New Pamphlet Books

The printing is finished, now it’s time to fold and stitch.

We live in an age of instant news, instant messages, instant everything. As the pace of life accelerates, our brains haven’t really changed; they still respond to the tactile, the rhythmic, the quietly focused. That’s where a sense of flow begins.

There’s something deeply satisfying about the steady rhythm of folding paper and stitching by hand. The repetition invites a calm, attentive state, one that feels increasingly rare, and all the more valuable for it.

Making these small, hand-printed and bound pamphlet books is very much a labour of love. The time they take is part of their meaning: a slower, more deliberate way of working that offers its own kind of reward.

This is a new series of pamphlet books I’m preparing for BABE 2026 in Bristol, taking place on Friday 26th and Saturday 27th June.

BABE is a free event, open to all, from 11am–5pm each day. It would be lovely to see you there.

The venue is about a 20-minute walk along the harbourside from the city centre: UWE Bristol City Campus at Spike Island, 133 Cumberland Road, Bristol BS1 6UX. Visitor information for Spike Island here.

Slow making is at the heart of what I do

 A neighbour’s question set this piece in motion, she asked "Don’t you get tired taking your dog along the same stretch of beach each day?" along with a line that’s been quietly circling my thoughts, by Emily Dickinson: “Forever is composed of nows.” I find myself returning to it, often.

As a maker of artists’ books, and as a printmaker, my work almost always brings together image and text. A simple question about walking the same stretch of beach each day led me to a series of quiet observations about small, everyday pleasures; found items, a friendly encounter, a shared, beautiful sunset, which in time slowly gathered themselves into this book.

It led me to reflect on how easily we slip into moving too quickly, always looking ahead, measuring time by what comes next. There’s often a quiet impatience in that, or a low hum of anxiety, as if we’re living slightly ahead of ourselves. And in doing so, the quieter details can get lost: the shift of light, the rhythm of the tide, the small, steady presence of the everyday.

Working by hand offers a different pace. It requires time and attention, a willingness to move slowly and really notice what’s there. There’s value in that slowness, in doing something deliberately and allowing things to unfold in their own time.  It gives me space to gather my thoughts, and to follow the ideas that begin to surface from the small finds I carry back to the studio.

As I cut and proof stencils, and bind, I watch the light shift across the room. I find myself holding onto fragments, gathering thoughts and memories and gently fixing them to the page, the work becoming a way of holding onto the present.

Pages coming together

Write... Print... Bind... And begin again.

World Book Night 2026 – The Mountains Are Calling…

World Book Night is an annual international celebration bringing together text and image artists’ books in a participatory exploration of reading and making, and this year’s theme did not disappoint.

WBN United Artists invited participants to read and respond to a text or book about mountains, and I found the project genuinely enjoyable from start to finish. It gave me the perfect excuse to revisit a wonderful book by an excellent nature writer, one I was very glad to spend time with again.

Macfarlane, Robert. 2003. Mountains of the Mind: A History a Fascination, Granta Publications

The event is organised by Sarah Bodman and Linda Parr, with input from Nancy Campbell. Each year, artists are invited to create a 2D or 3D work (which must fold flat to fit into an A5 envelope) inspired by that year’s book choice, before sending it off to be part of an exhibition and mail art swap.

It’s a wonderfully intimate format that manages to feel both personal and international at the same time.

My submission is a small trifold book, combining woodcut, stencil, and digital print.

For more information about World Book Night 2026, you can find the full brief here, and take a look at this short video for a closer look at the project.

From Plate to Binding: Making a Journal

I was asked some time ago to create as a one-off, a journal, as a gift for a friend’s partner. Something entirely unique, made slowly and with care.

I don’t usually take on commissioned work, and I was open about that from the outset: my schedule was full, and it would be many months before I could give the project the attention it deserved. I suggested other makers who could produce something more quickly, but he was clear that he was happy to wait. In the end, I allowed myself to be persuaded.

What followed was a long, layered process. Designing and cutting plates for the commissioned endpapers; printing and proofing (always my favourite stage); writing the poem and setting the text for print. 

There were mock-ups to make, papers and book cloth to source and choose, and finally the slow, absorbing work of compiling and binding the book.

I enjoyed the making enormously, though I was less fond of having to fit it around other ongoing projects. Still, when the book was finished, I felt quietly pleased with the result, both as an object and, as a piece of work that had been allowed to unfold at its own pace.

I might be tempted to do something like this again in the future, not so much as a commission, but as a personal project. 

It turns out that what I valued most was not just the finished book, but the time spent thinking and testing, printing and making, letting the work find its own rhythms.

This led me to think about how, culturally, we underestimate the value of making something slowly and deliberately, predominantly by hand, and the time that such work requires.

Most people probably don’t consider where their belongings come from, let alone who has made them. I believe this matters. It feeds a wider misunderstanding that the craft involved in making an object is unimportant, that skills learned and honed over many years have little intrinsic value and, therefore, little economic value.

I hope that, culturally, we learn to support artists and makers, not only the celebrated and established, but those working at a grassroots level too, so that skills can be passed on before they are lost and, with them, an important part of ourselves.

A New Woodcut : Little Egret in Bistre and Teal

When I flick through my older bird books, those well-thumbed guides from the 1980s and 1990s, I’m struck by how they describe the Little Egret. Back then, it was a rarity in Britain, an elegant white heron noted as an occasional summer stray from continental Europe. Mentions are often tinged with surprise: a glimpse of one on the south coast might have made the local birding news.

Now, things have changed. The Little Egret has become a familiar presence along my stretch of the Essex coast. I see them regularly throughout the year; solitary, poised, sometimes in small groups, wading the tidal shallows or flying low with slow, deliberate wingbeats. What was once extraordinary is now everyday.

From rare visitor to a familiar sight. The woodcut I've just finished carving is of a little egret, created as a quiet companion to the curlew I made earlier this year. They feel like a natural pair: both birds of the estuary, both caught in those long, patient moments at the tide’s edge.

 

The curlew, with its curved bill and hunched stance, has a kind of grounded solemnity. The egret brings something lighter, upright and poised, a flick of brightness among reed and water. I carved it with a light hand, fine lines for the neck and plumes, leaving space for air and stillness.

For this edition, I’ve chosen bistre and teal, deep earth and tidal blue. The bistre holds the bird’s form, while the teal gives a sense of cool depth, like distant water beneath a shifting sky. These colours seem to suit the egret: subtle but vivid, just enough to catch the eye.

Together, the egret and curlew form a quiet pair. One a long-time presence on the marshes; the other, once rare, now returned in growing numbers. Both are birds of the tideline, shaped by the same watery world. These prints speak of place, not dramatic, but attentive. A small tribute to the birds that belong to the shorelines I love, and to the changing estuary light that shapes them.

Calling All Book Artists: Join a New Creative Group

Do you make books, by hand, using a press, or by imagination?

Whether you’re a printmaker layering ink on paper, a writer binding words between pages, an illustrator folding zines at your kitchen table, or someone experimenting with what a book can become, I’d love to hear from you.

I’m starting a new group in the Colchester area for artists and makers who work with books as a creative form. The aim is simple: to bring together people who love books, not just as things to read, but as things to make, share, and explore.

Why a group for book artists?

Because bookmaking, though often a solitary pursuit, thrives in community. A shared space can spark ideas, open up new techniques, and build lasting creative relationships. Whether you’ve been making books for years or you’re just beginning, this is a chance to connect.

Imagine the group as a welcoming, informal gathering where we can:

Share tips and processes

Give and receive feedback on works-in-progress

Collaborate on projects or exhibitions

Host workshops or zine swaps

Support each other with the practicalities of making, printing, 

        and distributing creative work

Who is it for?

Anyone interested in the book as art. You might be a visual artist, a designer, a poet, a craftsperson, or someone who defies all labels. If your practice involves, or wants to involve, books in some form, you’re welcome.

Books are more than just stories. They’re acts of making, spaces of imagination, and bridges between people. So get in touch, bring your sketchbook, a project, or just yourself and let’s see what we can make, together.

Interested? Contact: info@merseaartistsbooks.co.uk

Adana press printing

There’s something wonderfully meditative and deliberate about printing on an Adana. These compact, hand-operated machines, once common in home and small-scale print shops, are perfect for creating beautifully tactile greeting cards.

The process is slow and considered, and that’s exactly the point. Each card begins with hand-setting metal type, followed by carefully inking the press and placing each sheet through by hand. 

Adding ink to the ink disk.

Chase and type placed in its bed and inked up.

The results? Crisp, debossed lettering and subtle textures you can feel.

Unlike digital prints, no two cards are ever quite the same. That small imperfection? That’s character. That’s a part of the charm of a handmade item. In our fast paced world printmaking reminds us of the value of taking time, and the beauty of making something by hand.

And the magic at the end, seeing the layers of ink used coming to light. Cleaning the ink disk.