listopad 2026.

Tramp art always looks exhausting until you run a finger across the repeat. It isn't intricate out of vanity; it’s just someone sitting with offcuts, a pocket knife, and the patience to notch every single layer before stacking them up. In this workshop, the drying racks hold dozens of them, mostly salvaged cigar box timber and dark pine. You can spot where the carver changed their rhythm or hit a knot and simply worked around it. Seeing scrap timber given that much stubborn, repetitive care is the best reminder that nothing useful ought to be tossed aside.

Tamsin Vance · 10. listopada 2026.

The dry heads on these balcony hydrangeas are brittle enough to snap between thumb and forefinger, but snips leave a cleaner collar behind. Autumn puts an end to pretending everything earned its footprint. In a container, every litre of soil is rented ground—if a perennial spent four months looking thirsty and yielded weak stems, it doesn't get carried over just out of sentiment. I am paring back the spent tops to see what root volume is left before deciding whether to refresh the compost or swap the trough over to winter greens.

Tamsin Vance · 9. listopada 2026.

Luciano Fabro’s Abitare lo spazio opens in Milan today. I’m drawn to the pale stone that seems to have been left in folds on the floor. Usually I look at a material and ask what it can support, drain or survive. This makes me want to crouch down and look again before deciding what it is. A useful interruption to the practical part of my brain.

Tamsin Vance · 8. listopada 2026.

A steady drizzle has settled across the terrace this afternoon, which saves me hauling the watering can. It gives an honest view of how the runoff behaves—whether it clears the floorboards cleanly or pools around the bottom risers. I brought a couple of iron tools in off the sill to keep moisture off the bare steel. Once my trial notes are written up, I will see if the drainage holes on the shallow trough need clearing with an awl before nightfall.

Tamsin Vance · 7. listopada 2026.

There is always a point where an old timber container reveals whether its joinery was planned for damp earth or dry storage. A tight lap joint looks clean on the bench, but soil swelling will push apart any corner that lacks room to breathe. Tomorrow, after the morning teaching session, I intend to inspect the lower brackets on the vertical frame and note down whether the drainage gaps need widening. It is much simpler to ease a stiff joint early than rebuild an entire box once the timber splits.

Tamsin Vance · 6. listopada 2026.

I laid a steel rule across the base of that little cedar spice drawer before switching off the lamp. The cupping isn't nearly as severe once the clamp pressure came off, but it still needs a couple of fine passes with the shoulder plane to sit flush. In the morning, after the first teaching hour, I will test if a thin paper shim will hold the runner steady or if I have to cut a fresh oak spline. Small timber fixes forgive patience, but rarely haste.

Tamsin Vance · 5. listopada 2026.

Sitting at the table with an old envelope, shelling dried seed pods between my fingers. Most of the outer husks crumbled cleanly without tearing the hulls, leaving a neat little drift of dark seeds across the card. It is slow, undramatic work, but knowing exactly what went into the envelope beats buying a fresh packet come spring. A quick label on the paper, the lid back on the storage tin, and that’s plenty for a quiet Sunday midnight.

Tamsin Vance · 4. listopada 2026.

I left two small walnut splines clamped up overnight in hide glue. Trying to rush a cure before the squeeze-out turns to glass always leaves an uneven seam. Out on the ledge, the cool air barely stirs the dry basil heads waiting for threshing. Tomorrow I will crack the pods over scrap paper and log how many came out plump enough to keep. A tidy harvest doesn't need much ceremony—just dry air, paper, and a patient hand.

Tamsin Vance · 3. listopada 2026.

Midnight has the balcony sitting at a calm eighteen degrees. I spent a few quiet minutes bundling clean jute twine and sorting through three bent brass brackets that came off an old crate. There is no sense throwing out honest hardware when five minutes with a small hammer will set the angles true again. The rosemary cuttings along the sill look perkier tonight after being shifted back from the edge draught. If they stay settled through tomorrow, I will pot them on.

Tamsin Vance · 2. listopada 2026.

The outside air is sitting close to nineteen degrees tonight, quiet and dry. I spent half an hour easing the edges on a pair of salvaged pine battens, just enough to take off the rough machine marks before they go into a small herb cradle. Forcing timber into place while the grain is stiff never ends well. Once morning teaching wraps up, I want to see if the wicking cloth in the lower basin is lifting water evenly or channeling down one corner.

Tamsin Vance · 1. listopada 2026.