If an artist works best in solitude, a certain adaptation is required when a baby gurgles in the corner (on a blanket laid over layers of bubblewrap). It is still a sort of solitude, despite the baby, as the baby does not question, judge, smirk, compliment, theorise – but the baby does demand (and distract). The baby demands to be held and comforted – and depending on the type of baby – may also require a small cave to be formed over its prone form at periodic intervals. Absolute quiet is advised (no canvas stretching, no slamming doors). At other times, they may wish to be held and not put down at all and so the artist is forced to contemplate their work; their next brushstroke, pencil mark, stitch for perhaps an hour, maybe more. If the artist is a very fast worker and throws speed at every studio activity, a forceful slowing down ensues. Decisions line up in a queue to be ticked off at the next nap, doubt forms from overlooking, questions build up where no questions formally lay. And sometimes (rarely) a problem solves itself quite happily from time being spent in thoughtful contemplation.

Different negotiations have to be made when the baby learns to crawl. Once a baby is mobile, items at a certain height have to be moved upwards as the slightly loosened caps on paint tubes may end up in the mouth of an exploratory baby. This is tricky if the solitude-loving artist works on the floor. Explorative babies seem to love finding the most dangerous object in the studio (cadmium red, an unsheathed knife) and playing with it. Periodic health and safety checks are advised. The biggest issue, however, arises from the regularisation of the nap. Perhaps people who don’t come into contact with babies might roll their eyes at schedules and parenting obsessions with time (the author might have been such a person once) but unfortunately even the most bonnie, benign baby prefers certain atmospheric conditions to sleep in (pitch black room, absolute silence, screaming for the eleven minutes prior). Studio neighbours are made intimately aware of the baby’s presence as their own solitude is impinged upon. These neighbours might regularly assure their fellow artist, “The sound doesn’t bother me at all.”

At this stage (baby is 7-9 months of age), the solitude-craving artist will reach a crossroads. There are the conditions at home which perfectly complement the baby’s needs and the conditions in the studio which become something of an obstacle-course-cum-testing-ground. There is weaning to consider and plan for, there is the temperature of the studio (freezing or boiling, un-heatable or un-coolable), there are entertainment needs (toys fast become dull) and suddenly the baby-adapted solitude the artist perfected for the baby’s life thus far, is no longer workable. Once the baby becomes a toddler, this resolve is further tested.

When the baby is nine months old the artist may have a solo exhibition with the work made during the baby’s naps (on the days when their other toddler is at nursery thanks to the 30 hours free childcare for working parents). In the short, ensuing break the baby is now nearly also a toddler and it is deep-midwinter. Attempts to return to the studio might fast prove that solitude is no longer remotely possible. The baby has become an individual, a person, and yes, there is now judgement and criticism expressed volubly and regularly.

But as of new legislation in 2025 (eligible for working parents the term after the baby turns 9 months), the baby-toddler can join their sibling at nursery (thanks to the 30 hours free childcare for working parents) and so the artist resolves to wait for true solitude to resume their practice in January 2026. God willing.

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Strongly recommended tools for additional solitude: a partner to share childcare on the five other days not covered by 30 hours free childcare for working parents, grandparents (for similar reasons) and should an artist be so lucky, voluminous wealth might also be a boon.

I like collecting, so naturally, I like lists. Lists are a very easy and non-committal way of collecting. For Dismember my Monster, I made a reading list. Fictional. Just for myself (another indulgence). But then I extended it to include film. I suppose it’s like having an accompanying soundtrack, except a lot more work if one were to combine it with a viewing.

In no particular order:

My favourite children’s book. Possibly my favourite book ever. The home interiors are masterpieces. The simple text can be read 1000 times without boredom. The monster eats the boy (or is the boy the monster?) and it teaches all you need to know about modern parenting.

A man gets stranded on a motorway island and finds he doesn’t really want to leave. Concrete island is a container of sorts – and full of oddities.

I often have daydreams about living somewhere cut off with the vaguest connection to the outside world and minimal social responsibility, although it’s generally somewhere minus concrete.

Colour saturation and a table laid with a roasted lover.

Not sure which I prefer; film or book. I think about them both all the time.
Humans are animals.

“Four legs good two legs bad”

My favourite Sendak. There is a wonderhorn, a red cloak and the goblins are chubby babies. I’ve had this book since birth and it’s imprinted on me.

A reminder that horror sits very close to laughter.
Also, Steven, a close family friend and my spirit guide in (horror) film and fiction told me that Britt Ekland had a bum double.

Faith intertwined with folklore makes heady reading; and the British landscape has its own brooding personality.
There is something of the evocative, eerie strangeness that I’d like to keep close.

A final note to reiterate my love of lists; I have a list of all the books I’ve ever read since I was eight years old and attended Ms Ounsted’s afterschool bookclub. One of the activities was to write such a list (another was to examine old books and work out their edition, I forget what else).
My lists has two rules; I have to finish the book and re-reads count.

I wish I’d done this for film.

When I was little, I created my own cabinets of curiosity; old letterpress trays in chests of drawers filled with shells and fossils, liberally mixed together with Kinder Egg toys and cracker charms; the free gifts in cereal packets; dolls house furniture and reproduction Roman coins from English Heritage gift shops (anything to delay a child’s full-blown rebellion on a culture trip). 

There is so much possibility held behind a cabinet door with a tiny keyhole. Treasure. Or possibly magic; The Minpins, The Indian in the Cupboard, (I never took to The Borrowers), The Box of Delights. The laws of physics, social systems, common sense, all could operate differently behind that wood veneer and intricate inlay of tortoiseshell and mother of pearl. Existence could be a lot better in that other realm, or a whole deal worse. A mirror world, uncanny replicas, distorted visions. Open the door and should you have the folly to reach inside, you might get sucked into a stratosphere where everything is recognisable yet warped and strange. 

Curiosity cabinets were built for prized collections and the desire in me to amass objects is strong (even if my own collecting is less Grand Tour, more Weird and Rubbish). I have helped clear out both sets of grandparent’s homes after their deaths, and can attest to there being a family interest in accumulation. Items are given value, not based on monetary worth, but on family connections however distant. Great Aunt so-and-so’s rather ugly, damaged and disliked side table is kept, despite an understanding that it would be refused by the local charity shop. Hard copies of long-forgotten texts in boxes; photographs of unknown ancestors; mothy rugs; unreadable collections of short stories which never-the-less have the name of a grandparents written on the fly leaf.

But undeniably, it is through this very accumulation and the resulting chaos that my own creativity lies. This midden becomes material for plunder, its seams running as deeply into the past as into the present. I will never be bored with these drawers to rummage through and can’t conceive a time when I will stop filling my own boxes, stop collecting, shaking and re-arranging.

There is a simple strategy:
I: Open the Drawer
II: Fill the Drawer
III: Place a piece of card over the Drawer
IV: Shake the Drawer (and if items are not fragile, do so with some vigour)
V: Replace the Drawer without looking.
VI: After a suitable stretch of time, say, a few hours or, better yet, a week, open the drawer and examine the contents carefully.

N.B. This is not foolproof, but is the only method I know for allowing magic to do its work.