A few months ago, I submitted an application for a residency at The Gardiner Museum. My application included pages of sketches for future pieces many of which are much larger and more elaborate than anything I’ve made to date. The prospect of a large studio with built in equipment within a working ceramics gallery unleashed possibilities in me that my current set-up doesn’t allow for. When I wasn’t selected for the residency –– it was a long-shot –– I was equal parts disappointed and relieved. But there was great value in having applied, not least because it invited me to imagine what I might be capable of if I were to stretch myself. It was something to think about; released from my limitations –– many of which are perceived –– what would I be making? The sketches I submitted were emblematic of an obstacle free mind. The only way we move forward is by moving forward. And what the application process showed me is that there is a large leap between where I am and where I would like to get to. And that I won’t make that leap at my kitchen table.

“I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape — the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it; the whole story doesn’t show,” wrote painter, Andrew Wyeth. Timed perfectly with this most wintery day, I came across Roy Wright’s charcoal drawings of bare trees today, reminding me how beautiful a tree can be in winter. There’s so much exquisite detail to his drawings. Have a look if you have a moment today, preferably while sipping tea under a wool blanket.

It’s a deliberate choice not to listen to anything as I walk. No Adele, no Ki and Dee, not my Mum. Nothing. No one. Instead, I listen to my thoughts like a descant over honking horns and tweeting birds. Yesterday, I heard Arabic, as beautiful as any Adele song, and today opera, performed on foot by a guy on Harbord. Would I have noticed either had my ears been devoted to the sound of Tom Rosenthal’s happy melancholy? When I was a runner, I always listened to music. Tina Turner. Celine Dion. Cher. Name a power ballad, and I had it on my playlist. These days, I’m moving much slower, and my music reflects my pace. But sometimes, like now, silence is golden. Because it’s in silence that my mind gets to duet with the city.

Any time someone invites me to see their studio I jump at the chance. I love to see people’s creative spaces; the way they work, their process, the behind the scenes. It always feels like such a privilege to be invited in, like someone’s sharing a part of themselves that few people get to see. Earlier this year, I spent a morning in Amy Rogers‘ sun-filled studio near the AGO. I left feeling energized. Her creative space –– ribbon, feathers and fabric galore –– is as colourful and exuberant as her ceramic jewellery. In the summer, I popped into photographer and ceramicist, Katherine Holland‘s studio and felt the best kind of envy –– the admiring kind –– for the serene space she’s created for herself. It is so well organized, with equal respect extended to both her disciplines. And this morning, after a chance meeting at our local convenience shop, I spent an hour with painter, Victor Helfand in his eclectic Annex Victorian. The top floor is dedicated to his practice, and it’s a wonderful mess of acrylic paints, glue guns, tree bark and other found objects. Again, I left feeling inspired, and dreaming of the studio I’ll one day have. Everyone needs a room of one’s one, and while the most significant one is the one we create within ourselves, a studio with a window and space to make a mess is high on my wishlist.