My phone rang. A voice I didn’t recognise told me that water was pooling outside my ground floor studio. Although alarmed, I was calmed by the thought that it must be coming from the neighbouring property’s laundry room and not from the studio. Thanks, I said. I’ll be there as soon as I can.

It has to be the laundry room I thought as I grabbed my van keys. If it wasn’t and water was pooling where they saw it, it would mean that - an entire area the size of a Badminton court would be under water for the overspill to flood outside the studio.

I began to think of what might be ruined if it wasn’t the laundry room. I had 3 projects, or maybe 4 on the go. I couldn’t be sure as I’ve been working away from the studio for 3 weeks completing my Fire in Youth portrait. My largest piece yet which has mentally and physically took its toll on me.

Are there tools which could’ve been washed away? There are definitely some power tools that, although seldom used, are expensive and especially useful at times. It can’t be I thought. It has to be the laundry room. There are no water pipes running that side of the building.

I wrestled with the door and over the clanking of the padlocks I could hear a steady stream of water not hitting the floor but leaking into more water. Much like hearing someone urinate in an empty room. I opened the door and instantly the smell was cold and fresh and the worst-case scenario had played out.

It wasn’t next door’s laundry room.

The entire floor was flooded. The floor levels of the building being different meant that, the threshold of the door and a large lobby area is, thankfully, a foot higher than the rest of the building. Water, second-by-second was filling up the lower section and was about to breach the higher lobby area. I managed to turn the water off to stop the leak. A mere 10 minute delay and the entire ground floor would’ve been underwater.

Hand tools floated past my feet. Sketches and essential notebooks had dissolved into grey pulp. Mosaic panels I'd been working on for weeks were warped beyond repair. Plastic tubs that normally kept everything organised had become aquariums for rusting tools. It reminded me of a fire which happened at a shipyard near my house. A large workshop had been set alight in the early hours of the morning and had completely gutted the workshop. The force of the flames had blown any loose and light items like paper into the harbour. The next morning the paper floated around the harbour, gathering wherever the wind pushed it. Creating a Matisse-like card collage on the dark still water.

Once all the fresh water had stopped flowing, the smell quickly descended to a thick, dank, rusty odour. I looked to see where I knew my work-in-progress was kept. Each piece, although not floating around but on the table where I work, were sodden and warped and all but ruined.

The leak had sprung from a plastic fitting which, I assume, had expanded due to the unprecedented heat we had that week. The fitting had only needed to expand a millimetre for the pressure of the water (it was the mains water pipe) to explode the fitting right off the pipe, leaving the pipe exposed which was constantly shooting water towards my work station.

Most of my equipment is stored in easy-access plastic tubs inside a wooden storage divider. The burst pipe was pointing directly at the unit and easy-access also meant exposed, meaning every plastic tub was now full to-the-brim with water.

Fresh water in the tubs and around the studio was now turning green and brown from rust forming on metal tools. All electrical tools were sodden and I’m unsure whether they will survive even after a long drying out process. All work-in-process and any notes, sketches and plans are gone and I’m not confident my grouting materials will clean up after such long and contaminated submersion. I make a huge effort keeping all grouting and finishing tools as clean as possible. The slightest bit of rust on a grouting float of polishing cloth will taint the grout and ruin the piece by leaving burnt orange stains.

2 days were spent pumping all the water out and organising the salvageable tools into sun-spots where they could dry out. Time will tell on what is useable and what isn’t. This experience reminded me of a time I went into burnt out top-floor flat. It was eerie. Although totally silent, the air was heavy. A heaviness you can feel in the base of your skull. I knew nobody was hurt, thankfully, but it still felt tragically sombre. The flood was nowhere near as destructive as a fire but the feelings were similar. In my experience - a silence shrouds an accident. Maybe it’s an energy which encourages pause and reflection. A natural exhalation when overwhelm takes over. It's as though the building itself pauses to understand what has happened.

I have reflected on this. I’ve spent hours thinking about what I really want to do.

I have concluded that the way I display and share my work will change. I’ve become irritable and disillusioned with the online art scene. Specifically, that on Instagram and Facebook. The way things can be buried if the algorithm, at that specific moment, decides that the work isn’t worthy for consumption. Thanks, but no thanks. If consumption of art is the goal. Which I’m not sure it actually is. I think the making of the art is the goal. The rest will take care of itself. In a natural world that is. The natural world of human interaction, in galleries, at shows, theatres, stadiums, village greens or cafes. I met hundreds of people recently at Upfest (Europe’s largest street art festival) and every single interaction was real and a reminder that this is superior. Human to human, undiluted interaction is superior.

Which is why I’m stepping away.

I’m not creating content which encourages you to stay on an app like Instagram. If something I post distracts you from your family, friends, job, hobby, or anything else; I need to make it worth your time. From now, I will be writing letters to you from my studio. Once it’s dried out and safe to work from. I will continue to post pictures of completed work and upcoming workshops or exhibitions on social media but for me to get a deeper, true connection with you – I’ll be writing long-form material for you to, hopefully, enjoy with a hot drink when you get a spare 5 minutes.

If you'd like to follow along, I'd be delighted if you joined the Letters. Links found on the homepage and at the bottom of this page. Whenever there's something new in the Notebook, I'll send you a short email pointing you towards it.

If you’re an artist and feel similarly disillusioned with what we’re being told to do - to be a successful artist, then I’d love to connect with you. There must be another way. With enough creative minds rallying behind a revolution to create a sharing space with more emphasis on care, quality and attention then we could make something lasting.

I’m really excited about this decision. I fully understand the irony behind writing something like this for you to read on a tiny machine which only 20 years ago would seem impossible, but I want to start somewhere. I’m using my phone less. I want to connect with people who share my romantic outlook. If this is you and you’d like to connect my email address is michael@brokenstonemosaics.co.uk

Thank you for reading.

Michael Henry

The Flood

Why I Don't Use Mosaic Nippers