He loves me, he loves me not….. Daisies are that sweet little flower that everybody loves. This Abby Galloway print is charming. Have a look at her other patterns –– sunflowers, watermelons, mushrooms and pineapples. Galloway’s style is fresh, cheery and nostalgic. The teenager in me would love to see all the above emblazoned across journals, throw cushions and wallpaper.

“Juggling motherhood and any career can be a struggle, but there seems to be something about the role of artist that makes the combination more than usually problematic,” writes Hettie Judah in today’s Guardian. As I read the words, I did a quick mental rolodex of women artists. Georgie O’Keefe, Marina Abramovic, Tracey Emin, Helen Frankenthaler, Bridget Riley and Barbara Hepworth all sprang to mind. Interestingly, only Hepworth had children, and she’s been often criticized for sending her triplets away when they were infants so she could focus on her work. “The thought of not having them with her made her deeply unhappy, but the thought of not being able to do her work also made her deeply unhappy,” writes Caroline Maclean in her new book Circles and Squares. I then thought about the women artists I know, friends of mine, who have left their infants for weeks on end to shoot a documentary on the other side of the world, dragged their kids city-wide on photoshoots, or upped and moved an entire family for a film, and the shame and euphoria they’ve experienced in doing so. In an essay, , published as part of a report on the representation of female artists in Britain during 2019, Judah tackles the many challenges that artist mothers face, from the harsh reality that one’s physical and emotional energy is no longer dedicated to art, to the unrealistic expectations placed upon them by curators and gallerists, to the unrealistic artist’s lifestyle. “Artist mothers unable to participate in the ‘bohemian lifestyle’ –– the nightlife, parties and wild behaviour –– have found themselves cut off from their peer groups. One described the switch to motherhood as an experience akin to selling out or joining the bourgeoisie.” And of course, there’s the selfish mother syndrome that plagues most working mums, and may be more charged in women that choose a path that demands time away from their children with erratic returns. With little to no income, art starts to feel like a hobby, mummy’s little pastime, increasingly hard to justify. “The guilt experienced by artist mothers is rooted in broader cultural issues: art doesn’t come with a fixed wage or an established career trajectory, the making of it doesn’t have an easily quantifiable value,” writes Judah. “With childcare costly, how dare you spend money to work without guaranteed financial reward? How dare you take time for your work away from your children? How dare you bring children into the insecurity of an artist’s lifestyle?” The urge to paint or sculpt is in some women as innate as the urge to bear children. Science suggests that women may even become more creative after having children. Which is why so many women feel guilt and conflict in the early years of motherhood when they are fulfilling one urge and starving another. To balance that surge of creativity with the enormous demands of motherhood is a formidable task. Some manage it, most don’t. “Newborns have scant respect for mothers’ other forms of creativity,” writes Judah. But as children get older, and go to school (hoorah) there is a slow and quiet re-claiming of one’s creative energy, an energy that was very possibly fed by the struggle and joy of early motherhood. “A writer friend once told me that she loses two books with each child she has. ‘But then you come back motivated and write differently than you would have before.’ Who can define what is actually lost?” says writer, Hadley Freeman. Mums are very good at filling an hour with sixty minutes, she adds. “It turns out you don’t need eight solid, uninterrupted hours to do your work, that a gratefully grasped hour will suffice.” You produce what you can, when you can. Totonto writer, Kerry Clare wrote 1000 words a day of her novel while her daughters watched Annie beside her. Initiatives that support female artists juggling work and parenthood, such as the Mother Prize the Procreate Project, Residency in Motherhood and Artist Mother Studio, to name a few, are clearing the path. Judah is optimistic. She sees a slow shift in attitude, thanks in part to the pandemic. “With its evening events and international travel schedule, the art world pre COVID-19 was not well suited to artist parents. Perhaps the pandemic will force a change, a softening, a focus on local scenes, or change in tone that could make it more inclusive,” she writes. “Brilliant artist mothers exist –– celebrating them is important if we are to shift the enduring cliché that a woman cannot be both.”

To look out a window and see mountains covered in a blanket of green can only mean a good start to the day. With a little internet sleuthing, I found the photographer, Flørian Jøhaenntgen (his adventure filled pics are breathtaking) and the hotel where this image was taken. Sledding, hiking, biking…that is what travellers come to Austria’s DOLOMITENHÜTTE to do. It was built in the mid 1930s and it’s been re-designed over the years. It’s current incarnation looks rustic, and yet truly elegant, with four spartan rooms boasting breathtaking views like this one.

There’s something in the ethereal beauty of Stephen Doherty‘s flower paintings that I think may resonate with us all. I love the translucency in some of the petals, so delicate and fragile, and how the flowers look like they’ve been pressed and preserved over time. Doherty was in Goa during a monsoon season when he was inspired to recreate the flower offerings that he’d seen tied to shrine gates. His flower series is an offering of gratitude. “I am massively drawn to flowers. I love that they are in a permanent state of movement, rising up and the bursting out from the centre. My drawings are like taking a still of that movement.”

With November, comes a return to drinking tea. I like herbal teas –– turmeric, ginger, rooibos -– and I often add a spoonful of honey. I grew up drinking tea. My grandparents started their day with a cup of Tetley’s, freshly brewed by the Teasmade. Three lumps of sugar went into my grandfather’s cup. At my Dad’s house, afternoon tea was an event, with silver tea strainers, porcelain cups and perfect little cucumber sandwiches. My mum always had a mug full of English Breakfast with her as she drove me to school. To this day, she makes tea before she’s even opened her eyes in the morning. It’s a cliché that the English pop the kettle on in a crisis. But the truth is, tea is warming, tea is nostalgic. Tea is home.

What I remember most about the cut on my chin is how much it bled. I was four-years-old and racing around Ms. China’s classroom on a toy milk truck when it happened. I must have lost my balance, or collided with something. I don’t remember the stitches, but I do remember the feeling of the large bandage across my chin. That was my first scar. I’ve since met dozens of people with scars on their chins, all incurred in childhood. Next came a large scar on my inner thigh when I flew off a mini bike on a peer in Kalamata and singed my skin on the muffler. I was 13. In my late teens I had a mole removed from my ankle, which although painless, was thoroughly unpleasant. For such a little thing, it left a pronounced scar. I have three small scars on my lower belly from a laparoscopy to remove endometriosis. That was a painful experience. A few hours after the surgery, I remember standing in the powder pink changing room, with Jason gently pulling up my gauzy underpants, and thinking, wow, this is love. It took a while to recover, but I did give up smoking that week, and we did go on to have three babies, so those scars are treasures. Scars spark up all kinds of memories, some positive, some painful.

How beautiful you are

he said

a tapestry of scars

Atticus

It’s such a massive blow to local businesses, that in December, the busiest retail month of the year, they are forced to shut. Curb-side pickup and delivery remain an option, and we must all support in every way we can. Herewith, a not-so-free-from-bias list of where to shop this holiday season. Easy Tiger is unique in this town, spotlighting a range of artists with a flare for the unexpected, quirky, humorous and bizarre. Look out for the work of DA Ceramics, a singular talent, whose ceramics are as weird and wonderful as they are skillfully made. Studio Zey Zey brings such humour and whimsy to clay, with colourful carafes and mugs covered in evil eyes. Michelle Organ, owner of The Shop and creative talent behind Mima is a shining example of what can be achieved with vision, hard work and beautiful ethics. Functionality meets originality in this potter’s hands. I’m a huge fan of the Horses high collared shirt (I own two of them) and I’m kind of after an apron, too. I don’t bake, but I am a messy potter. Jennifer Halchuk and Richard Lyle over at Gaspard have such great taste, and visiting their shop always feels like I’ve stepped into another city. Paris, perhaps. Who wouldn’t love an inouitoosh scarf? Mushrooms and Corinthian columns, anyone? Ewanika is another unique shopping experience; the store itself feels like a chic Italian Nonna’s soggiorno. If nothing else, splurge on local skincare guru, Fran Miller‘s oils. It’s like pouring honey on your face. And if it’s flowers you’re after –– who doesn’t like an amaryllis in December –– run over to Flur for delicate florals and one-of-a-kind hand-made vessels to put them in.