Karen's creative work, reflections and project news
There’s a rucksack by my door that has done more for my creative work than most of my clever ideas. It’s full of adapters, gaffer tape and spare leads — and it has taught me that contingency is a quiet kind of care.
I spent part of 2026 rebuilding karenizod.com and realised I had been treating it like a shop window rather than somewhere people might actually want to linger. Here are the small, practical changes that made the site feel more human — without turning it into a diary.
A cold Friday on the village green, a microphone that fought the wind and an audience more interested in chips than curtain-up. Here is what that scrappy civic gig taught me about making work for people who never planned to watch it.
A November 2026 work-in-progress evening taught me that the last bus home isn't a transport detail — it's part of the creative brief. Here's what changed when I planned backwards from the 9:42 rather than forwards from my own running order.
I finally pointed my phone at my own hands instead of my face, and discovered that the most convincing artist videos aren't trailers at all. They're small, unglamorous records of decisions, wobbles and quiet work. Here's what I filmed, what I cut, and a two-minute shape you can try with nothing but a phone and a windowsill.
At a community storytelling night this November, the box by the door filled up with odd gloves, a scarf and a child's drawing of the stage. Sorting it afterwards felt less like tidying up and more like reading a quiet record of how the room had felt.
A rushed programme note at a village hall show taught me that the little sheet in the audience’s hand is part of the performance. Here’s how I now write one that sounds like a welcome, not a school report.
A rainy Saturday behind a fold-out table taught me more about talking about my work than any workshop ever has. Here is what happened when I stopped apologising, started listening, and treated the quiet stretches as part of the job.
I spent a day at a community arts conference as an independent maker, not a delegate, not staff, and definitely not someone who understood every acronym. Here is what stayed with me: the jargon, the coffee queue, and the one corridor chat that changed how I work.
The applause has stopped, the hall is locked, and the inbox is oddly quiet. A candid look at the after-show drop — and a few gentle ways to land a project rather than let it collapse.
What happens when a community radio host asks you to explain your whole practice before the travel news? Notes on preparation, the temptation to over-rehearse, and why the best promotional interviews feel like conversations rather than adverts — with a short checklist for your first local radio spot.
A candid walk through the strange ritual of turning a living creative practice into funder-friendly boxes. Practical notes on word counts, budgets and the access support section, plus a gentle argument that the application is not the work — but it can still teach you something about it.
The early dark changes what kind of work feels possible. This winter I am not fighting the season — I am making a smaller, quieter plan and trying to finish one modest thing well before the year turns.
Booking small UK community venues has taught me more about making a show than most marketing plans ever have. Here are five lessons from village halls, booking clerks and the person who actually holds the key.
A November clear-out of the noticeboard above my desk turned into a lesson in creative curation, guilt and the difference between a possibility and a project. Here is what stayed, what went, and what I am still deciding.
There is a minute before a small show when the room either says come in or says nothing at all. This is a practical, slightly opinionated look at signage, ticket wording, quiet corners and the awkward bit before the lights go up.
I spent a wet Tuesday morning pinning flyers for our next work-in-progress night, and learned more about being seen than any dashboard has taught me. A local look at noticeboards, torn corners and the humble A5.
For years I treated following up as the embarrassing bit of creative work — the needy cousin of making the actual thing. Then I nearly lost a collaboration by being polite and waiting. Here is what I have changed, and the low-cringe scripts I now keep in a note on my phone.
Someone once offered me a room, an audience, and no money, and described it as an opportunity. I said no, felt sick for an hour, and then learned something useful. Here's what to ask before you reply, the scripts I actually use, and why the guilt isn't a moral signal.
I once put on a full evening of theatre for £50 — and no, it didn't look like it. Here's the actual receipt, the charity shop rules I swear by, and the free tech that quietly does the heavy lifting. A practical, mildly obsessive guide for anyone making something from almost nothing.