favourite workshop to run. A day of using masks to explore parts of our personality that we have lost touch with or didn’t know existed. We will spend the morning getting to know different masks and the afternoon putting them in different playful and bizarre scenarios and situations.

Previous participants say:

“Simply the best workshop ever.”
“Possibly the most liberating experience you might ever have.”
“I’ll never forget the bits of me I met for the first time at the mask workshop.”
“Very weird. In a very, very good way.”
“A truly magical experience”
“It is like going home with a bunch of new friends inside yourself!”

To keep it playful and intimate the workshop is limited to just 10 places so if you’d like to come along the grab a place ASAP as they sell out quickly.

..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.

Super Secret Musical Improv (SSMI XLI)
24th April 2026
Waterloo, London
£95. Limited to 16 attendees.

We celebrated the 40th SSMI workshop earlier this month and, for the first time ever, had a date for the next one already planned!

SSMIs happen at various times in the year they are an opportunity to come together with a curious, friendly and supportive bunch of people and improvise songs, scenes and musicals. No previous experience is necessary, nor is any ability to sing, improvise or be funny. In fact, any of the above can prove a disadvantage.

Previous participants have described these sessions as “life enhancing”, “beautiful” and “I need SSMI like I need to breathe.”

.:: FIND OUT MORE HERE ::.

5. Support my work

I thought I’d use this lovely photo of Crow to entice you to read to the end of this issue. (I tell the story of how I befriended her back in Issue #6.)

I was late heading to the studio the day I took this photo and thought I’d missed the opportunity to see her. I’ve learnt that she normally doesn’t come down from the trees at twilight, presumably because the dangers of getting grabbed by a cat or a fox increase in the dark. I waited for about 10 minutes before deciding to leave, but as I did, I heard a cawww that seemed to be saying “Hold on! I’m heeeere.” and we had a wonderful 15 minutes together. What I love about this photo is that it is the closest she has let me get to her with the camera, which feels like another little step in building a trust between us. (Even though she did peck my leg and look at me a few times as if to ask “WTF is this?”)

I want this Substack to be free and accessible for everyone irrelevant of financial means (the podcast version too) and this is an important principle in much of my work. When I do charge for things, like art or workshops or events, I strive to do so in a way that doesn’t exclude those who do not have the financial means to participate.

So, when people do support my work financially it means so much and helps me continue to work in this way. If you can afford to do so you can support my work in a number of ways, be that buying me a coffee from £1, buying some art from my shop, becoming a patron of my studio or becoming a paid subscriber to this Substack. (And if you can’t afford it then I absolutely love you getting this for free.)

1. Buy some art from my shop. I have a big selection of prints, original art, books, badges, t-shirts, posters and more.
   .:: VISIT MY SHOP HERE ::.
   

2. Become a patron of my studio. For a one-off donation of your choice you become an official patron with a badge, a certificate, a behind the scenes blog and your name added to the scroll of honour in the window of the studio.
   .:: BECOME A PATRON HERE ::.
   

3. Buy me a coffee. Like a tip jar.
   .:: BUY ME A COFFEE HERE::.
   

4. Become a paid subscriber of this Substack. I didn’t even know this was an option until a few people spontaneously did it! You don’t get any extra content or anything but you do get my eternal gratitude!

   .:: BECOME A PAID SUBSTACK SUBSCRIBER HERE ::.

• I became obsessed with a mysterious AI art installation near my studio and, even though I don’t like AI art, was sad when it was removed due to “public outcry”.

• RAMBLINGS: I like to think of the psychological phenomena of ego ideals as the heart-throb posters that my inner critic keeps on its bedroom wall.

• ARTICLE: I tell the traditional Chinese folklore story of “The man who loved dragons” as a way of exploring the phenomena of aboutism.

• BUY: Boxing Day sale - 20% off (almost) everything

• WORKSHOP: Masks - 20th March 2026.

• WORKSHOP: Super Secret Musical Improv (SSMI XLI) - 24th April 2026.

• An old photo of 1 year old me with my childhood dog to encourage you to scroll to the end of the Substack and read about how you can financially support my work by Buying stuff in my shop, becoming a patron of my studio or buying me a coffee (tip jar).

PODCAST VERSION OF THIS ISSUE

1. Hello

I find the festive season hard. Which doesn’t feel like the cheeriest way to begin an issue of this Substack that comes out on Boxing Day! But it is a feeling that tends to hijack me at this time of year - one that I can’t really describe but feels quite unsettling. I used to love Christmas as a kid and even more so when my daughter was born. But there have been some big changes in my life since then that have meant I have come to associate this time of year with difficult feelings. This seems to have resulted in me becoming quite sensitised to Christmas stuff like seeing decorations or hearing Christmas songs or the subtle societal suggestion that it is the happiest time of the year and everyone is looking forward to it.

I do, however, notice that Christmas 2025 feels a little different. It feels like I have maybe managed to process some important things over the last year that leave me feeling apprehensive but more emotionally resilient as Christmas approaches. One of the big things that I have done this winter is to sit and reflect on what my own needs are over the festive period and what I can do to better meet them. As a result of this, I decided to book an Airbnb by the sea for me and Poppy the dog to stay in on Christmas Day. The time Poppy and I had in the beach hut earlier this year was so special and nurturing that I realised this is what I’d really like to do, even though it has seemed like a strange choice to others. There are a number of humans I like the idea of spending Christmas with but, if I am really honest with myself, spending three days by the sea with my lovely dog friend is what I need. But even though I feel more seasonally resilient this year, I still notice an embodied reaction to some things.

My studio is in Kingston-upon-Thames in South West London. Kingston is an ancient market town dating back to AD 838 and is where some of the Saxon kings were crowned. It has a lovely smattering of old buildings and the authorities love transforming the market square into a “traditional” winter wonderland with wooden market huts, lights and a sound system playing seasonal music all day. And whilst this is great for visitors who enjoy the sights, sounds and smells of Christmas, it does something to my nervous system every time I walk through it. So I have started intentionally walking a different route back home via the busier, but less festively embellished riverside.

It was whilst walking this slightly different way in late November that I stumbled across one of the weirdest and most fascinating things I have ever seen in the town - a bizarre mural that I nicknamed Kingstonymus Bosch. I had seen the mural out of the corner of my eye on my regular runs along the river and just assumed that it was a traditional Christmas scene set in ancient Kingston. From a distance it looked like it depicted crowds of people with flashes of red and white festive colours, some wooden structures that looked like market stalls and some water that I assumed was the Thames. But my diversion home allowed me to stop and look at it more closely and I gradually realised that there was so much more to this art installation than I had initially thought.

The first thing I noticed was that it didn’t look like Kingston at all. There were none of the iconic ancient buildings and the river was more like a shallow flood that the crowds of people were wading through. I also started to realise that the people in the scene looked nothing like the crowds of people crammed into the Christmas Market that I was carefully avoiding. Many of them looked really odd. Noses out of place, flaps of skin folded over eyes, limbs disappearing or poking out at strange angles. And then I noticed the creatures! What I had initially thought were dogs or swans or horses were actually surreal beasts from another dimension. Bizarre mixes of different species, as if a mad taxidermist and Dr Frankenstein had collaborated and then set their creations loose to terrorise the poor gaggle of malformed humans. The interactions between the humans and creatures made no sense at all, at least not in this reality. Human arms and bird wings merged. A penguin was on fire for no apparent reason. And a strange bird-wolf creature looked like it was about to savagely eat a depressed Santa Clause who had clearly given up on life.

This was obviously the work of AI and it caused a conflict of responses in me. Whilst I can appreciate there are some genuine benefits of AI, I’m not a fan of it for many reasons. There’s the environmental impact due to the energy it consumes, the economic impact in terms of human jobs it puts under threat and, most importantly as an artist, how it borrows/steals art created by human artists and re-purposes it as its own. (I know it’s more complicated than this but I don’t want to use up any more of this Substack talking about the downsides of AI!) But, at the same time, I loved the absolute surrealist mystery of this huge mural. There was no writing on it and I couldn’t work out where it came from, what it was about or who put it there.

Very soon Kingstonymous Bosh started to crop up in overheard conversations between locals and I began to notice more and more posts on social media about it. Some people shared my mix of confusion and wonder. Some people were angry about it, accusing the local council of wasting tax-payers money when there were many other things it could be spent on. (Kingston council made it clear, very quickly, that they had nothing to do with the mural.) Some people demanded it be replaced with a more traditional festive scene depicting the real Kingston. I did a talk at a local art college and the tutors were debating it and trying to make sense of it from an artistic perspective. The company that runs our studios got a number of press inquiries asking if it was one of their artists that had created it. And a number of Reddit threads, news articles and social media posts started to turn Kingstonymus Bosch into a bit of a tourist attraction with people travelling to see “London’s horrific AI mural”.

The more I learnt about the intensity of the response to the mural, the more I began to love it. The American artist Ed Roche once said that it is easy to tell the difference between good art and bad art. He said bad art makes you go “wow…..huh?” You think it is initially amazing but after a while you realise it is nothing special and forget about it. But good art makes you go “huh…wow!” It baffles, confuses, disturbs but, over time, gradually reveals its subversive brilliance to you. And that’s exactly what I experienced with Kingstonymus Bosch - a genuine experience of “Huh?………WOW!”

Putting aside whether this was the intention of the artist/commissioner, Kingstonymous Bosh was a brilliant pattern interrupter. Something that disturbed the everyday routine of people passing through the town. It provoked a whole mix of emotions from confusion to amusement to anger to disgust. It catalysed conversations about AI, tradition, art and, most relevant for the Kingston artist community, questions about why a local human artist wasn’t commissioned to create it. The depiction of a largely non-white population and the presence of small boats triggered polarising conversations and arguments about immigration and politics. And, even though I have little love for AI art and very much doubt it was intentionally made this bizarre, I loved Kingstonymous Bosh for the plethora or reactions it provoked. The Mexican poet Cesar A. Cruz famously said “Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable” and Kingstonymus Bosch ticked all of these boxes.

Eventually, due to “public outcry” and “local backlash” the mural was removed. I was sad and frustrated when I heard this. The energy had already been used to generate the AI art, and the materials had already been consumed to print it on a massive canvas, so the environmental damage was already done. But more so, I was sad that the general consensus around its removal seemed to be that art should be pleasant pictures that make sense and that everybody likes. Art can, of course, be likeable and popular. But for me, its real power lies in the way it can interrupt, captivate, disturb, distort and ultimately reflect back parts of ourselves we may not be ready to witness.

Idealised self images
The festive season is just one example of giving myself a hard time for finding things challenging. I mean, it is just another few days on the calendar and I have no religion, so it is of no particular spiritual significance to me personally. But I still feel an immense pressure to be a certain way that I don’t feel at other times and this just adds to my downward spiral. I wrote in the last edition of this Substack about a similar pressure I put on myself when going to an event or a social occasion. A self-imposed pressure to be a certain way. A blueprint of how I should be, which I critically compare to how I actually am, leaving me feeling terrible because I never live up to this unattainable standard.

Over the last 10 years, gestalt psychotherapist Simon Cavicchia and I have been working together to research and experiment with alternative ways of getting to know and work with the super-ego, the self-limiting and self-judging internal voice of authority that we often refer to as the Inner Critic. We have been fascinated by developing creative, embodied, and playful ways to better understand our unique Inner Critics, in order to learn to dance rather than battle with them. One of the psychic structures we invite workshop participants to pay attention to is that of idealised self-images or what Freud called ego ideals. Simon suggests that a simple way of thinking about the work of the Inner Critic is that it compares our lived experience of who we are and what we do with an idealised self-image, an unattainable blueprint of what we believe we should be like. These idealised self-images are stitched together from the past voices of parents, key care givers, teachers and other significant authority figures as well as the dominant societal narratives we encounter on a day to day basis.

I like to think of these idealised self-images as the posters my inner critic pins up on its bedroom wall. It lies on its bed, staring at these ghostly posters of the past, witnessing them in the present, utterly absorbed and wishing I could measure up to the images portrayed. Theres the poster of idealised super-social-life-and-soul-of-the-party Steve. He’s the centre of attention, smiling and laughing, mingling and networking with everyone no matter what the occasion is or who is talking to him. Then there’s idealised Open Mic Steve who confidently performs songs he has written in such a way that the audience flock to chat with him afterwards, asking where they can buy his music and book tickets to his next well-paid gig. And then there’s idealised Christmas Steve who has lived a life so normal and sensible and professional that Christmas really is the happiest time of the year for him and all who hang out with him during a super-social and emotionally cosy festive period. It seems my inner critic puts this last one up on 1st December, at the same time it puts up its decorations.

Of course, these posters aren’t real, but I have found that imagining them and drawing them in exquisitely exaggerated detail is an immensely helpful practice. Not only does it deepen my awareness of the complexity of my lived experience, the wild exaggerations also help me appreciate the ridiculousness of it all. If nothing else, these posters help me find more self-compassion in times when I most need it.

What really fascinates me though is why some things don’t bother me at all. I really don’t care if anyone likes my art or not. If I do a talk or run a workshop and people don’t respond well to it, I might be disappointed, but I’m not crushed by it. And if I am obsessed with a new fascination or a new project or something that makes me come across as strange or eccentric I really don’t mind if people think I’m weird. I think the reason for all of this is because my Inner Critic doesn’t have idealised Art Steve or idealised Speaker Steve or idealised Neuro-typical Steve posters. Maybe it used to have them, but they seem to have been taken down for some reason, possibly because I laughed at how ridiculous they looked.

I came up with the metaphor of Shit Snap at one of our Inner Critic workshops many years ago and I’ve found it personally helpful in making sense of all this. It’s based on the children’s card game Snap - the one where you take turns laying down cards and, when two of the same appear, the first person to shout “Snap!” wins. In Shit Snap, the horribly diminishing and self-loathing SNAP only happens when a belief we hold about ourselves matches one of the posters the inner critic has pinned up on its wall. This goes some way to explaining why some feedback hurts deeply (SNAP!) and other comments just float by like a slightly strange-smelling cloud.

2. The man who loved dragons

Once upon a time there was a man who loved dragons. He loved them so much that his entire dragon-shaped house was adorned with pictures of dragons. Some he had drawn, some he had bought, others he had cut out of his favourite dragon magazines. On his commute to work, wearing his dragon patterned tie and dragon emblazoned cufflinks, he listened to podcasts about dragons. His computer had a dragon screensaver, his mousemat depicted a variety of dragon species and every time he bumped into a colleague in the coffee area he would tell them some dragon facts as he sipped from his favourite dragon mug. At night, the man who loved dragons would put on his dragon pyjamas, snuggle down under his dragon duvet and dream wonderfully vivid dreams about dragons.

One day, the queen of the dragons heard about this man and decided to pay him a visit. She flew from the dragon kingdom all the way to Wales, where the man who loved dragons lived, because the Welsh flag has a dragon on it. She stood on his dragon-emblazoned welcome mat, knocked on his dragon shaped door-knocker and waited. The man who loved dragons opened the door and, on seeing a real dragon for the first time, screamed and fled in terror, never to return.

The queen of dragons was understandably upset and confused about all of this. What had she done wrong? This was the man who loved dragons. On arriving back at her kingdom she told her wise friend what had happened. The wise friend replied “Ahhh. You see, this is a man who loves the *idea* of dragons, not dragons themselves.”

I mentioned aboutism back in issue 5 of this Substack when I was describing trying to recruit speakers for my experimental Inexpert conference. The concept was to see what would happen if I curated an event where speakers would be in a state of not-knowing live on stage in front of an audience. But 60-70% of the speakers who applied to my open call wanted to talk about not knowing. They proposed talks that would expound the benefits of not knowing. Or talks that would share ways in which people could become more comfortable with not knowing. Or talks that spoke about the importance of leadership in complex times that are riddled with uncertainty and not knowing. This was disappointing as I had clearly said in the open call that I didn’t want people to talk about not knowing - I wanted them to embody it live on stage.

Aboutism is a thing I come across in my work a lot. The phenonena of loving the theoretical idea of something, but avoiding the actual experience of it. The Man Who Loves Dragons is a traditional Chinese proverb that perfectly encapsulates the essence of aboutism for me. (I have obviously updated and embellished the original version of the story here.)

Aboutism often manifests when I am invited to work with a group or an organisation who have approached me because they want something different. The brief is normally to run a workshop or do a talk that is challenging, disruptive, edgy and creative. One that will really stretch participant’s abilities to better regulate in moments of uncertainty and access their spontaneous, creative self expression. But very often, when I propose something that I feel really gets to the heart of this request, the client backs away and says “No, we don’t like the sound of that, can you do something more tangible/structured/ normal”. Or they will tell me that they have spoken to another consultant/speaker who has proposed something that is much more sensible or familiar and if I could just change my proposal to be more like that then they would be interested.

In these situations, it seems I am being presented with a well-rehearsed defence mechanism that says “We like the theory of all this, but we don’t want to actually experience the reality of it.” I have learnt to politely walk away from these invitations rather than dumb down my proposal or collude with the aboutism. I respect that this is their choice, but it isn’t for me, as it doesn’t feel ethically right to take money for work that I know won’t have the desired long-term effect if I modify it simply to make them feel more comfortable And it isn’t just the world of creative consulting that is rife with aboutism. I recently heard the absurdist comedian John-Luke Roberts tell a great story about someone who wrote a blog explaining how much she hated his gig, the brilliantly aboutism line being “I love absurdism, but this didn’t make any sense!”

John Welwood was an American psychotherapist who became known for integrating psychological and spiritual concepts. Welwood coined the term spiritual bypassing to describe how some people turn to spiritual practices, theories, and rituals as a subtle and not entirely conscious way of avoiding difficult feelings or thoughts. For example, someone might turn to Buddhism in order to lead a life that feels less riddled with attachment, anxiety and anger, but focus so heavily on the ideas and concepts that they avoid the potentially challenging lived experience of truly embodying the practices.

My simple rule-of-thumb, to avoid falling into the trap of aboutism, or a creative form of spiritual bypassing, is to aim to plant myself directly in the heart of the experience I am wanting to transform. For many years I was scared of the idea of drawing portraits of people. It felt to me that there were so many potential hazards to doing this beyond the awkwardness of sitting opposite somebody and drawing them. What if I accidentally insulted them with my drawing? What if they paid me for a portrait and then hated what it looked like? What if they verbally or physically attacked me when I revealed their terrible picture? It felt like something I really wanted to get better at, but also an experience full of relational danger and potential shame pits. Part of me wanted to watch some Youtube video tutorials about drawing portraits. Or maybe I could do an online life-drawing course where nobody would see my terrible representations of the model. Or I could buy a book to learn the technical skills in the comfort and isolation of my studio. I soon came to realise that, while all of these activities might help me develop some technical expertise, they were also excellent avoidance strategies for the actual experience of sitting with and drawing another human.

To short-circuit this I decided to dive in at the deep end and headed to London’s Trafalgar Square with a big sign saying FREE PORTRAITS. What began as a terrifying experience gradually turned into a liberating one. By fully experiencing the shame and anxiety in an environment that felt challenging, but safe enough, those emotions transformed into something much more helpful. With each portrait I drew, I began to make friends with the embodied experience of drawing it. My anxious brain was able to realise that the terrible things I had imagined were not happening and my nervous system was able to re-calibrate and find a way of self-regulating. The most exciting thing from this simple but intense four-hour experiment was that my now distinctive style of portraiture began to emerge. None of this would have happened had I simply languished in the idea and theory of drawing portraits.

I do a strange talk entitled “9 Wonky Projects, interspersed with thoughts on creativity and the human condition. (Featuring a bingo machine)” in which I tell stories about experiences such as the one in Trafalgar Square. Through creating this talk, I have come to realise that there are some consistent practices in all of my work that help me avoid the allure of aboutism: the obstacle is the path, start before you’re ready, and strive to fail cheap, fast, and happy. Mantras that I have subsequently realised are as helpful in day-to-day life as they are in art.

3. Boxing day/January sale - 20% off (almost) everything

I’ve enjoyed doing my festive markets this December and, at the same time, have significant market fatigue so haven’t committed to doing any more face-to-face selling until the end of March next year. This means that my online shop is going to have to do the heavy lifting of selling stuff for the next few months. So, to give it a helping hand, I am holding a month-long sale from 26th December 2025 until the 26th January 2026.

For this time-period there is 20% off almost* everything in my online shop including original art, books, badges, prints, some t-shirts, zines and more.

The discount is automatically applied to everything so all you need to do is visit www.stevexoh.com, find something you like and get it for 20% cheaper.

.:: SHOP HERE ::.

*Discount doesn’t apply to t-shirts that are sold through third party suppliers.

4. Workshops

I intend to offer some new things in 2026 but, for now, here’s a couple of familiar workshops that I have in the diary.

Mask Workshop
20th March 2026
Bloomsbury, London
£135 + VAT. Limited to 10 attendees. (Only 3 spaces left)

If you like what you read about masks in my last Substack then is the workshop for you. It is my absolute favourite workshop to run. A day of using masks to explore parts of our personality that we have lost touch with or didn’t know existed. We will spend the morning getting to know different masks and the afternoon putting them in different playful and bizarre scenarios and situations.

Previous participants say:

“Simply the best workshop ever.”
“Possibly the most liberating experience you might ever have.”
“I’ll never forget the bits of me I met for the first time at the mask workshop.”
“Very weird. In a very, very good way.”
“A truly magical experience”
“It is like going home with a bunch of new friends inside yourself!”

To keep it playful and intimate the workshop is limited to just 10 places so if you’d like to come along the grab a place ASAP as they sell out quickly.

..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.

Super Secret Musical Improv (SSMI XLI)
24th April 2026
Waterloo, London
£95. Limited to 16 attendees.

We celebrated the 40th SSMI workshop earlier this month and, for the first time ever, had a date for the next one already planned!

SSMIs happen at various times in the year they are an opportunity to come together with a curious, friendly and supportive bunch of people and improvise songs, scenes and musicals. No previous experience is necessary, nor is any ability to sing, improvise or be funny. In fact, any of the above can prove a disadvantage.

Previous participants have described these sessions as “life enhancing”, “beautiful” and “I need SSMI like I need to breathe.”

.:: FIND OUT MORE HERE ::.

5. Support my work

Here’s little me with little Toby. There was only a year’s age gap between me and Toby so we grew up very close and spent lots of time together until he died age 15. There’s no real reason for having this photo of us here other than I seem to have got into the habit of sharing a photo of me in the bit where I invite you to support my work financially! I guess posting a photo of little me with a cute puppy could be interpreted as some form of cute-coercion but really it’s just a chance for me to share some pictures that I’ve been too shy to share in the past. (And it is also a way to incentivise you scrolling to the end of this Substack!)

I want this Substack to be free and accessible for everyone irrelevant of financial means (the podcast version too) and this is an important principle in much of my work. When I do charge for things, like art or workshops or events, I strive to do so in a way that doesn’t exclude those who do not have the financial means to participate.

So, when people do support my work financially it means so much and helps me continue to work in this way. If you can afford to do so you can support my work in a number of ways, be that buying me a coffee from £1, buying some art from my shop, becoming a patron of my studio or becoming a paid subscriber to this Substack. (And if you can’t afford it then I absolutely love you getting this for free.)

1. Buy some art from my shop. I have a big selection of prints, original art, books, badges, t-shirts, posters and more.
   .:: VISIT MY SHOP HERE ::.
   

2. Become a patron of my studio. For a one-off donation of your choice you become an official patron with a badge, a certificate, a behind the scenes blog and your name added to the scroll of honour in the window of the studio.
   .:: BECOME A PATRON HERE ::.
   

3. Buy me a coffee. Like a tip jar.
   .:: BUY ME A COFFEE HERE::.
   

4. Become a paid subscriber of this Substack. I didn’t even know this was an option until a few people spontaneously did it! You don’t get any extra content or anything but you do get my eternal gratitude!

   .:: BECOME A PAID SUBSTACK SUBSCRIBER HERE ::.

• The riverside crows I made friends with last year came back and brought their baby, Humphrey Brand, with them.

• RAMBLINGS: I reminisce about some of the weird, creative stuff I used to do at primary school and try to reconnect with the spirit of 8 year old me.

• ARTICLE: A lot has been written about masks that we hide behind but I am much more fascinated by masks that reveal more of who we already are.

• WORKSHOP: Super Secret Musical Improv - 5th December 2025.

• WORKSHOP: Masks - 20th March 2026.

• BUY: I’ve finally added my full selection of greetings cards to my shop.

• MARKETS: Come visit me at a number of different Festive Markets. 06th December Illustrator’s Fair in Kings X. 13th December Kazland’s Festive Martket in Guildford, 20th December Surbiton Farmer’s market in Surbiton.

• A photo of dressed as a rook to give you details of how you can support my work financially from as little as £1 : you can Buy stuff in my shop, become a patron of my studio or buy me a coffee (tip jar) or become a paid subscriber of this Substack (you don’t get anything extra other than my eternal grattitude!)

PODCAST VERSION OF THIS ISSUE

1. Hello

I like Autumn. I can easily find a downside to every season but I seem to have less bones to pick with this one than the others. Whilst the warmth of summer means that I don’t have to think too much about what clothes to wear, it also amplifies human behaviours that I find challenging. More people gather in places I use as a quiet retreat for the rest of the year (the riverside, a park, a beach), neighbours have noisy garden/balcony/window-sill parties and unpredictable summer crowds mess up my usual strategies to travel at a quieter time. So when autumn arrives it feels like a welcome relief and a return to some sort of soothing, routine normality for me. A nice balance between temperature and busyness that summer always seems to lose control of.

But the thing that brought me most joy this autumn was the return of “Crow”. Crow is a crow that I met and befriended by the riverside in the autumn of 2024. I’d spotted her and her partner (who I named “Lightning” due to a white streak on his chest) hanging around on my walks to and from the studio. One day, I brought a handful of monkey nuts along to feed them (nuts are a treasure in the corvid world) and after I did the pair started to follow me each time I walked past. Over the next couple of months I experimented with befriending them and seeing how physically close our interactions could get. Whilst Lightning remained cautious, Crow started to come closer and closer each day. It felt like with each interaction we established a deeper level of trust. It started with her cautiously approaching me to get a nut from the wall I was sitting on, then taking one from my outstretched hand and then eventually jumping onto my knee to eat from my palm.

I became so enchanted by this relationship with Crow that I started to dislike it when things, such as paid work, meant I missed a chance to spend time with her. I find relationships with creatures much easier to navigate than those with humans. There is a liberating absence of human complications such as projections, transferences, use of language, bias and filters (mine included) which means that I never feel misunderstood by an animal. I found it easy to be patient and passionately non-attached about spending time with Crow and if she didn’t show up or didn’t want to sit on my lap I didn’t take it personally. But each time mine and Crow’s relationship did evolve it felt like unlocking another level of a computer game. I was utterly elated on the day that she came up to me and did a little bow, opening her wings slightly, whilst making a noise I hadn’t heard her make before - a gesture that I later learnt is a call of affection to a fellow crow. I was so fascinated by the ease and joy I felt in this relationship that I painted a picture about it called “Crow Therapy” which was exhibited (and sold) at the Feelings are Real exhibition that jdwoof and I did at Barbican in earlier this year. (You can buy a limited print of the painting here.)

However, in the spring of 2025 Crow and Lightning disappeared. They had spent a month or so up in their nest, warming and protecting their egg and then, after their hatchling was born, they just left. I felt sad, but it felt like a different kind of sadness to one I would feel about a human suddenly leaving. A melancholic fondness for the memories of our time together, combined with a total understanding that this is just what crows do at this stage of their life.

So, it was a real surprise when walking to the studio in late October when I heard a loud cawwing and looked round to see Crow and Lightning were back. I wasn’t entirely sure if it was them but when I sat down and the smaller, female crow hopped straight onto my lap I knew it was her. What made this reunion extra meaningful was that they brought their fledgling with them. A beautiful but slightly uncoordinated and goofy little crow, that I have named Humphrey Brand, who is gradually working out who I am based on watching its parents interact with me. I am hoping Humphrey will follow in its mother’s footsteps and one day hop onto my lap to eat.

I’m assuming that all of this is typical crow behaviour - their fledgling is old enough to come out of the nest, the start of autumn is time for foraging/ caching winter food and I am a good source of monkey nuts. But part of me also likes to imagine that my crow friends have been longing to come back to see me and share in our mutual appreciation of the quietening and calming nature of autumn by the riverside.

Welcome to my world

I held an Open Studio earlier this month. A day when anyone could come in and visit Studio Two, look at my art, buy some stuff and have a chat. I love these events. Even though I am interacting with strangers and talking to lots of people for a whole day, I am doing it in my own unique and comforting niche-habitat.

I’m fascinated by how much more comfortable I feel when I invite people into my world. I realise that it is a thing that I have done for much of my life - creating an environment, event or experiment that is an uncensored and unmasked expression of who I am, and then asking people “Hey, would you like to come in and join me?” Part of the reason for doing this is because it is my job as an artist and workshop facilitator to host events and show my work. But I suspect the main reason I do it is because I feel a greater level of comfort and connection with myself interacting with others in this way.

The main thing I love about doing this is that it is a great way of short-circuiting small-talk. Those initial chit-chat situations in which I genuinely shrivel up inside and have a kind of out-of-body experience where I am witnessing myself trying to play the role of a “normal” adult human. When I do talks I try to avoid speaking to people before-hand as this is the zone of excruciating small-talk (e.g. “What do you do?” “What brings you here?” “What’s your talk about?”) But after I have been on stage and shared a load of weird stories and thoughts and philosophies I really enjoy talking to people. As they have been dipped into my world for an hour or so we have a different start point to our interaction. They have a sense of what fascinates me, who I am and how I am wired and will likely only come up to me if there is a shared interest in that kind of thing.

It is the same with Open Studios - it is very unlikely that when people walk into my weirdly curated cosy space that they will ask “So, what do you do then?” (Although, strangely, some people still ask “What kind of art do you make?” even though it is plastered all over the walls around them!) At this point I feel I need to clarify that I’m not saying that I like the conversation and focus to be all about me! Quite the opposite in fact. I am always fascinated to learn more about others and love asking questions and getting deeper into meaningful conversation. It just feels like a much easier start point when others know more about me and my nature up front through being immersed in it in some way.

It is, however, rather impractical to only interact with others when they come into my world. I also want to get better at bringing my uncensored, unmasked, relaxed self into the world of others. I used to be able to do this much more naturally as a child, but when I think about the things I used to do at primary school, I start to doubt it was actually me! At primary school I used to write surreal short plays and sketches and then recruit a bunch of the strangest kids to perform them in assembly. I used to write and illustrate a series of short stories about a character called Yappy Dog and read them to the younger classes. And a very bizarre memory that came back to me recently was playing, in assembly, a piece of music that I had written on a strange battery powered keyboard that sounded like a hovercraft. This all came flooding back when I was messing about on my Casiotone MT46 writing some music and suddenly remembered how to play the assembly song. I use the word “song” in the most tenuous of ways. As I played it, it made me laugh out loud how ridiculous it was - simply alternating hitting the lowest C key and then the next key up right up to the top of the keyboard and back down again. (I play a version of this on the podcast version of this issue.) What was even more bizarre about this primary school assembly performance was that I recruited a girl in my class, who had the same weird hovercraft organ, to perform it with me as a duo!

As an adult I now wonder what the teachers and other adults who witnessed these things were thinking. But at the time, that didn’t even enter my mind. I was just doing these things because I loved them and probably found myself in a wonderful, immersive creative flow state. Looking back I am very appreciative of my primary school teachers for encouraging me and giving me a platform to express my creativity - a permission and freedom that rapidly eroded in secondary school to such an extent that I became reluctant to express my wild and creative self for many years.

I’ve decided that I want to experiment more with blurring the lines between my world and the world of others. To try and find a more symbiotic balance between the me who prefers to invite people into my niche habitat and that primary-school kid who simply went out into the world and was naturally a bit strange and eccentric. I was invited to the launch of the latest issue of the brilliant Partners Zine recently and decided that this was a good petri-dish for my experiment. I only recently realised that one of the reasons I find social situations like this hard is because I set way too high an expectation for myself. Often I imagine myself being the life and soul of the party, meeting a plethora of new friends, chatting with everyone, getting invited to more events or gatherings, getting some paid work or getting signed by a top art agent. This ridiculously high and unrealistic bar typically results in me feeling very down and crappy when I end up leaving after 30 minutes because it was too noisy, too crowded and I didn’t know how to talk to anyone. (This fantasy version of myself is likely a manifestation of an idealised self-image that my inner critic/super ego constantly evaluates me against. I might write more about this in a future Substack.)

So, at the Partners event I tried to set a realistic bar and try something different. I really like my little “Be kind to crabs” zine, so I printed off a load of copies to take with me to give to people, as that’s the kind of thing that Primary School me would have done. When people came to speak to me or if I spotted somebody I would like to speak with I simply said “Hello, I’m an artist, would you like a little zine about crabs?” And it worked! It seemed that people enjoyed getting the gift whether they liked crabs or not and it led to some lovely conversations about life, art, philosophy (and crabs). But the most important thing for me was that I felt comfortable doing it and didn’t care if the person I was giving it to thought I was weird or eccentric. I felt very energised and alive on the tube home, a stark comparison to the drained, self-critical experience I normally have. I felt like I had managed to channel 8-year-old me playing the hovercraft organ in assembly, whilst at the same time meeting my social needs as an adult who is fascinated by interacting with other humans.

I’ve now started bringing various zines with me to events and gatherings. On the 1st November I went to a Samhain/Halloween party dressed as a rook. I knew people would come up to me and think I was a crow and then ask what the difference between the species was. So, to short-circuit this, I created a little zine of rook facts that I handed to anyone who spoke to me or I wanted to interact with. Not only did this prevent me from having to describe the differences between crows and rooks over and over again, it was a delightful catalyst for a different type of conversation.

Zines are just one strategy for this social exploration. I realised that they are essentially a transitional object that helps me allow more of my uncensored, unmasked self to be seen without worrying too much about what others think. And gradually it feels like they are helping build a bridge between the two worlds. Or at least make the semi-permeable veil between them a little thinner.

2. Masks that reveal

In September 2012 I spent a week training with the theatre director and pioneer of performance improvisation Keith Johnston. At the time I was immersed in writing an MSc dissertation about spontaneity and Keith’s book Impro had been a huge influence on my work. So when I found out that Keith was going to be in the UK, I jumped at the opportunity to learn from him in person. The week involved Keith leading us through a series of weird and wonderful improvisation exercises to help build more trust in our own spontaneous self expression. We did exercises such as taking as long as possible to complete a simple task. We danced on the visceral edge of rejection with people we didn’t know whilst others watched. And we tried to hold the attention of an large audience who were instructed to leave the room the second they felt bored. It was a challenging, exhilarating and joyous experience. Towards the end of the week Keith dragged out a battered old suitcase and said “I think we’ll do some masks” and proceeded to place some freaky looking papier mâché masks on the table. “Who would like to try?” he asked. As hands around the room went up every part of me said “No ******* way!”.

I’m not sure what it was that made me so hesitant to try it. Maybe I feared it might be something that could upset the delicate balance of my own mental stability. (I wrote about the fear of losing my mind in issue #5 of this Substack). But the more I saw people put on a mask, look in the mirror and be utterly transformed, the more I thought this was too good an opportunity to miss. So I did it and instantly regretted it! The experience only lasted around 30 seconds and I hated every moment of it. I felt like I had done it wrong. I didn’t know what was going on. I was confused and disoriented and my body was vibrating in a way that told me my nervous system was going haywire. And, I guess deep down, I had wanted to impress Keith and be his best ever mask student - but he just seemed indifferent about what had happened and moved on to work with the next person. As I sat back down in my chair, feeling flushed and maybe a little embarrassed, I vowed never to do masks again. But, a few months later, I found myself thinking about the experience and wondered what it would be like if I gave it another try.

I liken that initial mask experience to eating a spicy food for the first time. Initially we think “Aghhh! What am I doing? Never again!” But once the heat and discomforted has subsided, and enough time has passed, we might think “Hmmm….maybe it was actually quite nice….I’ll try that again sometime.” So, to cut a long story short, I spent the next two years training with as many different mask teachers as possible - Keiths’ protégé Steve Jarrand who helped me discover a whole new character living inside me called Mormo. Trestle Theatre Company who helped me understand how archetypes and traditional characters can be channelled with the use of masks. And Russell Dean of Strangeface Theatre who showed me the crazy, playful and fun side of mask work and later taught me how to make them.

In autumn 2015 I decided to combine all of the things I had learnt from my different teachers, along with my interests in spontaneity and gestalt psychology to run my own mask workshop for the first time. It was an intense, nerve-wracking but overall magical experience. One that allowed me to stand on the other side of the mirror and watch parts of other people suddenly spark into life and grow in such a way that it transformed them. It was like witnessing people give birth to different elements of their personality in a way that simultaneously surprised, confused and delighted them. I have run mask workshops regularly over the last 10 years and have seen people who say they can’t sing get up and perform an amazing song. I’ve seen people who say they can’t do public speaking stand in front of an audience and deliver a faultless, eloquent and engaging improvised talk. And I’ve seen everything in between - people who feel they are not assertive suddenly tap into an assertive part of themselves, people who tell me they have forgotten how to play and laugh suddenly finding themselves channeling an infectiously impish way of being and people that want to develop more compassion or stillness or quietness dropping into a state that had been in them all along, but had been forgotten or locked away behind a secret door.

We often think of masks as things that we hide behind, that grant us anonymity and hide who we really are. And whilst this is true, the techniques I’ve learned from Keith et al — and have synthesised into my own process over the years — have helped me realise that some masks actually do the opposite. Masks that reveal even more of who we are. Masks that grant us access to different ways of being and thinking. Masks that allow a fuller range of our personality to flow freely from our bodies — so powerfully and intensely that we can still access them long after the workshop has finished. Charlie Chaplin spoke eloquently of discovering the power of stepping into the mask of his famous tramp character: “He ignited all sorts of crazy ideas that I would never have dreamed of until I was dressed and made up as the tramp. I realised I would have to spend the rest of my life finding out about the creature.”

Back in 2004 I co-wrote a radio comedy show that I would perform with my fellow writers. Whether the performance was a recording, a live broadcast from a studio or a live show in front of an audience, I would always transform myself into my character Cornelius Chapman. Clothes, make-up, accessories etc. I was never quite sure why it felt important to do this, especially if nobody could see me other than my fellow performers and the sound engineer. But modifying myself to look, feel and move like Cornelius seemed to help me access parts of myself that were less self-conscious and less anxious about performing. Cornelius also seemed to grant me access to a very surreal and uncensored stream of spontaneous dialogue that became a compelling part of his character. (He would say and do things that Steve would never thing of saying or doing!)

Over time, Cornelius permeated my being and we sort of merged in a way that meant I felt more confident, more spontaneous and less anxious performing, even when i wasn’t dressed as him. It was like wearing the mask of this strange and eccentric old man eventually trained my body and nervous system to find ways of accessing these parts when I was simply being Steve. I have since experimented with other masks in this way. I created a huge mask of a character called Len to help me feel less self-conscious about moving and dancing. Len went on to lead a dance class in a huge tent at a festival, something Steve would never dream of doing. (You can watch Len Dance here.) A mysterious and fluffy hat wearing guy called Huevos Rancheros became my alter-ego for recording and sharing my music - something Steve felt too self-conscious to do. And just like it did with Cornelius, the more I inhabited these characters, the more comfortable the embodied experiences became and I needed them less to access those ways of being. I like to think of these masks as stabilisers for my personality - allowing me to try something new and scary and, once I find my own balance, they can be removed.

(My next public mask workshop is on the 20th March 2026. More details can be found in the Workshop section below or here)

3. Cards for all occasions

I’ve been selling cards for some time now but have only recently sorted out the ridiculously messy page in my online shop so that people can browse and buy them more easily.

I like cards that are not tied to an occasion. Whilst I get there is value in a card that says “Happy Birthday” or “In deepest sympathy” or “Great new baby” I also like the idea of somebody receiving a card that just has a weird painting of a cheetah on it saying “I run very fast”. And that’s what you’ll find in my shop.

There’s a selection of over 30 different weird and wonderful cards to chose from. You can buy individual ones for £3 or get four for £10. I’ve no idea on Xmas posting times so will just say if you would like some in time for the festive season then buy them sooner rather than later.

.:: BUY CARDS HERE ::.

4. Workshops

A couple of workshops coming up including a new date for Masks in 2026,

Super Secret Musical Improv (SSMI XL)
5th December 2026
Waterloo, London
£95. Limited to 16 attendees.

A very special 40th edition of Super Secret Musical Improv with me and the lovely Heather and Joe. We started these as an experiment in a room in the old BBC television centre back in 2011 and are so excited that the 40th edition means we can call it SSMI XL!

SSMIs happen at various times in the year they are an opportunity to come together with a curious, friendly and supportive bunch of people and improvise songs, scenes and musicals. No previous experience is necessary, nor is any ability to sing, improvise or be funny. In fact, any of the above can prove a disadvantage.

Previous participants have described these sessions as “life enhancing”, “beautiful” and “I need SSMI like I need to breathe.”

.:: FIND OUT MORE HERE ::.

Mask Workshop
20th March 2026
Bloomsbury, London
£135 + VAT. Limited to 10 attendees.

If you like what you read about masks earlier in this edition then this is the workshop for you. It is my absolute favourite workshop to run. A day of using masks to explore parts of our personality that we have lost touch with or didn’t know existed. We will spend the morning getting to know different masks and the afternoon putting them in different playful and bizarre scenarios and situations.

Previous participants say:

“Simply the best workshop ever.”
“Possibly the most liberating experience you might ever have.”
“I’ll never forget the bits of me I met for the first time at the mask workshop.”
“Very weird. In a very, very good way.”
“A truly magical experience”
“It is like going home with a bunch of new friends inside yourself!”

To keep it playful and intimate the workshop is limited to just 10 places so if you’d like to come along the grab a place ASAP as they sell out quickly.

..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.

5. Markets

It’s festive market season! I’ve picked three of them to set up a stall and sell art stuff.

Come along to browse, buy or just say “hi”.

Saturday December 6th: Illustrator’s Fair
Kings Cross, London
.:: MORE INFO ::.

Saturday December 13th: Kazland’s Art Martket
New House Art Space, Guildford, Surrey
.:: MORE INFO ::.

Saturday December 20th: Surbiton Farmer’s Market
Maple Road, Surbiton KT6
.:: MORE INFO ::.

6. Support my work

Here’s me dressed as a rook for the Samhain party I wrote about earlier. This outfit took me ages to make but I loved making it and I loved wearing it. It now adorns the wall of my studio. I could only dedicate the time to making it due to the financial contribution that people generously give to support my work. Not only does this help me with things like studio rent, buying art materials, bills, food (etc) it allows me to pursue random fascinations such as obsessively making a rook costume. As I’ve written in previous Substacks, being able to just follow my creative instincts, without worrying about them having to be profit making, is a vital part of my process.

I want this Substack to be free and accessible for everyone irrelevant of financial means (the podcast version too) and this is an important principle in much of my work. When I do charge for things (like art prints or my mask workshop) I strive to do so in a way that doesn’t exclude those who do not have the financial means to participate.

So, when people do support my work financially it means so much and helps me continue to work in this way. If you can afford to do so you can support my work in a number of ways, be that buying me a coffee for £1, buying some art from my shop, becoming a patron of my studio or becoming a paid subscriber to this Substack. (And if you can’t afford it then I absolutely love you getting this for free)

1. Buy some art from my shop. I have a big selection of prints, original art, books, badges, t-shirts, posters and more.
   .:: VISIT MY SHOP HERE ::.
   

2. Become a patron of my studio. For a one-off donation of your choice you become an official patron with a badge, a certificate, a behind the scenes blog and your name added to the scroll of honour in the window of the studio.
   .:: BECOME A PATRON HERE ::.
   

3. Buy me a coffee. Like a tip jar.
   .:: BUY ME A COFFEE HERE::.

4. Become a paid subscriber of this Substack. I didn’t even know this was an option until a few people spontaneously did it! You don’t get any extra content or anything but you do get my eternal gratitude!

   .:: BECOME A PAID SUBSTACK SUBSCRIBER HERE ::.

• The highlight of a recent snorkelling trip was getting stuck in an intense lightning storm and riding it out crouched in a ditch researching what to do if you are trapped in an intense lighting storm.

• RAMBLINGS: I’ve been realising how important dreams are as a way of processing stuff out of conscious awareness in a similar way to how therapeutic art does.

• ARTICLE: I am starting to miss being a total beginner at backgammon and reflect on the importance and beauty of inexpertise.

• WORKSHOP: 14th November - Masks.

• BUY: Get your hands on some lovely A3 and A4 limited prints of my globally viral “(Not a) Lost Cat” poster

• OPEN STUDIO: Come into my world and visit my studio in Kingston-Upon Thames from 11am-5pm on Saturday 15th November.

• MARKETS: I’ve some Christmas Markets coming up. 06th December Illustrator’s Fair in Kings X. 13th December Kazland’s Festive Martket in Guildford, 20th December Surbiton Farmer’s market in Surbiton,

• I share a photo of me with a lovely crab on a recent trip as a thank you to all of you who support my work financially. If you would like to, and can afford to, then there are a number of ways to do that: Buy stuff in my shop, become a patron of my studio or buy me a coffee (tip jar).

PODCAST VERSION OF THIS ISSUE

1. Hello

I had a bad trip in September. Not the kind of bad trip that I had back in my early 20s when I was trying to be Syd Barrett and took too much LSD. But a bad travelling trip.

For the second half of 2025 I’ve been trying to do things that support my mental wellbeing and give myself permission to spend more time being fascinated by the things that fascinate me. So, with this in mind, I decided to book a trip to the national marine reserve of Alonisos in Greece to do a week of snorkelling and spend time being fascinated by sea creatures.

To cut a long story short - it didn’t work out how I imagined it would. The weather in Alonisos was some of the wettest, coldest and windiest they had seen for some time which meant that snorkelling wasn’t possible for most of the week I was there. And because the weather was so bad the islanders had decided to shut down early for the winter meaning no boats, no busses and no places to visit to escape from my very small and dark apartment (with noisy neighbours right above). And to top it all off I got a bug or food poisoning on the second day of being there which meant that everything I tried to do had a horrible twinge of sickness to it.

All of this meant that instead of creatures, sunshine and sea, I spent most of the time stuck in my rather oppressive room becoming more and more anxious and plotting ways to come home early. (This wasn’t possible due to weather travel disruption, ferry strikes and not being able to move my flight.) It feels important to say at this point that I realise a “bad trip” of this nature really is a first world problem and I could be stuck in a much worse situation. And, at the same time, as an artist who has little disposable income to spend on things like this and as a human whose nervous system can easily get triggered into a spiral, it personally felt like a very challenging experience.

In the end I decided to abandon Alonisos and got a ferry to spend the last two days in Skiathos before flying back. The weather in Skiathos deteriorated even further with some of the heaviest rain I have ever seen and crazy thunderstorms. But on the final day before I flew back I woke up to beautifully warm sunshine and only a scattering of little white clouds. I even managed to eat breakfast outside on a little balcony for the first time in the week - something I had imagined doing every day of the trip. I wanted to make the most of this break in the weather so I did some quick research to find out if there was a remote beach I could hike to for one last snorkel. I spotted a place called Nikotsara beach which was about 6km from my Airbnb, packed my stuff and headed off.

The route to the beach was impressive. Once I left the main roads I saw no humans for an hour - only goats, sheep and the occasional dog guarding a scary looking farm. The path wound through some steep hills and down into a narrow tree-lined valley with a stream that flowed into the sea. The beach was exactly what I was looking for. Very remote with no humans for miles. The only problem was that the storm from the night before had churned the sea up so much that it was a bit too rough and murky for snorkelling so, rather than ending the trip with a dissatisfying snorkel, I decided that I would just enjoy sitting on the beach watching the waves for an hour or so.

Nikotsara beach has very steep cliffs either side of it. Huge grey slabs of jaggedy rocks, dotted with trees, shrubs and tufts of grass. As I surveyed the sheer slopes I spotted some mountain goats grazing on an impossible gradient. This fascinated me. These distant creatures weren’t just grazing, they were playing and running and jumping on a surface that I could barely imagine standing up on. It was as I watched the goats that I noticed the clouds descending down the valley. Dark, grey clouds that told me I was going to get very wet, very soon. Then, out of nowhere, there was a bright white flash of lightening and an almost instantaneous clap of thunder that made the goats scarper and a gang of hooded crows caw loudly and quickly fly off to find shelter. Hearing the almost deafening thunder and seeing the animals flee, I came to realise that I was situated on a very exposed beach, next to a huge body of water, surrounded by tall cliffs and trees and the only way to a safe shelter was back up to the top of the hill. I very quickly came to the conclusion that I was stuck and needed to take some sort of evasive action.

More deafening thunder crashed around the cliffs, followed by torrential rain, so I found a little cave-like bit of rock to hide in to try and keep dry and minimise the risk of getting struck by lightning. Creating a tent from my coat I did some phone research to find out whether sheltering in a cave by the sea was a good idea. I found lots of articles suggesting that it was in fact a very, very bad idea so I waited for the next clap of thunder and then scuttled away from the beach towards a clump of shrubs and brambles and leant against an earth bank which seemed like a more sensible thing to do. More under-the-coat phone research told me that this was only a marginally better alternative to the cave. So, as the lightning continued to crackle in the air, I looked for the lowest place possible and scampered into a sand/dirt ditch and adopted the lightning pose - a weird crouch on the balls of your feet with your hands up around your head that is a last resort to minimise chances of a lightning strike passing through your heart! (I admit I didn’t adopt the pose fully - one of my hands was trying to use my phone under my coat to find out more about lightning!)

As I crouched (or cowered) I read that most lightning strike casualties are caused by ground current where the current spreads across the ground (hence why the caves were a bad idea), that lightning often strikes the same place repeatedly (like at the top of the cliffs, which were my path to shelter) and that if lightning strikes sand or sandy soil (like where I was crouching) it creates Fulgurites - weird glass-like structures also known as fossilised lightning. I also read about strange phenomena of sensing lightning forming before it strikes through noticing static charges, buzzing sounds, a smell of ozone and St Elmo’s fire - a weird glow around objects. I became a bit obsessed as to whether I was noticing these things or just being very cold and wet. But most helpfully I learnt about the 30-30 rule for being caught in a lightning storm: seeking shelter if the gap between the flash and the sound is less than 30 seconds (for me it was around 2-5 seconds!) and waiting at least 30 minutes after the last clap of thunder before moving on. Whilst it was helpful to learn all of this it meant that I was crouched in my ditch for over an hour!

But what was most fascinating about this experience was that once I was no longer huddled, soaking wet and looking out for signs of static buildup, this whole incident became the highlight of the trip and I’m not exactly sure why. I’ve told lots of people the story of being on this beach and through doing so have realised that I actually found it incredibly exhilarating, even though there was a chance of death or serious injury. I think a big factor in this was the fact that the imminent danger was a phenomena of nature. I couldn’t create a story about my situation being bad because of the uncaring, unfair or inconsiderate actions of other humans. It was just nature doing what nature does and has done for way longer than humans have existed and I was getting to experience it close up and totally alone. This, coupled with my nerdy interest in wild and crazy weather and finding myself learning more about it, whilst being in the middle of it, felt deeply satisfying. (As I was crouched in the ditch I also recorded some live audio for the podcast version of this edition to help pass the time!)

The fish that makes dreams
Another unexpected highlight of the Alonisos trip was learning some weird facts about a common and unremarkable looking little Mediterranean fish. The fish is a salema porgy, one I recall seeing often in my scuba diving days. They were such a common sight when I dived in warmer waters that I ended up mentally categorising them as some kind of underwater pigeon - so common that they just become part of the background in a way that I no longer paid them much attention. (To be clear, I love pigeons. And salema porgy!)

On the few occasions when I managed to snorkel in Alonisos I saw big shoals of them and decided that they deserved as much of my curiosity as the other rarer species. As I had lots of time sitting in my room feeling ill and utterly bored I did a bit of research and it was when I typed salema porgy into a search engine that the weird and fascinating rabbit hole began to open up.

I learnt that in Arabic these little fish are known as “the fish that makes dreams” due to their hallucinogenic properties. I went on to read that salema porgy (latin name sarpa salpa) were consumed as a recreational drug in Roman times and used by Polynesians for ceremonial purposes. (I gleaned much of this information from this wonderful article in Atlas Obscura.)

But the bit that really grabbed my attention was an account from the Clinical Toxicology Journal about somebody who ate one of these fish in 1994:

“A 40-year-old man felt nauseated about two hours after enjoying fresh baked sarpa salpa on his vacation on the French Riviera. With symptoms like blurred vision, muscle weakness and vomiting persisting and worsening throughout the next day, he cut his vacation short and hopped in the car, only to realise mid-journey that he couldn’t drive with all the screaming animals distracting him. These giant arthropods—mere hallucinations, of course—were the last straw. The man directed himself to a hospital, where he recovered completely after 36 hours. He couldn’t recall a thing.”

There are other stories of people experiencing terrifying hallucinations, all of which seem to involve screaming creatures of some kind. But it seems nobody knows quite why eating salema porgy effects some people and not others making consuming them a bit of an alarming lottery. The freaky fish rabbit hole continued to open up as I looked up other weird effects seafood can have on humans. I learnt that ciguatoxin, sometimes found in reef fish like Baracuda, can cause a type of poisoning with strange effects such as phantom feelings, weeks of mood disturbances and the phenomena of hot/cold sensations being reversed! I also learnt that amnesic Shellfish Poisoning can cause short term memory loss.

Whilst I appreciate these are rare cases and eating sea creatures is generally safe, reading all of this made me extra glad that I am vegetarian as I am somewhat terrified of something like that happening to me. I think it is one of the deepest fears that I have - experiencing a sudden, unexplained change in my perception and thinking I am going crazy and not knowing why. I think I’ve had this fear since I was a child but it was certainly exaggerated by the Syd Barrett/LSD experience I referred to earlier, where I took too much LSD and temporarily “broke my brain”. (I told the full story about this onstage for One Track Minds at Wilton’s Music Hall back in 2019 which you can listen to here.) It was a very scary time not knowing if and when the experience of feeling so mentally broken and paranoid would end. I think it lasted for a few weeks but felt like a lot longer. However, the fascinating thing about this episode of temporary insanity was that it all ended when I had a strange dream.

The contents of the dream are somewhat irrelevant and I don’t know if I could explain them or even remember exactly what happened. But what I remember was having the dream, waking up suddenly with my body full of adrenaline, feeling like something significant had occurred and then noticing that my cognition and perception had dramatically returned to normal. I can only conclude that whatever happened in the dream was my body and brain’s way of processing or experiencing or synthesising something that I couldn’t do consciously in order to restore some sort of healthy balance.

I had a similar dream experience recently. Not related to LSD, which I have not been anywhere near since that incident. But related to some stuff I had been perpetually finding hard in my day to day life - feelings, thoughts and anxieties that felt old and unresolved and manifested in a number of difficult ways. I woke from this recent dream in a much more dramatic way. My body was in deep fight or flight and I genuinely felt like something terrible had happened to me. This feeling stayed with me for a couple of days and only started to dissipate when I wrote the dream down and started to tell others about it. Unusually for me I remembered a lot of the detail of the dream which meant I could reflect on it more deeply. I did drawings from it and wrote down all of the different elements of it - the dialogue, the locations, the characters, the symbols and metaphors. And the more I did this, the more those previously difficult feelings and thoughts dissolved or resolved in some way. I started to realise what I had initially experienced as a very disturbing dream might have been an important cognitive intervention.

Gestalt psychology talks about disorders arising from incomplete gestalts - previous experiences (often from childhood) in which our needs were unmet in such a way that their incompleteness sits undigested in our psyche. These incomplete gestalts can manifest in all sorts of psychological and physical ways and whilst they may resolve themselves naturally, often we need gestalt or other forms of therapy to help process them. So I can only think that this horrible dream was my brain doing the work needed in order to help complete these gestalts and resolve something within me. But beyond this hypotheses I have little understanding of what happened and why it seems to have helped so much. Nor do I really need to.

I experience a similar thing when working 1:1 with others using art, metaphor and rich pictures. I often invite people to make sense of things they are grappling with non-verbally by making marks on a page or paint on a canvas or by squishing a bit of clay or by making a movement. This way of working is an important part of the inner critic workshops I co-facilitate with Simon Cavicchia in which we support others in making sense of and integrating elements of our self-critical super ego. Often in this work somebody will create something and be utterly transformed by it. I’ve seen people sit back and say “Wow! That makes so much sense” or “This changes everything” and all I can see on the page is a series of blobs, lines, squiggles and symbols. The point is that it only needs to make sense to them and sometimes they don’t even know why it has helped.

I’ve started to appreciate that REM sleep must serve a similar function in re-experiencing, integrating, processing, synthesising and resolving sometimes problematic stuff out of conscious awareness. There’s a number of strands of neuroscience research that suggest that during REM sleep the brain replays emotionally charged experiences in a neuro-chemical environment that feels more safe and secure than waking consciousness. In the paper Overnight therapy? The Role of Sleep in Emotional Brain Processing the authors suggest that “REM provides an optimal biological theatre, within which, can be achieved a form of affective ‘therapy’.”

I wonder how many dreams I have had that have done this important work but I have totally forgotten them. And does it really matter that I have forgotten them if the work they needed to do has already been done? I also wonder the the same things about making therapeutic art - does it really need to make sense to anyone other than the artist? And does it even need to make sense to them? In my experience, the point of therapeutic art is the process and not the finished thing.

Arnie Biesser’s paradoxical theory of change has been a big influence on my work. It basically says that we change more through deepening awareness of who we already are rather than striving to be something we are not. What I love about this concept is that it means that there is never any homework to do or actions to complete - the work has been done through the experience itself.

We don’t need to hand in our dreams for marking any more than we need others to evaluate or understand our art. It is just for us, even if we don’t fully understand it.

2. Beautiful inexpertise

In 1970 a group of students at the Portsmouth School of Art formed an unusual orchestra called The Portsmouth Sinfonia. Anyone could join the orchestra as long as you played an instrument that you had little or no expertise in. Other than that the rules were to show up for rehearsals, try your best and don’t play deliberately badly. The results of this weird experiment were phenomenal as demonstrated in their incredible rendition of Also sprach Zarathustra. But what I find most most fascinating about the Sinfonia’s story is that the more popular they became and the more concerts they played, their abilities accidentally improved and their beautiful, natural-born wonkiness slowly eroded. In the end the Sinfonia disbanded because they got too good! (I tell the story of the Sinfonia in this 2022 talk if you’d like to hear more.)

The story of the sinfonia has inspired me in many ways. It is a cautionary tale of the dangers of inadvertently becoming too accomplished or expert in such way that the edge of not knowing and naive wonder that I find so stimulating disappears. The sinfonia also influenced me directly when I did a weird social experiment called Inexpert back in 2018. Inexpert arose from the curious question “I wonder what the opposite of TED would be?” I have a complicated and somewhat contradictory relationship with TED/TEDx. I’ve done a couple of talks under the brand but also have come to believe that the whole thing has become a parody of itself. The cult of TED seems to have created a particular type of overly-formulaic public speaking that I experience as anything from dull to problematic. So Inexpert was an experiment in flipping the norms of TED just to see what happened.

I’ve long thought that most conferences have it the wrong way round. The norm seems to be that speakers, who are generally regarded as holding a greater level of expertise than those in the audience, go up on stage and demonstrate this expertise in the form of answers, or models or theories. The audience then decide whether that satisfies them or not in an often black and white gladiatorial thumbs up/thumbs down manner. In other words, the audience have a rather passive role in the whole thing.

If I am doing a talk I always consider it my job to make the audience do the hard work. To not try and provide any answers or sense of concreteness, but to simply tell stories in such a way that it coaxes those listening into a space of not knowing. An experience of confusion, surprise and wonder in which they can make their own unique meaning of what I am inviting them to ponder. (Hopefully they also enjoy and are entertained by the stories I tell.) Often people will leave with more questions than answers, but bigger and broader questions than they came in with. (All of this goes some way to explain why my talks are an acquired taste in the tangible, scalable, measurable take-away obsessed corporate world!)

So, on the 11th May 2018 Inexpert happened. I hired a 100 seater Covent Garden theatre and recruited 16 speakers to speak on subjects that they were interested in but had no expertise or experience of. The recruitment process for this was fascinating. Around 100 people applied to the open call and the applications I received fell into three different categories. Firstly, there were people who clearly just apply to every open call! I had applicants proposing they would talk about their new way of thinking about B2B marketing, or give a seminar critiquing agile methodology, or a keynote in which they proposed to share 5 secrets of how to lead in complex times. Needless to say, all of these applications went in the bin. The second category of applicants was fascinating though. Almost 60% of those who applied proposed that they would talk about the importance of inexpertness or about the value of not knowing. These also went in the bin as I didn’t want people to talk about any of this…I wanted them to embody and experience inexpertise live on stage whilst being witnessed by an audience. (I may write more about the phenomena of aboutism in a future issue as it is something that I encounter on an almost daily basis that I think is endemic in creative stuckness.)

The third category was the one that excited me. These were people who seemed to get what I was wanting to experiment with. I remember one guy applied and said “I have always loved robots since I was a kid but I know **** all about them”. I selected him, alongside 15 others who proposed talks on subjects ranging from calculus to looking after a baby to playing tennis. It was important to me that everything about Inexpert embodied inexpertise. For a start, I had never done anything like this before so I had no real idea what I was doing and the John Lyons theatre had never hosted an event like this. I set out to recruit brilliant volunteers to do roles outside the realms of their experience. The person who filmed all the talks had never operated a video camera before. The stage manager had no idea what a stage manager’s role was. The people running the ticket office were brilliant psychotherapists and authors but had never run a ticket office before. But for me the highlight was the inexpert contribution of my friend Nick Parker. Nick is a brilliant guitarist, a deeply experienced writer and a great speaker. But when Nick told me he had been learning to play the trumpet for just six weeks I instantly recruited him to play all of the music for Inexpert live on stage.

The event sold out within a few weeks (it was all not for profit) and on that sunny May afternoon Nick took to the stage to open Inexpert by playing his own rendition of Also sprach Zarathustra - a perfect embodiment of what this weird experiment was all about. What followed was a beautiful and bizarre afternoon. There was laughter, tears, confusion. There was awkwardness, and insight as well as panic and mild physical pain as tennis balls ended up getting randomly hit into the audience. (I had suggested to the person giving a talk on tennis that they should also try to play tennis on stage at the same time to make their talk even more inexpert). But what was most fascinating was that, as all the norms of a conference had been flipped and exploded, new patterns emerged. The normal status dynamics between speaker and audience dissolved as everyone was in this weird space of not knowing together. In fact, the audience felt more anxious and awkward than the speakers at various points. (At one point an audience member felt so uncomfortable that they got up to hug one of the speakers who was giving a long and excruciating talk on nothing, using no words.)

Lots of people wrote blogs and articles about Inexpert 2018 but most said that they could not sufficiently describe the experience other than it was a beautiful and bizarre afternoon of being flawed but willing human beings together. And of course, as the event was considered a success by everyone who attended I was asked several times “When’s the next one going to be?” to which I had to reply “It can never happen again as I have an idea of what I am doing now!”

I learnt from Inexpert 2018 that there is a bitter-sweetness to doing something for the first time. The sweetness comes from that edge-of-the-seat excitement and adrenaline of working it out as you go and learning an incredible amount as you do so. And the bitterness comes from knowing that you can never do that thing for the first time ever again.

All of this came back to me this week as I reflected on the experimental Back Gaemen project I have been doing for the last few months. The intention of this project was to experiment with finding ways of meeting and interacting with new people that felt less socially awkward for me. It has been such a great experience so far - I’ve met lots of people and made some new friends. But one thing I have noticed is that I am accidentally getting better at playing Backgammon, which was never my intention.

At the start of the project I had only played a few games with the old Iranian guy who taught me it in a pub. But at the time of writing this I have now played over 50 games with 18 different people which has meant that my experience level has increased and I am winning more games than I lose. I have come to realise that I really don’t like this. Part of the thrill of the project at the beginning was my genuine lack of expertise in the game. I was inviting people to come into a space of not knowing with me, especially if the other person also hadn’t played before. Even if my opponent was experienced I still got a thrill from losing and experiencing a wonderful kind of backgammon naivety. I am certainly not claiming that I am a backgammon master after 50 games, but I notice a sadness that I am no longer a true beginner. This increase in experience and expertise has changed the nature of the project for me and makes me wonder how much longer I will continue it for.

Malcolm Gladwell famously claimed that people need 10,000 hours of experience to achieve world-class expertise. I’ve no idea how true this is, but what I do know is that I am less interested in the experience of 10,000 hours and more interested in the experience of 10 hours! Ten hours being the amount of time Nick had to practice the trumpet before performing at Inexpert. Ten hours being my first ten sessions of the Back Gaemen project. Ten hours being that beautiful sweet spot that exists between no expertise and just enough expertise to feel safe enough to fully commit to something whilst still experiencing the effervescent creative thrill of the beginners mind.

3. (Not a) lost cat limited edition prints

Back in 2021 I spotted a lost cat poster in the woods. Whilst it was sad that somebody had lost their cat I couldn’t help but notice how majestic the picture was of the animal. Tall, proud, slightly cross-eyed. The picture made me wonder whether the cat was actually lost or whether the owners were just showing off what a great cat they had.

When I got home I painted my own version of the poster to stave off boredom for an hour or so. A few days later I took a bunch of posters and put them in random places around London. Surprisingly they elicited a remarkable response with photos of my (Not a) Lost Cat popping up on social media and people asking if they could have a copy to put up somewhere. From that point on the project took on a life of its own with posters spreading across the globe and appearing in 56 countries across all seven continents.

Whilst this has been an incredibly exciting project, it has cost me a lot of time and money and recent changes to international shipping, unfathomable EU custom charges and US import tariffs have started to make the objective of sending free/cheap posters to anyone, anywhere around the world untenable. So this month I decided to end the project intentionally and lovingly rather than let it slowly be suffocated by politics/capitalism.

But, even though the posters are no longer available to buy there are some very lovely limited edition prints of the artwork available in my shop in both A3 and A4 sizes printed on high quality art paper. Only 250 of each size are available and are hand numbered and signed which makes them much more collectable than the original posters. (And I actually make a bit of money from them!)

..:: BUY “(NOT A) LOST CAT” LIMITED PRINTS HERE ::.

4. Open Studio - Welcome to my world

On the 15th November I will be throwing open the doors of Studio Two for anyone who wants to come and visit. This is part of the official Koppel Kingston Open Studio so, as well as coming to see me, you can visit up to 38 brilliant artists in their studios at the same time.

I will have my little shop set up with discounted studio prices for original art, prints, books, t-shirts, badges (etc). Or you can just come and have a look at what I’ve been up to and chat about whatever you want.

There’s no need to book - just show up on the day between 11am-5pm to:

Koppel Kingston
29 Thames Street
Kingston-upon-Thames
KT1 0PH
11am- 5pm
Saturday 15th November 2025

If you would like more info then e-mail me at stevexoh@gmail.com.

5. Markets

I like doing markets and also find them exhausting. So a couple of years back I decided to only say yes to markets that were cool and interesting. Unfortunately there are a lot of cool and interesting markets, especially around Christmas time, so I have once again ended up saying yes to wayyy too many.

If you’d like to come along and visit me at a market and buy some unique festive gifts then here’s where I will be.

Saturday December 6th: Illustrator’s Fair
Kings Cross, London
.:: MORE INFO ::.

Saturday December 13th: Kazland’s Art Martket
New House Art Space, Guildford, Surrey
.:: MORE INFO ::.

Saturday December 20th: Surbiton Farmer’s Market
Maple Road, Surbiton KT6
.:: MORE INFO ::.

6. Workshops

Just the one workshop left for 2025 and there’s only a few places left on it. I’m working on new dates for 2026 and will hopefully have a load more to tell you about soon.

Mask Workshop
14th November 2025
Bloomsbury, London
£130 + VAT. Limited to 10 attendees. (ONLY 3 PLACES LEFT)

This is my absolute favourite workshop to run - so much so that I can only do them four times a year as they are so brilliant and intense that I need to lay down for a few days afterwards!

Basically it is a day of using masks to explore parts of our personality that we have lost touch with or didn’t know existed. We will spend the morning getting to know different masks and the afternoon putting them in different playful and bizarre scenarios and situations.

Previous participants say:

“It is like getting access to un-owned or repressed parts of your personality”
“Simply the best workshop ever.”
“Possibly the most liberating experience you might ever have.”
“I’ll never forget the bits of me I met for the first time at the mask workshop.”
“Very weird. In a very, very good way.”
“A truly magical experience”
“It is like going home with a bunch of new friends inside yourself!”

To keep it playful and intimate the workshop is limited to just 10 places so if you’d like to come along then grab a place ASAP as they sell out quickly.

..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.

7. Support my work

Here’s a picture of me with a crab. I was able to go and visit this crab thanks to the wonderful people who support my work financially.

I write this substack and do my podcast for free as I want it to be accessible for everyone with no additional content or perks for those who can afford to pay. All of my weird projects such as Inexpert, Sound of Silence and the Back Gaemen project are all not for profit and most end up costing me money.

All of which is a waffly and slightly shy way of saying - I need to earn a living so when you support my work financially it means so much. Be that buying me a coffee for £1, buying a big bit of original art or becoming a patron of my studio.

If you would like to and can afford to do this then there are a number of ways you can support my work. (And if you can’t afford it then this Substack will always be free just for you.)

1. Buy some art from my shop. I have a big selection of prints, original art, books, badges, t-shirts, posters and more.
   .:: VISIT MY SHOP HERE ::.
   

2. Become a patron of my studio. For a one-off donation of your choice you become an official patron with a badge, a certificate, a behind the scenes blog and your name added to the scroll of honour in the window of the studio.
   .:: BECOME A PATRON HERE ::.
   

3. Buy me a coffee. Like a tip jar.
   .:: BUY ME A COFFEE HERE::.

Thank you

Steve
❤️🦀

• Having felt sad at how people were treating crabs on a recent beach trip I created a little educational zine entitled “Be kind to crabs”.

• RAMBLINGS: A creative slump for me is more than not just being able to make art and I am learning to fully embrace it as an important part of my creative practice.

• ARTICLE: Learning to see the world as strange restores it as a potential place of wonder. And the world needs a lot more wonder right now.

• WORKSHOP: Masks - 14th November

• BUY: What the February?! books make the idea festive gift.

• THE BACK GAEMEN PROJECT: Want to play Backgammon with me as part of a weird social experiment?

• PODCAST: Chris Nichols and I had a lovely chat about life, creativity and weird art projects on his About Time podcast.

• If you would like to financially support my work from as little as £1 there are a number of ways to do that: Buy stuff in my shop, become a patron of my studio or buy me a coffee (tip jar).
  

PODCAST VERSION OF THIS ISSUE

1. Hello

In early September I decided to do a last minute road trip with Poppy the dog. Due to life circumstances and my flat’s lease not permitting pets I don’t get to see her much any more, so when I spotted a discounted Aribnb cancellation to stay in a beach hut right by the sea I jumped at the opportunity. Poppy and I had an amazing 36 hours there. We lay on the beach, swam, played silly chasing games and snoozed and flopped like contented seals with the sound of crashing waves underscoring the whole experience. We also watched the harvest moon rise and eclipse over a beautifully dark and inky sea.

The next morning we went looking for crabs together. If you’ve read previous issues you probably know that crabs are one of my favourite creatures and have been since I was a kid. Living in London I don’t get to see them very often (especially since the jackdaws stole my shell collection) so any time I am near the sea I get ridiculously excited about catching a glimpse of my beloved decapods. Often I will just observe a rock pool or I might use a net with some bacon in it to lure them out and marvel at their beauty. I go out of my way to treat them with respect and care and dignity. If I do pick them up for a closer look I do so gently and ensure that I pay them glowing compliments before returning them to where I found them.

It makes me really sad when I see people treating crabs badly. I abhor the mistreatment of any creature but there is something in particular about crabs. I think it might be the general lack of understanding or interest or knowledge about crabs that most people have. Or that because crabs aren’t cute and fluffy they are perceived as a lower-order species that don’t need as much care and consideration - closer to a walking rock than a sentient being. Or maybe it is because crab fishing is a tradition that is passed on between generations without anyone really stopping to think “I wonder how the creatures are feeling about all of this?” (In a similar way to the tradition of feeding bread to birds.)

I had all of this on my mind when Poppy and I went for a walk to a local harbour and observed groups of people crab fishing and doing things that I know distress the crabs. (Like having a bucket full of around 10-20 crabs, throwing them back into the water from a great height, keeping the bucket in direct sunlight - I could go on.) I also got annoyed by a parent confidently telling a group of kids that crabs are amphibians and can breathe on land just like frogs! (Crabs are crustaceans and have gills under their carapace just like fish.)

I realised that this was starting to feel like a bit of an intense experience for me - a combination of my ethics about creatures mixing with a very specialised and almost obsessive special interest in crabs, all topped off with a general social awkwardness. I really wanted to talk to these people. To tell them some crab facts and how they could be kinder and more considerate of these creature’s needs. But as always in these kind of situations I just cannot fathom out how to do it without coming across either as aggressive/angry or like some sort of lunatic. I was extra paralysed by how many people were crab fishing. There were around 10 groups, each with between 2-5 humans and a big bucket of stressed out crabs. I thought maybe I could stand on a bench and make an announcement. Shouting out some crab facts and care tips like a carcinologist town crier. I imagined making a placard or wearing a sandwich board and having leaflets. Maybe dressing up as a crab in order to show that I meant it all in a friendly and educational way.

In the end I did what I always do and just let my emotions gnaw away inside of me, did nothing and left with a crab-shaped sadness in my heart. A frustration at my inaction and a vague hope that the heavy rain looming on the horizon would encourage the humans to leave very soon.

What I did do was make a little zine about ethical crab fishing when I got home which made me feel better. I think I will make some copies of it to take with me and hand out next time I go to such a place. That way I can disseminate the information and flee before anyone tries to interact with me! (If you’d like to support the cause you can print off your own copy of the zine here.)

Creative slump
I’ve been thinking a lot about creative slump recently, having found myself in a rather big one during August. It is a recurring thing for me, but this time I experimented by sharing my experience of it a bit more overtly. As a result of this I got a number of supportive and encouraging messages from people telling me that it would soon pass and that I would soon be making more fabulous art once again. These messages were nice to receive and its always good to hear that my art means something to others. But these messages also caused me to reflect on the fact that my experience of a creative slump is so much more than just a diminishing of my artistic output.

One of the things that has become more noticeable over the last 15 years since I set out to work for myself and live a life more aligned to my creative philosophies is that the boundaries between different parts seem to have dissolved. I find it hard to distinguish between what is work and what isn’t work. (Which is different to distinguishing between what earns and doesn’t earn me money - which is very easy to do!) I also find it hard hard to distinguish between which mode of “work” I am doing. At various different times I am in a different mode of being an artist, a podcaster, an audio producer, a coach, a consultant, a speaker, an academic, a writer, a facilitator (and so on.) All of these forms feel like slightly different patternings of the same thing for me. Simply different moments of spontaneous self-expression. I find labels problematic, especially labels to do with who I am and what I do which is why I gave up on the idea of having a neat and eloquent elevator pitch many years back. (My friend and colleague Charlotte Sills once told me “Labelling is the last thing you do when you make jam!”)

This lack of boundaried division really works for me. I find it means that I can settle more into a continual flow of my experience without having to make clunky feeling adjustments from one ill-fitting label to the next. But often others find this lack of boundaried division concerning. What about my work-life balance? Where is the leisure time and the hobbies? When do I relax? Don’t work too hard! And whilst I appreciate the concern I can’t help but notice that it all arises from the social construction of the “work vs life balance” - a concept which I appreciate is helpful for some but I simply cannot relate to in any meaningful way. (And I have some suspicions about how this whole work-life separation thing might actually be an unhealthy philosophy to live our lives by.)

But even though I find it hard to relate to this concept, my resilience and wellbeing are very important to me. So rather than paying attention to the balance between work vs life, the important thing is whether my activities balance out in terms of energy, meaning and spirit. Whilst this isn’t a well thought through theory, these three factors feel like they are key components of my own resilience and wellbeing. Some activities expend more than others and some are more renewing than others. But most of the time, I can find that sweet spot where my day to day experience involves cycles of expending and renewingnthat overall keep me in the black. (My friend Rowan Gray was instrumental in helping me to learn this when he wired me up with a heart rate variability monitor back in 2017 which gave me undeniable day to day data about how my body and nervous system were doing over the period of a very intense week.)

But every now and then this balance starts to slip. It tends to creep up on me ever so gradually with different experiences and life circumstances slowly eroding my energy, meaning and spirit until I suddenly realise that I am sliding down a slippery slope. And by the time I notice this is happening I realise there is little I can do about it. My capacity to maintain the fine balance begins ebbing away and the more effort I put into trying to fight against the downward trajectory, the more energy I expend and the worse it gets. And that’s when I start to hit what I call the creative slump. (Which feels like a much nicer way of describing what is likely a combination of stress, anxiety, depression, physical depletion and burnout.)

It is when this happens that the lack of boundaries between the different parts of my life become problematic. Rather than just my artistic output suffering, everything does. As everything I do is essentially part of the same stream of creative self expression literally everything becomes heavy and hard and I just have to go into some sort of standby or safe mode, preserving only the vital processes like eating, drinking and exercise and wait for the dark clouds to slowly lift. And it is is this process of sitting with the slump that I am fascinated by.

I have learnt that, for me, the only way out of the slump is to learn to fully surrender to it. To deeply experience the thoughts, feelings, emotions and sensations of being in the slump as fully as possible. To acknowledge them, be curious about them but not try to change them in any way. I find comfort in the buddhist mantra that “the obstacle becomes the path” and this philosophy helps me immensely in these moments. To move towards the thing that I am trying to resist or escape from. It always feels counter-intuitive but as Eckhart Tolle suggests “what you resist, persists.”

This philosophy of surrender helps me in ways that I do not fully understand. It feels like through doing this I emerge from a slump having shed some layers that needed shedding. Maybe feeling closer and more connected to the raw and vulnerable core of my creative self-expression. Maybe the creative slump is actually like some sort of instinctual hibernation - a call to withdraw and shut down temporarily and enter some strange and difficult metamorphic state in order to emerge lighter and more full of wonder on the other side. A lot of exciting things tend to emerge from the slump. Big projects, experimental ideas, a renewed enthusiasm and fascination with the weirdness of life. This Substack, the podcast, the Back Gaemen project, my trip to the beach hut with Poppy and lots of other things that I feel motivated, intrigued and excited by right now have emerged from the most recent slump.

And whilst I can never think as clearly and hopefully as this when I am actually in the slump, it feels helpful to recognise the cyclical nature of it and to maybe think of it more as a natural and necessary part of the ongoing flow of my experience.

2. Learning to see the world as strange

I only ever half-read books, even ones that I am really interested in, and “How to Teach Quantum Physics to Your Dog” by Chad Orzel is one of them. I didn’t stop reading it because I didn’t like it - I just find books hard work so it is easy to get distracted and forget I was reading them.

But one paragraph from this book has stuck with me ever since:

”Quantum mechanics seems baffling and troubling to humans because it confounds our common-sense expectations about how the world works. Dogs are a much more receptive audience. The everyday world is a strange and marvellous place to a dog and the predictions of quantum theory are no stranger or more marvellous than, say, the operation of a doorknob.”

For me this passage beautifully articulates the concept of wonder, a word I have grown to adore and a word that seems wistfully absent in our modern day to day lives. We are born into an experience of wonder where nothing makes sense, meaning is fleeting and, if we feel safe and secure enough, everything is an object of fascination and curiosity. And then, as we learn the way the world works and our perceived place in it, that raw and visceral wonder is gradually replaced by knowledge. And the sadness for me in all of this is that human wonder can be such a powerful force for change, connection, dialogue, empathy and creativity in all areas of humanity. But it seems the concept of wonder sits in a stark opposition to the powerful positivist forces of logic, strategy, agency and expertise which have become the largely unquestioned norms of what it means to be a productive, effective and mature adult human being. Wonder gets consigned to the sidelines only to be indulged in when the important, tangible and real work has been sufficiently completed.

I have come to believe that the practice of not knowing sits at the heart of nurturing wonder. It is the most important (and difficult) practice in my own life and lies at the core of work I do with others. Whether I am doing a talk, running a workshop, facilitating a group or working 1:1 with somebody, if we are unable to nurture our ability to not-know together then the creative potential of the work feels significantly dampened. (This is why I aim for my talks and workshops to fascinate, intrigue but not really make sense.)

During the 2020 lockdown, in my old Art Bunker studio, I had a quote by Frederich Nietzche on my wall that said “Learning to see the world as strange makes us unhome in the everyday and thereby restores it as a potential place of wonder.” I had this on the wall because I was doing a lot of online workshops and would regularly refer to it but also because it really spoke to me in a number of ways. Each element of it seemed to articulate exactly why the practice of not knowing had become so important to me:

“Learning to see the world as strange…” - the importance of continually challenging the things I have come to regard as normal or real. To question what Alfred North Whitehead referred to as “the fallacy of misplaced concreteness”. To strive to experience at least a tiny fraction of my day-to-day experience in the spirit of the dog in Chad Orzel’s book. To gaze at a tree or a spider or a car from a state that genuinely enables me to think and feel “what the **** is that thing?!

“…makes us unhome in the everyday…” - the importance of confusion, dissonance, disorientation (etc) as a vitally important part of our human experience and a sign we are on the edge of not knowing. To develop a tolerance of these experiences and regard them as being as important as clarity, lucidity and certainty. To develop enough of a sense of safety to allow ourselves to sit in the unhomeness for a little bit longer each time and seek experiences that engender this. To start to realise that these experiences aren’t necessarily a sign that something is going wrong but are in fact a sign that we are on the edge of something new.

“..and thereby restores it as a potential place of wonder.” - this final phrase beautifully ties up the whole quote and encapsulates the importance of not knowing. We are not practicing not knowing as an act of self-flagellation or to develop some sort of stoic resilience - we are doing it because it starts to shift our experience of reality to be one that glistens and sparkles a little bit more. To encounter everyday wonder in a such a way that it energises and motivates us to take action, play, experiment.

In her essay entitled “On the Value of Not Knowing – Wonder, Beginning Again and Letting Be”, Rachel Jones suggests that one of the major challenges facing artists is to resist the desire to reduce the strange to the familiar. She proposes that a vital part of any artist’s practice is “remaining open to the strangeness, being prepared to lose ourselves in the encounter [and] risking not knowing as the condition of possible transformation.” I think this is wonderful invitation, not just for artists, but for any human wishing to live a life more imbued with creativity, adventure and wonder.

3. What the February?! - the perfect festive gift

Back in 2020 I had the curious question “I wonder what would happen if I asked people on Instagram to do weird things?” and What the February?! came into existence. Every February for four years I posted a daily weird, creative challenge and people around the world did them. Some of the challenges were art-like, some were movement-like, some were strange social experiments but, no matter what I posted, I was amazed by the things people made and did.

I like all of my projects to end well, intentionally and at a peak so I killed off the What the February?! Instagram challenge in 2023. It was only then that I realised that the last four years of WTFEB had in fact been research for a lovely weird little book of creative challenges that went on to become one of my best selling items in my shop.

So, this is a pre-emptive seasonal/festive plug for it and to suggest that it makes the ideal gift for somebody you love, like, hate or are largely indifferent to. You could buy an entire set for your team. Or just one for yourself to dip into whenever the world feels too normal and restrictive.

..:: BUY A COPY HERE ::.

5. Be part of the Back Gaemen Project

Back in July I awkwardly went to a board games event in a pub, met an old Iranian guy who taught me how to play Backgammon and a new weird social experiment/project was born - “I wonder what would happen if I asked strangers to play Backgammon with me?”

Do you want to be a part of it? The structure is really simple: we meet in person, we play between 1-3 games of Backgammon, I draw an imperfect portrait of you that you get to keep and we co-create a haiku about our experience.

I wrote more about this project in a previous issue of this Substack if you’d like to know the full backstory.

And you don’t have to be a stranger or somebody I haven’t met before to take part. I just want to get a nice balance of experiences between people I know and people I don’t.

Get in touch if you would like to be a part of it.

..:: MORE INFO ABOUT THE BACK GAEMEN PROJECT HERE ::.

5. About Time podcast

Chris Nichols and I have only met a few times but each time it has been through serendipity and accidentally finding ourselves in the same place at the same time.

So I was delighted when he recently invited me onto his About Time podcast to chat about life, art and the importance of having people who see something magical in your weirdness. I also shared some stories about the origins of some of my strange, experimental projects.

..:: LISTEN ON SPOTIFY HERE ::.

6. Workshops

Just the one workshop left for 2025. I’ll start to get some dates in for 2026 very soon.

Mask Workshop
14th November 2025
Bloomsbury, London
£130 + VAT. Limited to 10 attendees. (ONLY 4 PLACES LEFT)

This is my absolute favourite workshop to run - so much so that I can only do them four times a year as they are so brilliant and intense that I need to lay down for a few days afterwards!

Basically it is a day of using masks to explore parts of our personality that we have lost touch with or didn't know existed. We will spend the morning getting to know different masks and the afternoon putting them in different playful and bizarre scenarios and situations.

Previous participants say:

“It is like getting access to un-owned or repressed parts of your personality”
“Simply the best workshop ever.”
“Possibly the most liberating experience you might ever have.”
“I’ll never forget the bits of me I met for the first time at the mask workshop.”
“Very weird. In a very, very good way.”
"A truly magical experience"
"It is like going home with a bunch of new friends inside yourself!"

To keep it playful and intimate the workshop is limited to just 10 places so if you'd like to come along then grab a place ASAP as they sell out quickly.

..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.

5. Support my work

Thank you to everyone who reads this that bought me a coffee recently. I appreciate every single donation no matter how much it is. It means a lot to know that you appreciate my work and want to support it financially.

I write this Substack for free as it has become somewhat therapeutic for me and I want everyone to be able to have access to it. I also do the podcast for free and all of my weird creative projects are deliberately not-for-profit. But I still have a need to earn enough money to sustain this work so if you can afford it and would like to support me financially there are a number of ways you can do this from as little as £1.

1. Buy some art from my shop. I have a big selection of prints, original art, books, badges, t-shirts, posters and more.
   .:: VISIT MY SHOP HERE ::.
   

2. Become a patron of my studio. For a one-off donation of your choice you become an official patron with a badge, a certificate, a behind the scenes blog and your name added to the scroll of honour in the window of the studio.
   .:: BECOME A PATRON HERE ::.
   

3. Buy me a coffee. Like a tip jar.
   .:: BUY ME A COFFEE HERE::.

• The jackdaws have started bringing their babies to my windowsill. (And they stole my collection of crab shells!)

• RAMBLINGS: I realised that given the length of this substack I wouldn’t read it but would listen to an audio version and then realised that I had accidentally created a podcast that you can listen to here.

• ARTICLE: A quantum flirt has lead me to playing Backgammon with strangers in what might be an interesting new project. Click here if you want to be a part of it.

• WORKSHOP: 26th September Super Secret Musical Improv

• WORKSHOP: 14th November Masks.

• BUY: Three lovely screen-printed t-shirts available in my shop.

• WORK WITH ME: I’ve got capacity for talks, workshop and 1:1 work for the autumn/winter. E-mail me if you’re interested.

• A childhood photo of me invites you to support my work: Buy stuff in my shop, become a patron of my studio or buy me a coffee (tip jar).

1. Hello

I’ve had bird feeders on the windowsills of my flat for a couple of years now and have a regular bunch of creatures who come to visit me every day. (I illustrated a short story about them all entitled “The Windowsill Gang”.) However, I recently noticed that the jackdaws had started to look a bit malnourished, scruffy and with different coloured eyes (sometimes two dark eyes, sometimes one dark and one light). I wondered if it was to do with the weird temperature fluctuations we’ve been having in the UK. Or if it might be bird flu? But then I saw a big jackdaw chatting to one of the weird ones and putting some mealworms down near it and realised that it was a baby! (A toddler is probably a more accurate comparison). This was very exciting as I realised I was witnessing a generational handover at the little bird restaurant I had created. Since then I’ve loved watching the weird scruffy ones turn into very gangly and somewhat goofy looking teenagers. Getting close to wild creatures in this way really satisfies something in me and gives me a sense of meaning that I find hard to get elsewhere. (Although they are in my bad books at the moment because they seem to have stolen my selection of crab shells from a little shelf right by the open window.)

I always start these Substack things with the TL;DR section (Which, if you didn’t know, is an abbreviation for “too long, didn’t read”). The intention of this is to give people the opportunity to browse what is in each issue and to see if there is anything that grabs their interest without having to read through the whole thing. But whilst writing the one for this issue I realised that, even though I write this thing and am deeply fascinated by the content, I probably wouldn’t read it! Whilst I can read and have read extensively in the past I find it hard work and it requires a lot of energy and concentration to focus and absorb the words in the order they are intended without getting too tired or suddenly following a tangental thought that takes me away from the piece. So, I tend to not read much anymore. But I do listen to audiobooks.

This made me realise that there must be many others out there who are similar. People who might be interested in the content of this substack but find that the medium of the written word doesn’t work for them as well. Accessibility is important to me so I thought that maybe I could record an audio version of each issue that people could listen to. But where would I put it? Ahhh…I know, I can use a broadcasting platform like Buzzsprout that is normally used for podcasts. Then, as a I read back over the previous issues I realised I’d need to modify the content a bit to transition it from written word to spoken word. And I’m never that excited by (or very good at) reading scripts so maybe I’d just use the themes from the written version and talk meanderingly about them rather than read them word for word. I laughed at my chain of though when I realised that what had started as an idea to record an accessible audio version of my newsletter had actually turned into a podcast.

Prior to this realisation I had absolutely zero desire to do a podcast. (I sort of still don’t have any desire to do one - I just want an accessible, audio version of this!) I’ve hosted, curated and produced a number of podcasts in the past and whilst I enjoyed them I’ve also found them hard work and very time consuming. Between 2018-2020 I was the host of Sound of Silence - the world’s first silent podcast featuring special guests in which I travelled round the UK recording face to face silence with 100 different people. Then in 2024 jdwoof and I produced and presented The Glen Dye Podcast - a series of short, themed episodes celebrating art, nature, food, foraging and all that is great about this area of Scotland. And since 2023 I’ve been the producer of One in Six Billion - a fascinating podcast about diabetes and genes presented by two amazingly knowledgable and maverick professors. (I knew very little about either of these subjects before taking on this job.)

But there was something about the idea of doing a podcast inspired by this substack that fascinated me enough to do it. I like the confusion that it provokes in my brain: Is this a podcast about the substack or the other way round? What influences what? Will they be exactly the same? How on earth do I explain what this is about? Isn’t it more normal to have a transcription of a podcast rather than use the written word to transcribe into spoken word? What the hell am I going to call it? And does any of this matter to anyone other than me?

In the end I thought the messiness of it all was a good enough reason to do it and see what happens, as well as my genuine desire to provide an accessible version of the content for those who prefer audio over the written word.

So, for this edition of the substack and all future ones there will be a simultaneous, similar but also slightly different podcasty version of it too. (e.g. in the podcast version you get some live drama involving a spider and a crow that you don’t get in this written version!)

You can listen to the first three episodes of "Creative Adventures (Stevexoh’s audio version of his substack thing) here.

2. Quantum flirts and Back Gaemen

A question I am often asked is “So what’s next?” And for 80% of the time my honest answer is “I don’t know.”

The question normally comes after a talk or an exhibition or an interview. I guess it primarily comes from a place of curiosity and wondering what weird and wonderful future stuff might be lurking in my brain. (I’ve likely asked other people this question from a similar place). But I can’t help but become curious about the assumptions that sit behind the question. Assumptions about me and how my mind works as well as general assumptions about creativity, productivity and what it means to “successfully” live a creative life. Is there an assumption that there is just this constant flow of projects and ideas in my mind lining up like planes coming into an airport? How much is it informed by societal assumptions about productivity and the idea that being busy = being successful. And what do people think when I tell them that there isn’t anything and that I don’t know what’s next. Are they disappointed? Do they perceive me as a bit of a failure? And how does all of this make me feel when I seem to be perpetually admitting that I have no plans or ideas right now? (To be clear, I don’t mind being asked the question because not knowing has, in itself, become a very important part of my creative practice.)

I have learnt over the years that putting in effort to come up with ideas is a surefire way to ensure that I don’t ever come up with ideas. I liken it to those floaty things that people sometimes get on their eyes (vitreous floaters). If you try to look at them they disappear from sight, so the only way to see them is to not try looking at them and simply wait for them to appear. I often use the metaphor of vitreous floaters to talk about Arnie Mindell’s concept of Quantum Flirting which has become an important part of my creative practice for many years now.

My understanding of Mindell’s concept is that the way we think about attention is somewhat skewed, or at least unhelpful in a number of ways. The general assumption is that we choose where to place our attention. For example, I just looked up from my desk where I am writing this and noticed a jar of chilli flakes on the kitchen counter. Logic tells me that in that moment I chose to place my attention on the chilli flakes. However, the lens of quantum flirting would suggest that in that moment I was open to hearing the jar of chilli flakes whispering for my attention.

I learnt about quantum flirting from my dear friend and colleague, gestalt psychotherapist Simon Cavvichia back in 2012. The concept spoke to me in such a way that it fundamentally changed how I approach my work,causing a significant shift in my creative philosophy : less effort and focus trying to seek out and hunt down inspiration and instead curating space and quiet and a kind of experimental un-focussing and emptiness in the every day in order to better hear inspiration calling to me. (Moving towards what in gestalt is called the “fertile void”.)

This all sounds great in theory but I find it hard when I am feeling down, uninspired, bored and simply want something to stimulate and engage me. The last thing I want to do is nothing. And there is no guarantee that I will get to a flirtable state where I am open enough to hear the alluring call of a curious question that might just turn into something special. Often there is nothing for a considerable amount of time and I become even more frustrated and despondent. But when a quantum flirt does occur, it feels magical. A moment where something gradually comes into my awareness. Something that was there all along but I just couldn’t quite de-focus and let go enough to see it until now. Previous big projects such as the Sound of Silence podcast, the (Not a) Lost Cat project, Inexpert 2018 and What the February?! all started life as a quantum flirt where I was open enough to hear something in my peripheral awareness calling for my attention.

Back in July this year I was feeling low and bored and wanting a particular type of human connection that always feels paradoxical to me - to be around lots of people in a way that I don’t feel alone but also don’t feel too overwhelmed by too much social interaction. I spent some time searching for things to do in London - looking for galleries, private views, art-like events, talks, gigs but nothing came up that grabbed my interest. (It was also a Tuesday evening and I learnt that’s not the best time for finding events that would meet my very specific social criteria.) But on every search I did, I noticed a board game meetup group in East London kept appearing. I kept ignoring it as, whilst I like board games, the thought of showing up in a pub I’ve never been to, not knowing anyone and trying to find somebody to play a game with felt like a surefire way of experiencing rejection and not fitting in. But this event kept calling to me via the medium of search engine results. So, despite every fibre of my nervous system telling me this was a very bad idea, I grabbed my stuff and left the flat before I could talk myself out of it.

On arriving at the pub I instantly regretted it. Despite arriving right at the start of the event, all the tables were full of people already playing games. Do these people know each other? Are they just all really good at meeting new people and deciding to play? How on earth do I integrate myself into this without coming across like an alien that doesn’t know how to interact with other humans? I spotted a group of 4 people walking up to the pile of games and saw my chance to practice being an adult human being. “Can I join you?” I asked, cringing inside. They looked at each other and then back at me and said “Ahh sorry, we’ve already got a full table and enough for this game.” I replied with a jolly “No problem!” which hid the crushing rejection and desire to flee the scene immediately and never try anything like this again.

But just as I was about to leave I saw an older guy on his own holding an ornate looking wooden box. He was looking around, presumably for somebody to play with. “Are you looking for somebody to play with?” I asked. “Yes!” he said and we sat down at the only empty table (the tiniest one in the pub) and he opened his box to reveal the game Backgammon. I told him that I had never played Backgammon before and he looked immensely disappointed. I asked him if he could teach me how to play and he didn’t really answer and started looking around the pub for somebody who seemed like a more experienced player. But as there was nobody else around he reluctantly agreed to show me how to play. We played five games. He won four of them, I won one although I suspect he let me win as he felt sorry for me. As we played we spoke. He told me he was from Persia, the region where the game was invented around 5,000 years ago. He told me all about the history of the game and that in the culture he grew up in Backgammon was a fixture of everyday life and he had been playing since he was 5. (Which went someway to explaining why he was able to play so quickly.) He showed me photos of the city in Iran where he had lived and about his experience of coming to live in the UK. I told him all about my life and my art and growing up and living in London. Then as the fifth game came to a close it felt like we reached a natural end to our interaction - we shook hands and I left. No exchange of contact details. No plans to keep in touch. Just a thank you and farewell. I left feeling incredibly socially satiated - a feeling I very rarely get.

Over the next couple of days I became fascinated why this felt like such a nourishing interaction. I mean it wasn’t like Backgammon was the best game I’d ever played. It actually confused me quite a bit and on the way home I was already forgetting the rules. And even though my playing partner was an interesting human being and I enjoyed our conversation, it wasn’t like I was fascinated by him any more than I would be with anyone else.

I then started to realise that, rather than the game or the individual, it was the nature of the interaction that really worked for me. Once I had found somebody to play with and had learnt even the most basic of rules I felt comfortable. I wrote about niche environments in Issue #2 of this Substack - specific habitats in which neurodiverse people can better thrive. (I also suggested that thinking about niche environments is an important thing for all of us to consider whether we regard ourselves as neurodiverse or not.)

For me it felt like the game of backgammon with this stranger provided me with three very important things: 1. A clear focus and reason for the interaction 2. A defined start point, end point and “escape routes” (like at the end of each game) and 3. A mutual, repeated physical activity from which conversation can naturally flow. I realised that when these factors are not present or are unclear to me that I start to find things more socially difficult and have to work harder to stay present and not have a weird out of body experience where I am watching myself trying to be “normal”. (Or drink alcohol to try and numb out of the intensity of it all and feel less inhibited).

I started to wonder if these three factors could become a helpful formula for me to meet new people in a way that helps me feel more like a functional adult. Could they provide enough of a lose structure to avoid feeling awkward, disoriented and trapped - something I often experience in conversation with strangers or people I don’t know very well.

I am always interested in meeting new people but find it hard to figure out ways to do this that work for me - walking into a bar or a party or an event and just striking up conversation or merging to become part of a group isn’t one of my skillsets. It was then that a curious question that would become the catalyst for a weird new project appeared: “I wonder what would happen if I invited strangers to play Backgammon with me?”

I posted an invitation across social media that simply said “Do you want to play Backgammon with me?” and on the 12th August the project began. I met somebody I had never met before in St James’ Park and we played three games of Backgammon surrounded by curious geese who seemed to want to join in. At the end I drew a portrait of the person (who I now officially refer to as “Player #1”), we co-created a haiku about our experience and said goodbye.

As I was walking back to Waterloo I felt elated. Not just because I had experienced a pleasant, engaging and delightfully weird social interaction, but because I got that excited feeling in my gut that this was going to turn into something that I might tell a story about someday. A new experimental project that emerged not through seeking it out but through de-focussing and allowing the board games event and the Iranian man with nobody to play Backgammon with to whisper for my attention. A weird, experimental adventure that arose from a quantum flirt and I’ve absolutely no idea where it will take me.

If you’d like to be part of the Back Gaemen Project you can read more about it here or drop me an e-mail/send me an Instagram DM.

(If you are wondering why I’m calling it the “Back Gaemen Project” - in summary, I dislike the word “Gammon” for various reasons and Back Gaemen is the middle English name for the game that loosley means “coming back to play” which felt much nicer.)

3. Screen printed T-shirts

Of all the things I sell in my shop or on market stalls, I get the most delight when somebody buys a t-shirt. I’m not sure why this is - I certainly don’t make the most money from selling them! I think it is the combination of somebody liking my art so much that they want to wear it and show it to others.

The thing with t-shirts is they cost a lot of money to have made, have minimum order quantities and stocks have to be held in all sizes which takes up precious studio space. So I’ve always been very frugal with getting them printed in bulk, instead opting to use a print-on-demand service to avoid all of this. The big downside to the print-on-demand option is that I have less control over quality, lead times and shipping costs and I also get a very tiny fraction of the sale price.

However, I have recently found three t-shirt designs that seem to be very popular and sourced lovely independent screen printing company to print them for me which means I can now offer high-quality, hand-screen printed t-shirts sold directly from my studio to you. (And I get to keep all the money you spend on them!)

If you’d like one then you can get one here. (There are also a number of on-demand printed ones which are nice too.

..:: BUY T-SHIRTS HERE ::.

4.Upcoming workshops

I’ve not got a lot of stuff planned for the rest of 2025 but there are a couple of lovely workshops you might be interested in coming to.

Super Secret Musical Improv (SSMI XXXVIIV)
26th September 2025
Waterloo, London
£95. Limited to 16 attendees. (ONLY 1 PLACE LEFT)

Shh! These are invite only musical improvisation sessions led by the legendary Heather and Joe, the worlds greatest musical improvisation teachers.

Happening at various times in the year they are an opportunity to come together with a curious, friendly and supportive bunch of people and improvise songs, scenes and musicals. No previous experience is necessary, nor is any ability to sing, improvise or be funny. In fact, any of the above can prove a disadvantage.

Previous participants have described these sessions as “life enhancing”, “beautiful” and “I need SSMI like I need to breath.”

.:: MORE INFORMATION AND TICKETS ::.

Mask Workshop
14th November 2025
Bloomsbury, London
£130 + VAT. Limited to 10 attendees. (ONLY 4 PLACES LEFT)

This is my absolute favourite workshop to run. A day of using masks to explore parts of our personality that we have lost touch with or didn't know existed. We will spend the morning getting to know different masks and the afternoon putting them in different playful and bizarre scenarios and situations.

Previous participants say:

“Simply the best workshop ever.”
“Possibly the most liberating experience you might ever have.”
“I’ll never forget the bits of me I met for the first time at the mask workshop.”
“Very weird. In a very, very good way.”
"A truly magical experience"
"It is like going home with a bunch of new friends inside yourself!"

To keep it playful and intimate the workshop is limited to just 10 places so if you'd like to come along the grab a place ASAP as they sell out quickly.

..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.

5. Work with me

August is always a funny time for me. It is quiet and I often get bored and start to worry that I won’t have anything to do or any paid work for the rest of the year. The fact that this has happened every year for the last 13 years and always ends up OK seems to make no difference to my anxious mind. So, this is my traditional start of September invitation to work with me in some shape or form.

My favourite things to do are talks - be they at conferences, in-house events, festivals, community things, academia. You can see a small selection of past talks here.

I also run workshops and over the years have worked with over 80 organisations facilitating anything from exploring creativity, improvisation, innovation, not-knowing, change, disruption, complexity or facilitating group development and culture change interventions such as action learning sets or dialogue groups. You can read more about the work I do and who I have worked with here.

I also do lots of work 1:1 with people as a coach, a mentor, a supervisor or a mish mash of lots of things. You can read more about my 1:1 work here.

So, if you or your company or your university or your festival or your community (etc) are interested in exploring what we might do together then drop me an e-mail.

6. Support my work

I don’t want to cut/paste content from previous issues of this Substack as it feels lazy and you won’t read it if it is the same each time. But I also want to add a little section in each issue that gives you a chance to support my work financially.

I write this substack, record the podcast, do the weird projects I do and make most of the art I make for free because I am fascinated by it and it helps me. I also like sharing it all with the world.

But if you would like to support my work financially (and help me pay rent/bills/buy materials/bird food then there are a number of ways you can do that.

1. Buy some art from my shop. I have a big selection of prints, original art, books, badges, t-shirts, posters and more.
   .:: VISIT MY SHOP HERE ::.

2. Become a patron of my studio. For a one-off donation of your choice you become an official patron with a badge, a certificate, a behind the scenes blog and your name added to the scroll of honour in the window of the studio.
   .:: BECOME A PATRON HERE ::.

3. Buy me a coffee. Like a tip jar.
   .:: BUY ME A COFFEE HERE::.

• If you join the top of the letter “U” in the word “Union” it turns into “Onion”.

• RAMBLINGS: Opening windows into your world seemed to be the trickiest of my four philosophies in my last substack and it is hard to think beyond planned, digital windows - so a rule of thumb might be to focus on analogue, spontaneous ones.

• ARTICLE: The concepts of niche environments and reasonable adjustments feel important not just to neuro-diverse humans navigating the world but anyone wanting to nurture their creative spontaneous self-expression.

• WORKSHOP/GATHERING : 23rd August - Stick painting in Regent’s park

• WORKSHOP: 26th September Super Secret Musical Improv

• WORKSHOP: 14th November Masks.

• This substack is free but you can support my work in other ways: Buy stuff in my shop, become a patron of my studio or buy me a coffee (tip jar).

1. Hello

I was on a packed underground train the other day and somebody in front of me (right in my face to be precise) had a rucksack with “Union” written on it. I’m not sure if it is a dyslexic thing or if everyone does it but I often read the letters of words in a different order or notice something in the character shapes which drains the word of its original meaning. This can be a bit annoying/problematic when trying to read but also a source of amusement and ideas. On this occasion I stared at the word union so much that I suddenly realised if I joined the top of the two sides of the letter U it would spell “Onion”. (I resisted doing this to the stranger’s backpack). This has changed the word “Union” for me for ever (which is extra interesting as I occasionally work with a couple of trade unions, now known as trade onions).

I was so pleased with the reaction to the first issue of this substack: the amount of people that read it, the amount of people who shared it and sent me messages and the amount of new subscribers (welcome.) The majority of comments and questions I received were about the “Four lightly held philosophies for living a creative life” article and in particular the idea of opening windows into your world as a way of re-thinking how we share our work with others and make new connections. (If you’d like to read the full article you can here).

Lots of people said that the windows philosophy was the most exciting and helpful but also the most challenging. Many said that they found it hard to think beyond digital windows like websites and social media posts. I found this really interesting and it got me thinking about the weird, somewhat paradoxical stuckness that the digital age has created. There is an abundance of digital platforms, used by millions, on which we can share our work with the entire world (in theory) but, at the same time, this abundance has potentially limited our imagination when it comes to thinking of other, more traditional ways of sharing our work. Many of us end up in a frustrating, demotivating stuck pattern where we try even harder to come up with ways of making the digital windows work for us whereas the answer maybe lies in ignoring it all together. Or at least weaning ourselves off of it a little.

In the conversations I had with people about this on the back of the article, I found myself thinking that digital windows should be our last resort, or at least a less important of our practice. Instead it feels more helpful to focus our time and energy on experimenting with more spontaneous analogue windows. I drew a little four box grid to explore this.

Now this isn’t a well thought through theory beyond the 3 minutes it took me to draw it. And I’m not even sure if the four box grid makes sense, but for me it offers an invitation to disrupt my habitual thinking, provoke my imagination and encourage experimentation. If there is any theory behind it then it is this: analogue encounters are far more intriguing and fascinating windows into the world of others. I’m more likely to look at and remember at a weirdo doing something unusual and creative in a park than I am from seeing a photo on Instagram, a video on Tik Tok or visiting a website. And, in my experience, the more spontaneous and unplanned the experiment is, the more alive and “real” it feels in a way that makes it even more compelling.

My globally viral “(Not a) Lost Cat” project began as a spontaneous analogue experiment. I was bored one day and, inspired by a real lost cat poster, I painted my own fake one. A few days I later put up 10 copies of the poster in central London for no reason other than I thought it would be an interesting thing to do. These posters proved fascinating to people who saw them and many got in contact asking if they could have one to put up somewhere and, to cut a long story short, over 5,000 of these posters ended up being put up in 56 countries on every single continent (including Antarctica). The “(Not a) Lost Cat” project became a massive window into my world and lead to people buying art from my shop, contacting me about projects and workshops and inviting me to do talks about it all. (It was also featured in national newspapers, national radio and on a plethora of blogs across the internet). I subsequently used social media and my website to nurture and support the project’s growth but it all started from the seed of a spontaneous, analogue window into my world from 10 cheap posters I put up in London. (You can read the full story of the (Not a) Lost Cat project here)

Similarly, stick painting in the park was a spontaneous, analogue thing that I did in the spur of a moment because I was feeling low, had little money and was house-sitting next to a park with a load of sticks in it. In the end it proved to be an important window into my world that connected me with strangers and people who would become followers, friends and collaborators. I suspect that had I planned an instagram post or website page about stick painting or the (Not a) Lost Cat project in advance of just doing them then it wouldn’t have unfurled in the same way. I simply used the digital platforms to amplify and grow what had emerged spontaneously from “real world” encounters with my work.

I’m tempted to write more about all of this and explore my grid further but I think I would end up over-explaining it and drain the mystery out of it all. Also, I really don’t have any answers to any of this as I am constantly working it out for myself. I offer this little response to your questions and comments as a way of hopefully simultaneously helping whilst confusing further.

I’m doing a “Paint sticks in the park with stevexoh” thing on the 23rd August if you’d like to come and join me. (A planned, analogue window that emerged from the spontaneous one a few years back). If you’d like to come along you can find out more info here and get a free ticket/donation ticket HERE.

Please do keep writing to me with questions, comments and ideas for things you would like me to explore in future issues. The idea of this substack becoming a two-way conversation is exciting to me.

2. Niche environments, reasonable adjustments

The subject of unmasking has been on my mind a lot over the last few months and won’t stop calling for my attention. It’s become particularly fascinating to me as I continue to explore my own neuro-diversity and contemplate the amount of self-modification that I have potentially been doing my whole life in order to appear “normal”, fit in and maintain relationships. It feels both helpful and a little sad to start to realise that maybe all of the things I have found difficult over the years haven’t been due to my lack of skills or abilities or being fundamentally broken, but simply because I’m not wired in a way that is conducive to ease amongst the norms of human relational society.

Back in 2020 I became the chair of a small organisation called Move Beyond Words that aimed to support neuro-diverse artists in navigating the complexities of their world, in particular finding meaningful work. During this time I became fascinated by the concepts of niche environments and reasonable adjustments as ways to 1) not disadvantage neuro-diverse people and 2) help them thrive and bring their brilliant wonkiness to the foreground. The way I understand these concepts is that a niche environment is a habitat (work, home, studio, social, etc.) that is particularly suitable for a neuro-diverse person’s unique needs and reasonable adjustments are requests that the person makes in order to facilitate this further. (Or reach compromises where an optimum niche environment is not possible).

My current curiosity about unmasking has made me really think about what my niche environments are - the type of environments where I can ideally not feel anxious or distracted or on-edge or have to work hard in order to just be there. And what are the reasonable adjustments that I habitually don’t ask for because I fear I will seem weird or diva-like through asking them. I’ve been experimenting with the latter more boldly over the last couple of months - requesting that phone calls become zoom calls so that I can see the person and more easily engage in the interaction in a way that is less tiring. Telling the waiter in a restaurant where people were watching videos on their phone that I am going to put my noise-cancelling headphones on but to please still come and talk to me when he needed to. And recently requesting that I don’t share a room with others on a residential trip as it means I don’t get my alone-time-social-recharge that I need so much to function the next day. (I don’t mind a tiny room or a mattress on the floor in a box room - both are preferable to sharing with others, no matter how nice the others are).

In terms of niche environments I realise that I thrive in quiet places where there are no loud conversations or digital sounds penetrating my brain and making me anxious/angry. I thrive with no shoes on, ideally feeling cold grass beneath my feet or at least a carpet or wooden floor. I thrive where I can wear clothes I am comfortable in and feel unconstrained and unrestricted. I am at my best when I have a clear but loose structure or intention and am then able to improvise within it. I’m at my best with natural lights and the avoidance of fluorescent tube lights for long periods of time. I’m relaxed and inspired by beautifully curated places with weird and wonderful colours and artefacts on the walls. (As I type this I realise that I have arranged my studio, pictured above, to be my almost perfect niche environment. I say “almost” as I am often disturbed by noise.)

Learning more about what external factors help me feel closer to my natural spontaneous self feels like a very important thing - not just for how I am wired but for facilitating my creative self expression. Minimising external factors that distract/disturb/disregulate and maximising those that settle, sooth and seduce my imagination.

I realise now that over many years I learnt ways to be able to function and do good work in environments that felt the opposite of my niche. I have worked in many, many corporate offices/workshop spaces for many years. And tolerated noise that my brain was experiencing as an almost painful invasion. And worn clothes that feels awkward and unnatural. And worked with agendas and project briefs that are too tight and constraining. And whilst I have been able to do this I am starting to realise how much underlying attention and energy all of this has consumed. Attention and energy that could have been better used on the work at hand. There is a similar story with social situations.

In writing all of this I can’t help but think that the concepts of niche environments and reasonable adjustments aren’t just helpful for neurodiverse humans but is also a really important factor for anyone who would like to nurture more of their own creativity. For me, creativity is simply a moment of spontaneous-self-expression* so it makes sense that anything that distracts or disturbs or interrupts that freedom and flow will be unhelpful. Anything that requires even a subtle effort in order to appear “normal” or to fit-in or to override how we are experiencing the world uses up valuable energy and attention that would be much better poured into our work.

Environment and habitat are an often overlooked but fundamentally important factor in our creative practice. Fair enough, the degrees to which it impacts us are uniquely dependent on the individual. But it feels like something that is a question worth asking no matter who we are or how we are wired.

(*that self expression may take the form of a painting or a dance but equally could take the form of a spreadsheet, a conversation or a moment of parenting).

3.Upcoming workshops

Here’s a few things that you might like to come to.

Stick painting in the park with Stevexoh
Saturday 23rd August 2025
Regent’s Park, London
Sliding scale from FREE to £5 to £20 depending on income

I’ve been painting sticks in public spaces since the summer of 2022 and found it to be an amazingly simple way of experiencing flow, escape, connection, regulation, conversation and random adventures so thought I’d experiment by making an open invitation session.

The agenda is simple - come sit on a rug and paint sticks and chat with whoever else comes along and whoever passes by and joins in. Stay for as long or as short as you would like. All sticks and paint and materials are provided.

.:: MORE INFORMATION AND TICKETS ::.

Super Secret Musical Improv (SSMI XXXVIIV)
26th September 2025
Waterloo, London
£95. Limited to 16 attendees.

Shh! These are invite only musical improvisation sessions led by the legendary Heather and Joe, the worlds greatest musical improvisation teachers.

Happening at various times in the year they are an opportunity to come together with a curious, friendly and supportive bunch of people and improvise songs, scenes and musicals. No previous experience is necessary, nor is any ability to sing, improvise or be funny. In fact, any of the above can prove a disadvantage.

Previous participants have described these sessions as “life enhancing”, “beautiful” and “I need SSMI like I need to breath.”

.:: MORE INFORMATION AND TICKETS ::.

Mask Workshop
14th November 2025
Bloomsbury, London
£130 + VAT. Limited to 10 attendees.

This is my absolute favourite workshop to run. A day of using masks to explore parts of our personality that we have lost touch with or didn't know existed. We will spend the morning getting to know different masks and the afternoon putting them in different playful and bizarre scenarios and situations.

Previous participants say:

“Simply the best workshop ever.”
“Possibly the most liberating experience you might ever have.”
“I’ll never forget the bits of me I met for the first time at the mask workshop.”
“Very weird. In a very, very good way.”
"A truly magical experience"
"It is like going home with a bunch of new friends inside yourself!"

To keep it playful and intimate the workshop is limited to just 10 places so if you'd like to come along the grab a place ASAP as they sell out quickly.

..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.

4.Discounted framed original drawings for sale

Back in November 2021 I did a solo exhibition of drawings in Soho called Forty-Seven Drawings by stevexoh and then a further exhibition of 100 drawings in The Lightbox gallery in Woking. Both of these exhibitions comprised collections of black and white drawings in square black frames and whilst a large amount of them sold, I’ve still got loads of them in my studio.

So to create some space I’ve decided to put them all in my online shop for you to buy at discounted prices.

These are one-off pieces so when they are gone - they are gone.

.:: BROWSE AND BUY ORIGINAL FRAMED DRAWINGS HERE ::.

5.Just one market this month

I like doing markets because I get to meet people and I also find them exhausting so I’m limiting myself to one this month (the one that is a 2 minute walk from my sofa!)

Surbiton Farmer's Market
16th August 2025 9am-1pm
Maple Road, Surbiton KT6

Come along to buy art stuff and also meet other local makers and buy some great food, fruit, veg and other things. And if you fancy sticking around you can go and find my “Creatures of Seething” art trail by the river.

6. Support my work

This substack is free as I want to use it as a way of connecting with people around the world, sharing some thoughts and letting you know what I’m up to.

But if you would like to support my work financially then there are a number of ways you can do that.

1. Buy some art from my shop. I have a big selection of prints, original art, books, badges, t-shirts, posters and more.
   .:: VISIT MY SHOP HERE ::.

2. Become a patron of my studio. For a one-off donation of your choice you become an official patron with a badge, a certificate, a behind the scenes blog and your name added to the scroll of honour in the window of the studio.
   .:: BECOME A PATRON HERE ::.

3. Buy me a coffee. Like a tip jar.
   .:: BUY ME A COFFEE HERE::.

Subscribe now

TL;DR

• I’ve moved from Mailchimp to Substack and transferred your subscription - hope that’s OK. Same me - different newsletter platform.

• The carcinisation of tech - are all apps evolving to become the same thing in the same way that all living beings are turning into crabs? Read some ramblings on this.

• Four lightly held philosophies for living a creative life: Be fascinated, open windows into your world, live below your means, hang out with weirdos. Read on for an old article I re-wrote for this newsletter.

• WORKSHOP: 23rd August - Stick painting in Regent’s park

• WORKSHOP: 26th September Super Secret Musical Improv

• WORKSHOP: 14th November Masks.

• New big posters of “happy art” and “existential apple”

• Markets: 12th July - Illustrator’s Fair Kings Cross N1C, 19th July - Surbiton Farmer’s market - Surbiton KT6

• Become a patron of my studio

1.Hello

Hey, and welcome to my first Substack newsletter. I’ve been writing my newsletter since 2014 using Mail Chimp and decided it is time to switch. Back then Mail Chimp was a startup and a cool, interesting company with a simple platform to send out a newsletter from. They even sent me a knitted chimp hat for my daughter after they watched a talk of mine in which I mentioned her. But like most tech platforms (social media included) they all slowly add more features and eventually evolve to become the same generic thing. A bit like a tech version of carcinisarion, but instead of creatures all evolving into crabs its platforms evolving into meh.

I had a similar thing with Appear.in (which later became Whereby). It was a brilliantly simple video conferencing app and its wonkiness and stripped back functionality is what attracted me to it. I even created a weird virtual pub experience using a number of Appear.in rooms which people could wander between and experience the same social awkwardness a multi room pub affords. But then, presumably to compete with zoom, it changed and more and more features started being added. The basic wonkiness was polished and it lost its charm and I no longer use it.

All of which is a long way round of saying goodbye to Mail Chimp, whose original offer of a simple way to write an electronic letter to people who would like to receive it has evolved into a multifunctional and overly-complicated (and expensive) thing.

I’ve decided to use this switch to Substack to change the nature of my newsletter. Substack feels like it invites more writing and sharing so as well as letting you know about workshops and stuff, I’m intending to share more written stuff. Which is sort of what my original MailChimp one was like back in the day.

So, you are receiving this first substack because you subscribed to my old newsletter and said that you would like to be kept up to date with my work, my thoughts and to know about stuff I am running. But if you’d rather not get it (or preferred the old Mail chimp format) then please unsubscribe via the link in the footer.

I hope you find something of interest here and hope to see you at a “thing” sometime soon.

Steve

2. Four lightly held philosophies for living a creative life

I was recently at 3D Yellow in central Spain and found myself referring several times to an old piece I wrote entitled “Four lightly held philosophies for living a creative life.” I also referred to this piece very recently on the For Creative People podcast.

With most things I create (be that words, ideas, art) I tend to dislike it a couple of years later but this piece still resonates with me as a loosely held way I like to think about living my life. And a number of people at 3D Yellow asked if I could share the piece but I’ve no idea where the original article is. So given all of the ways that it has suddenly started to pop up recently I decided that maybe I should re-write it and share it.

The original article was written as a way of answering the question I am often asked of “What is your process?” My honest answer is that I really don’t know if I have one. I am also very allergic, often unhelpfully, to looking towards repeated formulae for anything creative. But there seemed to be a pattern to how I perceive the world and how I approach things. So instead of a guide to creativity I decided to entitle the piece “Four lightly held philosophies for living a creative life.” Some simple underlying ideas that help me find light in the dark but are as equally useless as they are useful.

So hold them lightly.

Philosophy one: Be Fascinated

An artists* job is to be fascinated. Utterly fascinated. This is different to being interested. I’m interested in sharks but don’t feel compelled to spend my life travelling around the world studying them or taking risks to get close to them. But with things I am fascinated by I cannot not pursue them. When I find a deep fascination with something then there is no need to motivate myself towards action or summon up courage, energy or carefully plan my intentions - the deep wonder and curiosity generated by the fascination generates enough momentum by itself. It is like the fascination takes over and leads the rest of me by the hand towards it. Is it simply my job to follow (and try to not get in the way.)

Being fascinated is to pursue questions and not answers. It is to discover the question behind the question. To regard answers as dead-ends or wrong turns. To regard an exclamation mark simply as a question mark with rigor-mortis. To be fascinated is to give yourself permission to be wholly consumed by the thing that fascinates you. To take risks. To explore. To experiment. To allow yourself to spend every waking moment being fascinated to such an extent that the discouraging, dissenting voices (internal and external) telling you that there is more important stuff deserving of your attention simply fade into the background.

In 2018 I became fascinated by a curious question - “I wonder what the opposite of a podcast would be?” This led me to creating the world’s first silent podcast featuring special guests and all sort of adventures, trials and tribulations in which I met some of my heroes, spent far too much money and time recording nothing and created a weirdly popular cult podcast.

To be fascinated is to tune into the underlying mystery , magic and wonder of the human experience. And we tune into this not through trying but through letting go and allowing ourselves to hear the quite but deeply alluring whispers that have always been there calling to us.

* If you don’t consider yourself an artist then replace the word “artist” with “human”.

Philosophy two: Create windows into your world

Fascinated people are fascinating. Somebody who is in the grips of being utterly fascinated by something is utterly compelling to others.

In 2012 I was in a workshop led by the legendary theatre director Keith Johnstone. Keith set up an exercise in which, one at a time, we were to walk on the stage and do something that would keep the audience engaged. The audience were instructed that the moment they lost even a tiny bit of interest they were to get up and leave the room. Many of us tried this and lasted around 10-20 seconds. (I remember coming up with what I thought was a really great idea to be interesting but it failed miserably). Then one guy got up and captivated us even though he wasn’t doing much at all, other than looking at the marks and holes in the old wooden floor boards. He lasted about a minute and a half before people started to get up and leave. At the end Keith said “He went up and was simply being interested. The rest of you went up and tried to be interesting. It doesn’t work like that. Interested people are interesting!”

Creating windows into your world is simply finding ways in which people can experience you being fascinated. This philosophy runs counter to much of the advice of how to succeed which suggests that we need to put in a lot of effort, structure and work to market our passion and convince others it is worthy of their attention - often to the point where the marketing and sharing begins takes valuable time away from the passion itself.

Creating windows into your world turns all of that on its head. It casts aside the idea that it is our responsibility to sell and promote our work and instead invites us to simply create cracks in the third wall that people can peer in and witness us being fascinated. Some people will walk by, peer in and carry on walking. But others will stop and be captivated. Some will become so fascinated that they will regularly stop by the window to peer in and may ask if they can come and join you. This philosophy completely changed my relationship with social media, especially Instagram. I never make things to show on Instagram. Instead, Instagram is a window through which you can see what I am currently being fascinated by at any point in time.

But a window can be anything that you want it to be. Social media is an example but, in my experience, a very limited one as algorithms act as traffic police, directing people to the content that it favours from a profit making perspective. A window could be a blog, a workshop. Even an actual window in a studio or an office.

Over the last five or so years I have experimented with creating all sorts of windows into my world - weird talks in which I tell stories about my fascination, public art installations, everyday spontaneous conversations in which I share more than I habitually would about what I am up to and how I perceive the world, sitting in parks on a rug painting sticks with a sign saying “Free sticks - please take one.” All windows are experiments and we never know who will look in. But the important thing here is that the window allows all of your attention and energy to be devoted to being fascinated.

Philosophy three: Learn to live below your means

I read somewhere many years ago, that the advice to “Simply follow your passion” is problematic if you also want lots of nice things and financial security. (This may have been from one of Austin Kleon’s books but I can’t seem to find the quote anywhere so I equally may have dreamed it.) But, wherever I read it, it stuck with me. Not like some sort of demotivating hopeless reverse mantra, but a helpful articulation of how the world (at least the western, capitalist world) is pre-disposed to a particular model of what it means to be a productive and successful human being.

It can feel like if we don’t have a clear plan of how to turn our fascination into profit or growth or have a big audacious end goal or be seen to be growing a huge monitizable following then we are deficient in some way. If expressing our spontaneous creative selves doesn’t translate into some sort of progress or commercial achievement then it should simply be relegated to being a hobby that there is only time for when the urgent and productive work has been attended to. (I find the concept of hobbies simultaneously lovely and sinister for these reasons)

At the same time though it is important for our basic sustenance and wellbeing to be able to earn a living and build some sense of security (be that a roof over our heads or financially. Many artists I have spoken to say “I don’t care about the money” which is a noble statement but, at the end of the day, everyone needs sustenance and shelter of some knd.

When I first painted sticks in Regent’s Park one of the most frequent questions that I would get asked is “What are you doing this for?” or “What are you hoping to get from this?” Occasionally I would get some unsolicited advice that I should start selling the sticks or set up an Etsy shop to make a profit from them. (I was simply painting sticks because I was bored, lonely, house-sitting in Camden and with only black and white paint which felt like a good enough reason to be doing it.) I was doing it “Just for nice”.*

I’m aware that who I am, where I am from, my age, gender and many other factors mean that my means are greater than others (and also less than others) and living below them is contextually and economically different to others who live in different circumstances. It is important for me to continually acknowledge this whilst, at the same time, asking myself the question “what is enough?” Through doing this I am continually learning to let go of anything more than enough in order to create space for fascination and spontaneous self expression that, most often, doesn’t directly lead to a monetary reward.

* Just for nice is a lovely phrase attributed to the Pennsylvanian Dutch that refers to an activity or thing having no purpose other than being “for nice”. (e.g. What is the point of having that vase of beautiful flowers on the table? They are just for nice.)

Philosophy four: Hang out with other weirdos

If we spend our lives being fascinated, opening windows so other people can see what we are being fascinated by, whilst trying to live in a way that means we can exist outside of the financial structures of modern capitalist society, it can end up being a lonely place. If everyone around us is working in a more structured and traditionally effective way then it can feel like we have maybe lost the plot a little. Over the years I have been attempting to live my life in this way there have been many times where I have thought that it would be so much easier (financially, psychologically, motivationally) to return to the world of the seemingly stable and predictable “normal”.

It can feel like a somewhat isolating experience if we are choosing to live our lives in a way that is generally counter to society and what our friends and family regard as normal. We can feel like we are going insane when things get hard or complicated or we have to resort to somewhat desperate seeming measures to make ends meet or find ways of coping with uncertainty.

The importance of finding other weirdos to hang out with is therefore critical for our mental, emotional and philosophical wellbeing. To seek and hang out with others who are experimenting with living their lives in a similar ways that allow them to put their creative self expression at the heart of all they do.

Having an understanding and empathetic cacophony* of fellow weirdos is vitally important for our own resilience, sanity and to remind us of why we are doing this. The weirdo/outsider can be a comforter, a kindred spirit, an encourager/darer. They can also be a huge inspiration. I have been inspired more by weirdos and outsiders than experts and authorities in every aspect of my creativity.

*The official collective noun for a close cicrle of weirdos

3.Upcoming workshops

I’m running less workshops at the moment but here’s a few things that you might like to come to.

Stick painting in the park with Stevexoh
Saturday 23rd August 2025
Regent’s Park, London
Sliding scale from £5 to £20 depending on income

I’ve been painting sticks in public spaces since the summer of 2022 and found it to be an amazingly simple way of experiencing flow, escape, connection, regulation, conversation and random adventures so thought I’d experiment by making an open invitation session.

The agenda is simple - come sit on a rug and paint sticks and chat with whoever else comes along and whoever passes by and joins in. Stay for as long or as short as you would like. All sticks and paint and materials are provided.

.:: MORE INFORMATION AND TICKETS ::.

Super Secret Musical Improv (SSMI XXXVIIV)
26th September 2025
£95. Limited to 16 attendees.

Shh! These are invite only musical improvisation sessions led by the legendary Heather and Joe, the worlds greatest musical improvisation teachers.

Happening at various times in the year they are an opportunity to come together with a curious, friendly and supportive bunch of people and improvise songs, scenes and musicals. No previous experience is necessary, nor is any ability to sing, improvise or be funny. In fact, any of the above can prove a disadvantage.

Previous participants have described these sessions as “life enhancing”, “beautiful” and “I need SSMI like I need to breath.”

.:: MORE INFORMATION AND TICKETS ::.

Mask Workshop
14th November 2025
£130 + VAT. Limited to 10 attendees.

This is my absolute favourite workshop to run. A day of using masks to explore parts of our personality that we have lost touch with or didn't know existed. We will spend the morning getting to know different masks and the afternoon putting them in different playful and bizarre scenarios and situations.

Previous participants say:

“Simply the best workshop ever.”
“Possibly the most liberating experience you might ever have.”
“I’ll never forget the bits of me I met for the first time at the mask workshop.”
“Very weird. In a very, very good way.”
"A truly magical experience"
"It is like going home with a bunch of new friends inside yourself!"

To keep it playful and intimate the workshop is limited to just 10 places so if you'd like to come along the grab a place ASAP as they sell out quickly.

..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.

4.New big posters in my shop

I decided to turn a couple of recent paintings into big (A2) lovely (250gsm) posters. I’ve not sold posters for ages but decided to experiment.

..:: BUY POSTERS HERE ::.

5.Markets, markets, markets

I’ve been doing less markets recently (I find them hard work). So instead of quantity I have focussed on quality and I have two lovely ones coming up.

Illustrator’s Fair
12th July 2025 11am-5pm
Granary Square, Kings Cross, London N1C

I took part in the Illustrator’s Fair last year and realised that it was my absolutely favourite market ever. I will be there from 11am-5pm selling prints, books, t-shirts, badges, cards, posters and other stuff.

Even if you don’t buy something, come along to say “hi”.

Surbiton Farmer's Market
19th July 2025 9am-1pm
Maple Road, Surbiton KT6

This is my “home” market. Right on my doorstep. I managed to get a stall here by getting to know local people and I get to know even more local people by having a stall here. Come along to buy art stuff and also meet other local makers and buy some great food, fruit, veg and other things.

6.Become a patron of my studio

I took on studio back in August 2024 as I was in a stuck situation of having no space to make art and no money to rent a studio because I had no space to make art. But I took on Studio Two anyway as it instinctively felt like the thing I needed to do.

I was then utterly blown away when people stepped up to become patrons and funded a year’s rent within a couple of weeks of me asking. This allowed me to then get an Arts Council grant to cover my rent until December 2025.

So, this is a regular call out to see if anyone else would like to become a patron and support this space which is not only great for me but a space in which I can invite people into my world and run little workshops and 1:1 sessions.

For as little as a 1 off donation of £10 you can become a patron, get an exclusive badge and certificate, a behind the scenes blog and your name added to the scroll of honour that is in the studio window.

Find out more about Studio Two HERE.

And sign up to become a patron HERE.