I like seeing images of artists at work –– overalls slathered in paint and plaster –– a snapshot of their creative process. Today, I came across some photographs of surrealist ceramic sculptor, Agnès Debizet at work in her studio. Debizet’s phantasmagorical work fascinates me –– imagine totems that resemble underwater sea monsters, winged tables and eight-legged foot stools –– as does her beautiful and cram-packed studio space. Bags and bags of clay tumble out from underneath a studio table, buckets of glaze and half-finished sculptures cover every inch of floor. My french is très rusty, but have a look at this short video with plenty of glimpses into her work and studio space.

I found a mouldy lemon in our fridge and immediately I thought about Kathleen Ryan’s giant bedazzled fruits. The artist uses thousands of beads and semi-precious stones (agate, garnet, smokey quartz, lapis lazuli and pearls, to name a few) to create the appearance of mould on her decaying lemons, cherries, oranges and grapes. It takes eight weeks to make a single sculpture. Mass consumption, waste and sexuality are all themes in her work. “The sculptures are beautiful and pleasurable, but there’s an ugliness and unease that comes with them,” says Ryan.

Travel may not be a comfortable or a viable option for many of us right now, but that shouldn’t get in the way of us dreaming about our next destination, or reminiscing about adventures gone by. Memories and goals can be fuel for the soul. Just thinking about swimming in salty Greek waters buoys me, as does imagining myself one day walking the remote highlands of Guatemala. Just before we went into lockdown, we were on the Gulf Coast of Florida with my Mum. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve basked in the memory of beach walks, ocean swims and crab claw dinners. “My travel memories are where I go,” echoed my friend, Buket on a sunny walk around UofT yesterday. Here, photographer, Romain Laprade shares his travel memories from Venice, Los Angeles and Joffre Lakes. What I love about the images is how emblematic they are of their location. A giant cactus in Joshua Tree, a sidewalk in New York, orange mooring buoys floating in the Ibiza sea. His photographs are simple and unpretentious, and capture the essence of where he is.

When I lived in Florence, I had a heap of plants in my tiny attic flat, that like me, lived on a diet of sunshine and cigarette smoke. It’s a wonder they survived as long as they did. I left them behind when I moved back to London, and since then, I’ve more or less avoided plants. I’m that person who sings to plants, talks to them, and then forgets to water them for two weeks. I’m that person who chucks the orchid the moment it drops its last flower. And then this funny thing happened. Last week, for the first time in years, I felt a quiet urge to care for a plant. The very next day, my mother-in-law, as though she had read my mind, appeared at our home with an orange tree. I love orange trees; the pops of colour, the heavenly scented blossom, the pretty, waxy leaves. If there is ever a plant that could turn my thumbs green, this is it. I may even cut the spike on my ailing orchid back to a node and give it a chance at a re-bloom. Just kidding. Small steps, one plant at a time.

Yesterday was my birthday, completing our cycle of Covid birthdays. They began in April, with a snow covered celebration for Antimo. We ate ice cream cake that day, and lay on the carpeted floor of our rental flat to watch Trolls World Tour. Two of his school friends left word searches and Jenga bricks on our front porch. Then came June, and Iole’s birthday, which we celebrated under a tree in Ramsden Park with pizza and bomboloni. Along came Luma at the height of summer with an outing to Bang Bang for ice cream sandwiches. We stuck a candle in hers, and sang to her on the side of the street. Jason’s birthday came shortly after, with a September day warm enough to sit outside and eat more ice cream. He too got a candle in his scoop of vanilla. And then came mine, Spring in November, with a walk along the beach and a giant chunk of creamy sheep’s cheese. Friends and neighbours milled around outside our house in t-shirts and sunglasses. Lovely. With no parties to plan and people to entertain, Covid birthdays have been a delight. When expectations are low one really appreciates the little things; a blue sky (that always feels like a gift from the universe) and the homemade slice of cake your friend bakes you. I’ve always loved the quiet birthdays, the ones where the sun comes out, so I can really see the world outside and within me.

I’ve followed photographer, Kara Rosenlund‘s work for a few years now, often drawn to her beach scenes and beautiful portraits. Today, I came across a wonderful series, spotlighting a community of nonagenarians who swim daily at sunrise at Currumbin Beach. I found the images, and the idea of this daily ritual, so inspiring. I can’t imagine a more invigorating way to begin each day. Today, one of the swimmers, Wallaby Mick Barry drowned after being caught in a rip, making these images even more poignant. I saw that his daughter had left a note on Rosenlund’s Instagram feed, asking for the photo of her Dad. What a lovely image to remember him by.

“Nothing happens until something moves.” I’ve been thinking about movement lately, literal movement, as in walking and dancing, and how crucial it is to our wellbeing. Even the subtlest of movements –– cat to cow –– can have a profound effect. And then the less literal kind, a shift in attitude and perspective. A call to action. Often, the former supports the latter. I almost always think better, feel better after I’ve walked. Or swum. Or stretched. These days, I’m moving slower than usual. I think the whole world is. Slowly, one foot in front of the other, one day at a time. Here, Carmen De Lavallade dances with her three-year-old son, Leo. Marimekko models skip in the street, and Audrey Hepburn begins her yoga practice.