Opening the Studio Door: What I Learned From My First Open Studio

Well… that's a wrap.

My first Open Studio is over, the signs have come down, and the studio now looks as though a small art-shaped tornado has passed through it. Tomorrow's job is tidying up... but for now, I thought I'd share a few reflections while they're still fresh.

If I'm being completely honest, it wasn't quite what I'd imagined.

Friday was hot. Not pleasantly warm, but the sort of heat that makes you question every decision involving movement. The air was heavy, the sun relentless, and if I'm truthful, I wasn't entirely surprised that I didn't welcome a single visitor through the door that day.

Sometimes the weather simply wins.

Saturday and Sunday were a little busier, but across the weekend I welcomed ten visitors in total.

Ten.

When you write the number down, it doesn't sound like very many.

It's easy, in moments like these, to compare yourself with larger venues. One of the other stops on the Creative Lincs Art Trail had eighteen artists exhibiting together and was buzzing with visitors. Looking back, I can see why. A larger venue naturally becomes a destination in its own right, whereas visiting my studio meant making a special journey.

There's a lesson in that too.

I also know I could have done more local promotion. Most of my newsletter readers and social media followers are scattered around the country (and, rather wonderfully, around the world), whereas Open Studios really relies on reaching people close enough to pop in for an hour on a sunny afternoon.

Lesson noted for next year.

But here's the thing...

Numbers rarely tell the whole story.

There was another lesson I perhaps hadn't fully anticipated.

Opening your art to the world is one thing.

Opening your home and your studio is quite another.

I realised beforehand that I was feeling surprisingly nervous—not just about whether anyone would come, but about inviting people into a space that is deeply personal. My studio isn't a pristine white gallery; it's where ideas begin, paintings evolve, and creative chaos quietly unfolds. It's full of sketchbooks, ‘failed experiments’, favourite materials, shelves of well-thumbed books, collections of found treasures, and all the little things that make it my space.

In many ways, it feels like an extension of me.

When you open your studio, you're not simply asking people to look at your work; you're inviting them into your creative world. That carries a vulnerability all of its own. Any criticism—of the work or the space—would inevitably have felt a little personal.

Thankfully, that wasn't my experience at all.

Instead, I was met with kindness, curiosity and generosity.

Among those ten visitors were some genuinely lovely conversations.

We talked about process, materials, inspiration, Norfolk, Skye, printmaking, framing, and why artists seem incapable of throwing anything away because it might come in useful one day.

People spent time looking.

They asked thoughtful questions.

They shared stories of places that meant something to them.

Those conversations are part of why I wanted to open the studio in the first place.

And there was another quiet success.

Two pieces found new homes—a framed painting and a small mounted work on paper—which more than covered my application fee and expenses.

Would I have loved a queue down the driveway?

Of course.

Who wouldn't?

But equally, breaking even financially while spending a weekend talking about art with genuinely interested people isn't something to dismiss too quickly.

Perhaps one of the biggest lessons has been remembering that success doesn't always look the way we imagine it will.

Sometimes success is measured in numbers.

Sometimes it's measured in conversations.

Sometimes it's measured in confidence gained, lessons learned, and knowing that the next time will feel just that little bit easier because you've already done it once.

As artists, we're forever learning.

Not just about paint and paper, but about exhibiting, promoting, welcoming people into our creative spaces, and finding ways to connect with an audience.

This was my first Open Studio.

It certainly won't be my last.

Next time I'll advertise earlier and more locally. I'll think carefully about how visitors find me, perhaps join forces with other artists where I can, and continue building awareness within my local community. I'll take everything I've learned this weekend and build on it.

Because that's what creative practice is, isn't it?

We make.

We reflect.

We learn.

Then we begin again.

As the American author and educator John C. Maxwell wrote,

"Sometimes you win, sometimes you learn."

That feels like a rather fitting way to look back on the weekend.

There may not have been crowds through the studio door, but there were genuine conversations, kind encouragement, valuable lessons, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing I'd taken a step that had felt, at times, quite daunting.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a studio to tidy... and I suspect I'll be discovering paintbrushes in the most unlikely places for weeks to come.