Stories, words, images, pots. The stage was set early.

School steered me away from creative pursuits and into a career in advertising. Its fast pace and unreasonable demands ultimately unfulfilling. In my early thirties, taking a bold step, I left my secure job and travelled the world before taking a class in ceramics. Those evenings in Pimlico under the tutorship of Barry Guppy were to change my life forever. My study continued at Camberwell College of Arts under the legendary Richard Slee. It was here that I learned to be a ceramicist, immersing myself in every aspect of the craft. Great Uncle Bernard’s gift meanwhile sat patiently, waiting to play its hand.

On graduating, I made slipcast pots in a shared studio in Peckham. A ceramicist, but yet to find my voice. I became a single mum, balancing making with a role in a social enterprise supporting those recovering from mental illness. Life was busy, fragmented. And my grandmother’s pots? They were now in my mother’s care.

My dear mother would buy boxes of assorted pots at auction, rootling through each precious hoard looking for the most interesting specimens! Together we’d study and discuss them, eagerly researching their potential origin and value. When I went into ceramics, mum was my greatest supporter, my cheerleader, my first Collector.

40p and your own mug for refreshments at break time**