Although I took pottery classes for several years, classes were mostly an opportunity to socialize with smart, funny women while pinching a pot. Most of what I know, I’ve taught myself. As such, my techniques are a bit loose, and I use whatever tools make sense to me (cotton buds, toothbrushes, icing spatulas). Trial and error. Trial and error. Every project shows me where I’m strong, and where I need to improve. And not just technically. The creative process evokes all kinds of emotions; some projects, more than others, turn me inside out. This morning, I brought 12 vases to the Gardiner Museum, a challenging project that I worked on through part of winter. And as I placed the vases on the loading dock at the back entrance of the museum, I thought to myself, “how many lessons are contained inside this old lemon box? What did these delicate vases with their eccentric little handles teach me about clay, and about myself?” As Roy Lichtenstein said, “the importance of art is in the process of doing it, in the learning experience where the artist interacts with whatever is being made.”

Holly Waddington’s earrings were the best thing about this year’s Oscar show. Her earrings and Sandra Hüller’s cat eye. I’d take Grainne Morton’s fabulously surrealist chandeliers over any amount of Bulgari or De Beers. The cloud and rain series is just lovely. Morton’s creations are a combination of salvaged items, such as antique buttons, coral and enamel, and new semi-precious stones. Each pair is made by hand in Edinburgh. They’re tiny works for art.

Iole was born with a head full of hair, black as ink, and exquisitely parted to one side like she got hold of a Kent comb in the womb. It wasn’t long before the curls came. Dozens of them. She was eighteen-months when we took her for her first haircut. I was hoping for a silent film star fringe but she came away with bangs worse than the “I look like a pencil” ones that Claire got in Season two of Fleabag. That took a while to grow out. From there on in it was shoulder-length waves all the way. In the summer months, her waves turned into ringletts with tiny fusilli forming around the nape of her neck. I’ve brushed my girl’s hair a thousand times. And braided it just as many. High pony. Low pony. Bows. Barrettes. Headbands with flowers as big as dinner plates. Ballerina bun. Top knot. Backcombed witch’s mane. Lice. Thrice. Graduation. First party. And then today, for the first time ever, Iole did my hair. She used one of those fancy round brushes that heats up. I felt like I was at the salon. When she finished –– I look great, btw –– it occurred to me that I can’t remember the last time I combed her hair. Months? Years? We rarely know when something’s going to be the last time. The last time our kid climbs on to our shoulders. The last time we zip up their jacket. Or brush their teeth. Or comb their hair. Imagine the ceremonies, the lighting of candles and wishes and prayers that would take place with every “last time” if we only knew.

When I was a child, I spent many hours at my Dad’s office waiting for him to wrap up work so we could head out for our weekly dinner date at Mr. Kai’s. His secretary, Pat Brown made me sugary tea and gave me “cheques” to sign. When I saw Julia Couzens, thread on zerox series, I was immediately swept back to evenings in the city, photocopying my hands while my Dad talked loudly on the phone next door. Sometimes, I photocopied my face. And my feet, too. Maybe Mrs. Brown put a lump too many in my tea. A few weeks ago, my son and I were at a nearby xerox shop getting copies of my passport. You can imagine his embarrassment when his Mum shoved her head in the machine. You know, for old times’ sake. Have a look at Couzens’ series. Her sewn letters bring a feeling a permanence to fleeting xerox images.

One of the things that I love about lane swimming is that it’s both solitary and communal. I am alone in a giant salty bathtub of friends and strangers. An art collective provides a similar experience. A house full of artists who work in solitude and occasionally convene on landings and in stairwells to talk about paint brush bristles and other serious matters. There’s a trust and respect that forms among people who share a creative space. My studio, like several others in the building, is exposed for all to see. There’s vulnerability in that. A painting that’s losing its way. An unfinished drawing. A vessel with cracks through the middle. We’re all exposing battle scars. Artists with private studios often leave their doors open; an invitation to talk, to exchange ideas. To feel connected. Anytime I’m invited into another artist’s space I know it’s a privilege, a glimpse into their inner world; grosgrain ribbon, rubber tubing, ink, glue, an old teapot with half a spout. Amy keeps tulips weeks after they’ve died, beauty in decay, exquisite and fragile like a nonagenarian grande dame. Melissa’s attic studio is an homage to mother artist, her textile based installations scattered among soft toys and playmats. Atleigh’s studio is as humble, warm and considered as her still lives. We are a satellite encased in a downtown Victorian house with an allotment and mismatched linoleum floors. Close to home, and far enough from reality. Everyone’s here to make art. Clay, fabric, polyethylene. Some of us come early in the morning. Others late at night. Alone with company. Silent if not for the occasional sneeze or rustling of paper.

Nicolas Burrows‘ playful mixed media collages were just what my eye was looking for on this gloomy day. The London-based multi-media artist is an illustrator, author of books, and musician. It’s his collages that I’m swooning over. There are trees that look like lampshades, upside down skyscrapers and a stringed instrument that could just as well be a butterfly. What a weird and brilliant imagination. Trees are a recurring theme. “I have never lived in the forest, but I have spent a lot of time seeking out the company of trees. From the North-West of England, to the Norwegian Fjords and the West coast of Canada I have walked and thought and sung and written and drawn.”