So how do I make this work?

After a year of stumbling about a bit, falling in and out of love with my business and spending rather a lot of my own money, I decided that this Clever Monty malarky needed to start contributing towards the rent. When staring out of the window and sighing a lot didn’t help, I decided to face facts. My blog wasn’t particularly popular, my commissions for furniture weren’t coming in as fast as I wanted and my social media was a little sporadic at best. I read A LOT of other interiors/writing/craft blogs to try to be inspired by their seemingly endless stream of thoughts and posts. But ended up wondering how on earth they did it. I ended up pretty downbeat about the whole thing.

What I realised though, from beneath my duvet (yes I retreated to bed, it got that hopeless), was that all of these people with successful blogs, creative businesses and social media savviness all had to start somewhere. Unless you’re already famous, starting a business is hard (and actually, even if you are famous I bet it’s pretty hard; imagine having all your mistakes on show to the world, eurgh). It seems to me that the ones that make it past the three year anniversary are the ones who are doggedly determined.

So, I rolled up my sleeves. I posted more blogs, I retweeted the things which inspired me and I kept my eyes open for guest blogging opportunities which would (hopefully) encourage more people to look my way. Eyes down. Laptop on. Distractions OFF.

Then one day a dear friend and cheerleader for all things Clever Monty suggested I start a creative writing group. I made a face and told her I couldn’t possibly do that (my learned response to any suggestion which takes me outside my comfort zone), but it sowed the seed.

Before I could over-think and therefore find a million excuses why not to do it, I wrote a six week syllabus of exercises I use for my own creative practice. It ranges from suggestions I found online from other writers, to little games I do by myself to get my pen working a little harder.

I printed some flyers, handed some out to friends and fellow artists, and ran a small social media campaign about #creativewriting (see I’m getting it aren’t I?) And to my utter surprise, people signed up. So many that I had to create more sessions for next year. Who’d’ve thought it huh?

So for a small charge each week my merry band of writers and I spend two hours together, writing, doing little exercises, reading our work out loud and supplying that all important encouragement for each other. It’s given me so much food for stories, and developed my own sense of confidence in what I do. And the small charge pays for the space I rent, as well as some nice chocolate biscuits to nibble on.

I’m not saying that everyone should start their own creative writing group (well I am a bit, it’s a brilliant way to stay focused and develop as a writer), but I am saying that if you want to write and you want to succeed, listen to your cheerleaders! 

Cheerleader Image used from the305.com blog

Creative Writing for You (and me) In Stroud

So here I am. Sat in my cosy studio (it’s October ok? I’m allowed the heating on), and I realise I need to face facts. No, not that I am a ridiculous heat-hound, and fantastic procrastinator, but that I need something. I have five pieces of furniture which cannot be finished until I write them a story. They have been sat on my workbench, eyeing me menacingly for a few weeks. But something is missing as I sit here at my ancient laptop waiting for inspiration and looking out of the window. What’s becoming ragingly obvious is that most of my best work has been written in a group. For some reason, the combined energy of a creative writing group spurs me on to produce very good stories. So I look around my studio again and realise yes, that’s what’s missing. People. 

There are certain people I can’t write with (sorry). I don’t like horror or gory styles, and I don’t enjoy sob-fiction (think “A Child Called It”, or perhaps don’t). That’s not to say that these genres do not have their place in the world, they just don’t float my creative boat, as it were. 

I have exercises which I do by myself, designed to make me think outside my cosy box and flex my creative muscles, but they tend to fall flat when I’m by myself. Well, it’s high time I pulled my socks up and did something about this. Due to a trillion after school clubs (who’d be a mum eh?), my usual writing group isn’t going to work for me this side of Christmas, so I decided *FANFARE* to make my own.

Yep. I am going to lead a band of pen wielding lovelies through the alphabet and hopefully help them (and me) to create some lovely works of fiction. 

Fancy it? Well I’m going to run these groups out of my studio at Victoria Works in Chalford, just outside Stroud. They will run for six weeks on a Monday and a Thursday and will focus on developing writing practice and character development. Details below. See you there. 

Monday Group

Monday 3rd November - Monday 8th December

12.30pm - 2.30pm

Thursday Group

Thursday 6th November - Thursday 11th December

9.30am - 11.30am

£55 

Booking is essential (mainly so I know how much tea to buy)

All ages and abilities welcome

Clever Monty

Coast Magazine

This month some of our products have been photographed for the lovely ‘Coast Magazine’ in their UK Craft feature. The pieces were styled by the talented Emma Clayton who had seen our work in the SIT Select 2014 brochure. 

We couldn’t be happier with how the pieces look! They work brilliantly with the crafts from the other artisans. It’s so wonderful to see so many British craftspeople and we're especially happy to see four we know from Stroud! What a hive of talent we are.

Thank you Coast Magazine for a lovely feature!

My journey to creativity

As an adult I am lucky to be surrounded by creativity. There is music which whispers to me in the night as I sleep. Art that tugs on my sleeve when I happen to be looking the wrong way. Books which find their way into my bookshelves without me quite knowing how they got there. As a child I remember staring at sculptures in  shopping arcades which pulsed with creative invisibility, which seemed to be hidden from everyone but me.  A small child with dark eyes, a wonky fringe and a predisposition for finding the hidden things no one else saw. 

I would point and ask questions no one knew the answers to; ‘Why is that man’s hair blue?’ pointing to a scary-looking punk on the bus. I soon learnt not to ask. But it didn’t stop the questions from forming in my mind. ‘Why did they choose that? What moved them? What told them to?’ At the park I would look under swings and slides at scrawled graffiti, marvelling at initials carved into walls. 

And then one day I picked up a pen and began to write. The muse smiled in her silent room. My poems began as descriptions, lists of colours and textures.  A leaf in the wind. A tree on the way to school. Words inside arguments which cut like knives. 

My mother would stare at me when I shyly showed her the words which tumbled from me, ‘Did you write this? You didn’t copy it?’ Ours wasn’t a overly creative household. I wasn’t submersed in poetry or art. It was a normal house in the normal suburbs.

I stumbled around in my normality, pen in hand, until one day I heard the opening lines of the film ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’. I was moved to tears by the poetry which I hadn’t heard before and rewound the tape again and again, listening with an open mouth. I found myself in the library, looking up ‘Funeral Blues’ by WH Auden and found his moodier counterparts. I found what is now one of my favourite poems by Louis Macneice ‘Prayer Before Birth’ which rang in my adolescent ears in its beauty and hope and desperation. 

It turns out that the world is full of beauty and hope and desperation. I happened to open my eyes and see it. My favourite poems now span generations and range in depth and genre. Some of my most treasured poems are unpublished, written by people I’ve met through writing groups, or at spoken word events. All of them move me. All of them show me another way to think, to feel, to be. All of them add to my experience as a creative person in the world.

What marked your journey to creativity? Was there a pivotal moment of YES! Or was it a more gradual immersion in the things which speak to your soul? I’d love to hear your stories. 

Clever Monty

Clever Friends

Monty, would you...?

A few months ago, a very good friend (Sally King - check her out here) asked me to provide her with quote for the cover of her book. I was honoured, of course, but also nervous (yes, I think everything I do is tinged with nerves). I wanted it to be honest, to sum up what I thought of the book and do it simply. Be succinct, if you like. Not an easy task for me. Also (I thought as I bit my nails), why would anyone care what I thought? I’m just a regular person. But perhaps that’s the point.  

But Who Am I?

In my time as an avid reader I have been lucky enough to have lots books recommended to me. First by librarians, intrigued by a small child who shunned ‘babyish’ books in favour of ‘The Secret Garden’ and ‘The Red Pony’ (ok I was far too young at nine to have understood the nuances of Steinbeck, but I read everything about horses at that point), and then by teachers and friends. I found that it soon became easy for me to recommend books too. When I worked as a bookseller I loved to be asked ‘What are you reading? What would you suggest?’, beaming brightly I would ask about what they had enjoyed lately and go from there. Shyly pointing those who loved Captian Correlli’s Mandolin to One Hundred Years of Solitude or Isabelle Allende’s House of Spirits. What I soon learned, was that there wasn’t a particular ‘type’ of reader, and that the books I read (from Jilly Cooper to JD Salinger) weren’t of a 'type' either. They were just all good stories. I found that my passion is for all books, from Arundhati Roy’s delicious descriptive prose in The God of Small Things to losing myself in the very real charactors of Armistead Maupin. It doesn’t seem to matter what I read, or how well it’s regarded by critics, as long as I find a voice I haven’t heard before hidden within.  

Keep It Simple

So to provide the right recommendation for Sally, I began with how I actually felt about her book. It was wonderful. A warm hug from a good friend. It was so good that I completely forgot that it was written by my friend Sal, and lost myself with Lottie and Grace and the brooding Oliver. I found that I didn’t know Sally as a writer at all. The voice she wrote with is not one I hear her speak with. I think this is the mark of a truly gifted writer. One who gives a true, clear voice to their charactors and allows them to have a life of their own. Sally calls this writing from the heart (she blogged about this here), and I agree.  

In the end, I wrote out my quote without fuss - “A wonderful and engrossing read. I couldn’t put it down!” The simple truth about a good book. Regular people all over the world are now reading it and loving it, and I couldn’t be prouder of her. 

Heirs and Graces is available to download here and order as a paperback here

Happy Birthday to Clever Monty

One Year On......

Just over a year ago I had a bit of an epiphany. I was walking around a flea market in Majorca (no, don’t stop reading, that was unusual for me and I’m the opposite of jet-set I promise), moaning quietly about how my career in Renewable Energy sucked. The lovely and patient friend I was with (yes you Barney H) gently told me I had great taste and maybe I should follow that. In a rather typically British-no-I-can’t-take-a-compliment way, I think I snorted and said something to change the subject. But inside I began to think. Yes actually, he was right. I had good taste, a passion for interiors and some talent for people watching and writing silly short stories but how could I make that into a viable business?

When I got back home to real life, I looked around me and saw a raft of people making a passable living from painted furniture. I curled my lip at the over-use of the term “shabby-chic” (it still pains me slightly when I say it - I prefer vintage or distressed). Then I looked out the window and sighed. A lot. 

I needed more than a passion for interiors and a talent for writing short stories. I needed something which would inspire people. Something which would inspire me. And most importantly when starting a business; something that people would pay for. I began with what made me want to part with my hard-earned cash. I buy quirky things. Items which people remember when they’ve seen them in my home. Things made by people I know and love. Things with soul. Is that a feminine artsy-fartsy and rose-tinted view of inanimate objects? Perhaps, but it makes me happy to think of the love which goes into a cup made by my friend Anna in her sunny studio, which is the opposite of how I feel when I think of the conditions in some factories which produce mass-market cups. 

So with this platform, a seed began to sprout and I realised that my obsession with all things hidden (honestly, from knickers with a silky lining to a car with a hidden cup-holder) would be my golden ticket. I began to consider names. Choosing lofty words and moving them over my tongue like sweets, nothing felt right. And then I found it; ‘Clever Monty’. Perfect. 

Clutching my concept and company name I began to test it on people I met at parties, knocking back another prosecco for courage I would say ‘I run my own business, its called Clever Monty’, and then tingle with pleasure (although that could also be blamed on the prosecco). 

Once I began to talk about my business, the world shifted to accommodate it. A friend bought a derelict mill to develop into artist studios and said I could rent one. I bought myself a toolbox and paintbrushes. People began to give me their unwanted furniture. I made a facebook page, a website, a pintrest profile and a twitter avatar. I made a logo. Friends and family became my cheerleaders, helping me to promote through social media. Chanting my tag line 'Furniture with a story to tell.' It became my mantra. 

I trundled over the months, falling in and out of love with Clever Monty, hitting brick walls and rinsing my inspiration dry as I went. At one point I sobbed to a friend “I’m just not very good” and within the hour this video appeared on my screen. A penny dropped from the ether by Ira Glass. Buoyed by these sage words I pressed on, slowly but surely getting better and better. And now when people ask me ‘where did you get that great lamp/shelf/chair/table?’ I can smile and say ‘Oh, I made it’. 

So I find myself a year old. Sat in my beautiful studio, surrounded by my beautiful, quirky, funny furniture smiling at it all. And next month some of it will appear in Coast Magazine. The icing on my one year birthday cake. I can't wait to see what the next year has in store. 

Happy birthday Clever Monty!

Finding treasure in furniture

Often at Clever Monty, people donate their furniture to us. Sometimes we go along to auctions or car boot sales to see what catches our eye. But every piece which passes through our studio has a story. We are so often inspired by the little pieces of humanity left behind by previous owners.

Today it was this picture which inspired our story

To the curious and creative

My father loved all things Japanese. I knew this about him, although he kept his love hidden from everyone else. A secret just for him. And sometimes for me. When I ran away from my latest scolding, fingers or legs burning, I would run to the warm leather and pipe tobacco filled fug of his study. To the only comfort which seemed real. 

He became used to such interruptions from me, benignly allowing me to clamber over him and soothed me gently with huge leather bound books filled with Japanese art and culture. We would pore together over cherry blossom and geishas, tea ceremonies and temples made of gold. I would gaze in wonder at it all, but mostly at him. I never saw such beautiful melancholy in his face, as in those moments.  

When my questions became irksome, he would gently lift me from his lap and return the book to its shelf, sighing lightly. In those wistful moments he wasn’t the man everyone else knew and feared. He was my father. The greatest man I ever knew. 

The day he died I found myself, aged eighteen, running through our rambling house to his study, desperate for the calm quiet sanctuary I remembered. The study hadn’t been touched for months, the police had taken so much by that point and it was cluttered and untidy. Something he would have detested. They had, however, left the old leather bound books untouched on their mahogany shelves. Stepping gingerly between the boxes and piles of paperwork I moved to his empty desk with my favourite of the books we had shared. 

I sat in his huge soft leather chair and opened it gently. 

The rain fell slowly against the window and the world still turned. The newspapers howled their fury at my fathers guilt, his avoidance of punishment through his convenient illness and his subsequent death.

I gazed at the cherry blossom and wept for a man who took all his secrets to his grave.

Clever Monty 

Beautiful chairs for your beautiful home

We've finished these gorgeous chairs and now they're ready to find a home! 

One chair is finished in a lovely cupboard green by Little Greene paints and the other is finished in slate grey. Both have been reupholstered in a quirky vintage map fabric. They also have a clever strip of blackboard paint so you can leave dinner messages for your loved ones! 

The story inside was inspired by a flyer for a grand fete from 1875. It tells the story of Delevanti the clown. The story has a copy of the original flyer too. A real treasure to be found in years to come! 

The chairs are £195 for the pair. Contact us if you'd like to come and see them :) 

Clever Monty

The Storytellers

The storytellers

And so, we took the voices we had been given and used them to tell our tales. We shouted from cliff tops and into caves. Feeling the earth shift with every word. 

At first, nobody came. And then, slowly, people began to gather. They would kneel at our feet and listen to us, offering us their beads and honey. They carefully collected our words and gave them to their children, as we hoped they would. And thus our stories became known to all. 

And we lived forever.  

Stroud Select Trail 2014

It was my first time as a Select Trail artist and I was unbelievably nervous about opening up my studio to the public for the first time. Luckily I was opening up along with some friends - two potters Jill Watton Ceramics and Anna Simson Ceramics (check out their work it’s utterly beautiful) who are experienced Select Trail artists and helped me through my nerves with lots of good advice; ‘Listen to the compliments!’ 

Stroud International Textiles (or SIT) are also extremely lucky to be curated by Lizzi Walton and her team. Lizzi has the unenviable task of organising all the artists (and their paperwork!) into a group of gorgeous and professional individuals presented in a fantastic brochure each year. Lizzi also had some good advice for me ‘Treat it like you’re opening your home to guests, offer a drink and be hospitable. This is your chance to shine!’ The booklet which accompanied the Select Trail this year was the finest I have ever seen. The photographs by the wonderful Ben Wright truly captured the artists at their best. Ben was lovely, taking the time to talk to us as individuals and engaging with our work while she took photographs. 

So it was with shakey hands that I arrived two hours (yes, two hours!) early on the first Saturday to prepare, or rather over-prepare! The weather was showery but warm so I was hopeful that we would have a few people through the door. I needn’t have worried. The studio I rent is within the iconic Victoria Works, an old steam powered saw mill, which became the now defunct Chalford Chairs. Regular readers of this blog will know about the Last Will and Testament of the building, which I wrote and hid within the walls while it was being renovated. Many of the people who came through to have a look were curious to see the metamorphosis of the building into artists’ studios. Lots of people came specifically to see the wonderful Studio 7 exhibition which was housed in an upstairs room, and most stopped on their way to have a look at my work. Over four hundred in fact over the two weekends. 

It was truly lovely to chat to so many engaged and art-loving people. We had visitors from across the road and from New Zealand and almost everywhere in between. I asked everyone who walked through the door to leave me a memory for the installation I had constructed for the day; a memory tree, and over 60 people did. The memories they left were touching and sometimes a little crazy but all were engaging and I felt really touched that people were so honest by sharing parts of themselves with my concept. I’ll be using the memories as inspiration for future stories. 

It is an extremely emotional experience to open up your studio to strangers. I did, of course, have a few people who came through my studio tutting and critisising my work. To those people, and to anyone who decides to visit an artist in their work space, I would beg you earnestly to keep negative opinions to yourselves until you are out of ear shot of the artist. Artists are naturally very sensitive beings and although our skin toughens over time, no one wants to hear that the work they put their hearts and souls into isn’t engaging enough for you. Or even that you could produce what they have. You couldn’t, because surely if you could, you would be. That’s not to say you can’t give feedback to artists. We love to talk about our work. So ask questions, engage, read the text, stand as close as you can to absorb the work and increase your understanding. And even if it’s not your cup of tea, that’s completely fine. The art world would be incredibly boring if the same thing floated all our boats. But as in every area in life, be it a queue in a supermarket or walking through an installation piece in a highly respected gallery, there is no need to be rude. 

So to everyone else who really did stand and stare; thank you so much. All the feedback I was given was welcomed and made note of. You all made the journey of the Stroud Select Trail 2014 a truly wonderful one. 

Clever Monty 

Victoria Works Studios, Chalford

It's been a while since we last blogged as we've been busily moving into some new studio space! The iconic Victoria Works (or Chalford Chairs as it has been known for around 75 years) was bought in 2013 to be converted into artist and artisan spaces and studios. The work has been incredible and rewarding for everyone involved. We at Clever Monty were fortunate enough to watch the process first hand. 

'As We Found It' Used with the kind permission of Anna Simson and Chris Roe

As everyone knows, we at Clever Monty are obsessed with hidden treasure and the unexpected. So we thought that we should hide a story within the new walls of the building. 

Part of our research took us to Stroud Library where we found a huge array of local interest books, detailing the history of the mills around Stroud. It was here that we found this advertisement, showing that Victoria Works had been established as a steam saw mill in 1871.

It seemed to us that this building had a vibrant legacy which inspired us to write the following story. The story has been hidden in the partition walls for future generations to find. 

_________________________________________________________________

To the curious and creative......

The Last Will and Testament of Victoria Steam Joinery Works, Chalford. Established 1871

My life has been spent offering shelter to those who graced my doors. It is my wish that everyone takes a memory of honest hard work from our time spent together.

I was built in a time of prosperity, when my brothers and sisters were amassed to address the mounting needs for wool and weaving. My vocation, however, was to be found in the very trees around us. I was built solidly, my red bricks sturdy with purpose. Those who stood back to admire were not met with an ostentatious facade, but a steady and sincere welcome. 

I did not yearn for fame or fortune. I chose to leave that to my sister with the walking sticks. No. I yearned for life, bustling movement, the screech and roar of saws against wood. The vibrations from this and the men and women who worked within my walls sustained me. Carried me. It is these memories which held me when I stood empty and cold. 

When the artists came I felt their curious gaze. They came quietly at first, touching and marvelling at the cobwebs and crumbling bricks. They delighted in my history. Gently re-imagining a new future for me. One of colour and laughter and more hard work than they or I had thought possible. They brought new, serene vibrations which sang to me all day. 

For it is these vibrations, this energy; yours, mine, theirs which is here for the taking. Our memories capture some, but the rest has to be held within the fabric of our lives. So, to you, I bequeath just that. Take the energy which coursed through me like blood through veins and capture it. A fire-fly in a jam jar. Hold it. Make it yours and use it to do something wonderful. 

Clever Monty

__________________________________________________________________________________