Content note: This post discusses mental health and recovery.
People often ask me:
"What is the story behind the Fish design?"
Often with my artwork, it's only in hindsight, when I look at what was happening in my life alongside the work I was creating, that I begin to understand its meaning.
So if you're ready, here's the raw, honest deep dive.
Late 2019, I sat down at a pottery wheel and rediscovered a joy from childhood. But this time, I fell in love with clay on a whole new level. I knew that to elevate my clumsy forms, I needed to bring what I already understood, illustration, into the process.
“Shy Fish” began as a simple brushstroke. Just a glimpse of a fish tail in a bowl. No faces, no eyes, no depth of character. Just a splash of underglaze with some sgraffito detailing. I had been taught that through repetition, a motif becomes so natural that the work starts to carry a kind of signature magic. So again and again, this tail reappeared. Honestly, I wasn’t thinking too deeply about what it meant. I’ve always loved the water and the creatures within it, and that felt like enough.
At the same time in my life, the black dog, along with anxiety and PTSD, were quietly building. Post divorce, a year into self employment, trying to start again, my mental health began to decline.
Thankfully, I was surrounded by love and support. (A special mention to the Batemans and the Marlborough Car and Pottery Clubs here.) I also sought professional help. Medication for a short time, and therapy, plenty of that. But clay became the constant. Clay, clay, clay.
(Side note. For anyone who has struggled with thoughts of self harm, I highly recommend looking into the art technique “sgraffito.” It can be a safe and productive way to channel some of those destructive impulses, and you may surprise yourself with what you can create.)
The day I left my first marriage in 2017, I experienced something I later learned is called depersonalization. I glanced at my reflection and didn’t recognise the person looking back. It lasted for around two weeks, then slowly faded and I brushed it aside.
Later, during a low point in my mental health, alongside panic attacks, dark headspaces, and a poor sense of self, another strange effect emerged. I became deeply afraid of having my photo taken. Looking back, I think it tied into that earlier experience. I didn’t want to be captured in a state of transition. I didn’t know who I was, and I didn’t want to present something that felt untrue.
And so, the faceless fish, “Shy Fish,” was born. And the ironic thing? It’s the motif people have connected with the most.
As I began to heal, and my sense of self slowly returned, small faces started appearing on the fish. They became less shy, more curious.
They began to move through the world with confidence, finding surfaces to inhabit without hesitation.
Now, the story I attach to the “Shy Fish,” or the fish tail, is this.
It’s not about our faces, or how we look.
It’s about our tail, our tale.
What we leave in our wake.
The legacy we leave behind.
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