One hour
A story from my studio about making, missing, and pacing
Liever in het Nederlands lezen? De vertaalde versie vind je hier →
My studio is, at the moment, mostly a place where I am missing.
Where my hands do not make, and projects patiently wait to be turned into stories not yet told. If only I had that same patience.
A lovely scent lingers in the air: a mix of wood, metal, tea, and a trace of clean. The latter comes from an ultrasonic bath filled with soapy water. It is a small space, filled to the brim with materials, tools, and possibilities. During periods when I cannot make at all, I still find myself climbing the stairs to my studio, just to be there. To look around, to touch things, to take photographs. My hands are maker’s hands; they miss the feeling of material, texture, weight, and the act of shaping.
Not being able to make, as a maker-gatherer, creates friction. It makes my studio feel almost like a physical representation of my mind. An archive full of ideas and unfinished beginnings, a collection of hope edged with sadness.
Over the past few years, I’ve learned what pacing means. It has given me insights I could never have discovered otherwise. What that looks like now: I work for one hour at a time in my studio. Rest before it, rest after it.
My latest finished-at-last piece unfolded over 10 hours, during 11 days, spanning 4 months. A process full of ups and downs.
In one of those studio moments, my attention was drawn to a strange, long, spiraling shell. I picked it up, letting its weight settle in my hand. No doubts.
I pressed a tiny doll hand into the opening and added a sprig of precious coral. The collection lay ready on my clean, empty workbench: waiting for the next time.
Two years ago, I moved through the quiet space mostly with sadness. Now, I also feel trust. I am going to make this. I know I can. This new reality sometimes feels almost natural. Almost.
On the day I thought I would finish the work, I felt calm.
The end of a journey: not a race, but a pilgrimage.
In the months leading up to this moment, I had — naturally — wandered down countless mental side paths during the times I wasn’t making. Making or not, time never stands still, and neither does my mind. Gratitude quickly turns into fuel for fantasies of more, more, more…
How do I, as a human and a maker, accept that one moment I am able, and the next I am not?
What if I…
✧ submit the work to an open call
✧ manage to produce an entire series again
✧ start making in my studio for one hour, three days a week
✧ restock and reopen my webshop
On that planned finished-at-last day, I turned the shell gently in its silver spiral. It fit perfectly. I had shaped it to size. And yet, I must have used just a little too much force.
CRACK.
The shell broke.
And I felt nothing.
I was startled by the crack, but no emotion followed. And that nothingness felt strange. I know myself. So I went home. Hours later, during rest, a reaction did come: sadness, anger, frustration, wanting to just quit. In my hands lived the echo of that shell’s crack and a deep longing for more breaking. In a rare moment of mental clarity, I hadn’t brought the shell home. Good. It lay there, still broken, on my workbench. For the next time. And that next time came. Many, many times later than I had imagined.
I decided not to force a solution for the shell’s break, and to sleep on all the possibilities — including the option of smashing the whole piece.
That stretch of sleep lasted six weeks. Weeks during which I could sometimes do nothing at all. After that, my days filled up with other things. I was absent from my studio, unable to be there even for a brief moment. And slowly, I began to love the piece again.
I finished it at last, in two half-hour sessions, when I was able.
And yes, that felt good. The moment when all those separate hours added up to more than the sum of their parts.
But that feeling of joy is not just in finishing.
It’s in that one hour, every time. In the act of making itself.
In my hands that know.
In time that passes on its own.
In the feeling of coming home.
Then comes the longing.
More of this.
And also the dissatisfaction:
why not longer?
Until it is possible again.
One hour in the now.
At home in my studio.
Back in my second year at art academy, my mentor taught me:
’Better one focused hour than a diluted week.’
Then, it was about focus: the balance between rest and work, the way we divided our time. We were juggling countless projects, and my health was already faltering. Years later, that advice has only become more relevant.
I thought acceptance would feel calmer, but it’s no place of rest.
On the one hand, I constantly want to be able to do more. On the other, I keep learning to accept what is (im)possible. Every time I grow used to the latest version of my reality, I outgrow it. A new snakeskin to shed: uncomfortable. My situation keeps constantly changing, and even improvement can create friction at times. Because with that improvement, there is also more room for grief.
I’ve learned how to pace.
Now I’m learning to live with not knowing.
⁂
✶ Series:
New(found) joy – small moments of rediscovery in ways that fit the present.
✶ The piece I create in this story is called Turritella. The first jewel in the growing series Shellter. On sheltering, shell murmur, and the body as a temporary home.
On my website, Shellter unfolds in slow, sedimented layers here →
✦ Pacing is a way of living consciously within the boundaries of limited energy. It involves balancing exertion and rest to prevent the worsening of symptoms such as PEM (post-exertional malaise). Pacing can be applied to all types of activity: physical, cognitive, emotional, and sensory. It is not a cure, but a strategy to carefully distribute energy and improve quality of life.
✦ Images are from the precious matters personal collection: now part of this growing archive. A lifetime of small moments, gathered with care: fragments of a soft universe in the making.
✧ Originally written in Dutch by Merel Slootheer. Translated with care and intuition by Blackbird Ditchlord.
Everything here grows slowly,
with care, in my own rhythm.
𓆑 𓂃 ˖ ݁.