Interview with Claye Bowler: There’s something about this space that keeps me in a constant state of reflection
Every home is shaped by a series of choices—gestures through which we bring together an assortment of objects, transforming them into a meaningful space. This same process applies to an artist’s studio, where the physical environment becomes an extension of the artist’s mind—a space sculpted by habits, ideas, and the act of making.
Claye Bowler, one of our work/live artist tenants, is interested in how artwork evolves depending on its surroundings. Since moving into a work/live space, he finds himself not just working around his art but living within it. In this conversation, he shares his thoughts on work-life balance in London, the opportunities and challenges of constant immersion in his practice, and how his environment continuously reshapes his creative process.
Claye, can you share a bit about your artistic background and practice?
My work is very much about memory—collecting and preserving it in different ways. That can happen through objects, songs, landscapes, or places. Sometimes it's my own memory, and other times it’s shaped by other people’s experiences or how I interact with them. Lately, I’ve been focusing more on folk songs and landscapes.
Previously, I was exploring queer history and how it's contained within communities, especially since there isn’t much institutional collection of it. Folk music operates similarly—it’s passed down person to person, rather than formally archived. I think I’ve merged those ideas in my work, using folk music and queer stories as a way of preserving and sharing these histories that might otherwise be overlooked.
That makes a lot of sense—the connection between folk music and whose voices get heard.
Exactly. So much of history is passed down through people, particularly everyday, lived experiences. It’s like when people start researching their ancestry; unless there was wealth or status in your family, there’s often very little documentation. The same is true for many cultural traditions. Queer history often exists outside of traditional archives, within the community itself.
Your work often considers the body as a form of archive. Could you talk about that?
Yes, I’ve done a lot of work around that. In fact, I’m performing next week, exploring different things that have happened to various parts of my body and then archiving them—wrapping them in tissue, almost like preserving a memory physically. I’ve always been interested in how the body remembers.
Singing is another form of that. It fascinates me—how folk songs, being passed down through memory, change over time. Each song exists in multiple versions because people forget, adapt, or reinterpret them. There’s a tradition in folk music where people say you should never write a song down; it should only exist in the act of singing.
Does that idea of impermanence influence how you document your own work?
Yes. For my upcoming exhibition, I’m making a sound piece and decided to include a transcription on the walls for accessibility. But that raises the question—should I be writing these things down at all?
I usually sing from memory, and over time, I realise I’ve changed the words or the melody without even noticing. Even if you try to repeat something exactly, memory doesn’t work that way; it’s not perfect.
I’m also really interested in how my work shifts depending on the space it’s in and how different audiences engage with it. The same piece can feel completely different depending on where and how it’s experienced.
"It’s like having a gallery built into my workspace, which has been especially useful with all the shows I’ve been preparing for."
That makes me think of how spaces themselves shape the work. Has working in a work/live space influenced your approach to making?
More than anything, I think my life has had to adjust around my work rather than the other way around. The work dictates the space. When I go to sleep, I’m figuring out how to fit myself into a corner around my materials.
Before COVID, I was living in Yorkshire in a two-bedroom house where I wanted to create an artist residency space—somewhere people could come to take a break, even just for a weekend. This was in response to my experience of looking for a retreat-like space for myself and realising how inaccessible the options were. Hostels had gendered dorms, and residencies were expensive. So, I decided to create my own space. I turned my living room into a gallery and the spare room into a studio but then COVID happened.
After that, I moved to London in 2022—I applied for a job at Tate, was surprised to get it, and ended up moving into a warehouse in North London. My room was big-ish, but not great, and I was working out of my bedroom at first. I eventually got a studio in Wandsworth, but it was a 25-minute cycle away, which made it hard to work fluidly. My process isn’t about going to a studio for eight hours straight; it’s more about dipping in and out, doing something for half an hour, stepping away, coming back.
Does being able to see your work constantly impact how it develops?
Yes, it makes such a difference. Before, I’d bring work home but not have the right tools, or I’d have an idea at home and need something from the studio. I even considered moving back to Yorkshire to restart the residency idea, but then this space came along, and it just made sense.
Now, everything’s in one place. I can put work on the walls, live with it, see it every day, and adjust things as I go. It’s like having a gallery built into my workspace, which has been especially useful with all the shows I’ve been preparing for.
It reminds me of something I experience a lot—the way you can become blind to your own work. Sometimes you need fresh eyes to really see it again.
Yeah, but it’s not something you can force. You can’t just decide, “Okay, today I’m going to look at my work with fresh eyes and figure out the next step.” It happens more organically. You might go to the studio just to check in, but when you live near your work, those moments come naturally.
Sometimes, in the middle of doing something completely unrelated, you glance up and suddenly see the work differently. It’s almost like the break itself—the shift in focus—gives you that clarity. But there are also times when you become so used to the work that it just blends into the space, like furniture. That’s why I like having a constantly shifting workspace—putting things up, taking them down—so the work never feels too settled.
"Here, because the space itself is more fluid, everything spills into each other. And in a way, that’s helpful—it allows the work to always be present and evolving."
I was also really interested in what you said about how your work dictates your living space rather than the other way around. How do you navigate the balance between working and living in the same space?
I think they bleed into each other a lot, which can be both good and challenging. My work is quite messy—one of the projects has involved soil, so I’m constantly trying to keep the space from being covered in it [laughs].
At first, I had an idea of keeping certain areas for living and others for working, but that’s not really how it plays out. I might plan to always work in one spot, but then suddenly, I’m sitting somewhere else, and there’s wood everywhere. It becomes about self-control—deciding where the boundaries should be.
In my previous space, I was more structured: the living room was a gallery, the spare room was a studio, and my bedroom was strictly for sleeping. Here, because the space itself is more fluid, everything spills into each other. And in a way, that’s helpful—it allows the work to always be present and evolving.
Yeah, I guess for some artists, it’s fine to finish a piece, store it, and move on. They catalogue it, know where it is, and can pull it out when needed. But for me, my work isn’t hierarchical—it doesn’t follow a strict timeline of development. It’s all part of world-building, essentially. When I show my work, I don’t mind mixing older pieces with new ones. The idea is to build an ecosystem rather than a linear progression.
How do you feel about that constant overlap?
I’m still figuring it out. Sometimes I feel like I’m thinking about work constantly, even when I’m trying to rest, but I don’t mind that. My best ideas always come to me just as I’m falling asleep. I actually have this recurring nightmare that I have a show at Tate, and no one tells me until the day before. But in the dream, I always come up with amazing work [laughs].
There’s something about this space that keeps me in a constant state of reflection—thinking of new things to make, processing what I did that day. When I had a separate studio, I’d finish at 2 a.m., cycle home, and that ride would help me mentally step away from the work. Here, because there’s no clear division, it’s always present—but at the same time, I can also sleep whenever I want.
You moved in over the summer. Do you feel like you’ve had enough time to fully settle into the space?
Not fully. It’s been such an intense period—so much happening all at once. Right now, my focus has been on preparing for shows, which has shaped my experience of the space in a particular way.
But I’m looking forward to having more time just to make work for the sake of making. Since the show is touring, there’s still admin to do—installing, de-installing—but there will be gaps in between when I can actually develop new ideas.
Are there any projects you’ve been wanting to make but haven’t had the time for yet?
Yes, I have this whole project in my head about the body as an archive—creating custom-made crates for different body parts, almost like a physical way of storing memories. And I’ve already filmed footage for two films but haven’t had time to sit down and edit them. There are pieces I want to make simply for myself, but they’ve been pushed aside.
I’m also thinking about moving back to Yorkshire at some point. I’m making all this work about landscapes, and London doesn’t really have that. I miss it.
Does it feel like a loss at the moment?
I’ve been thinking about that. Sometimes I wonder, is London really bringing something to my work? But then I remind myself—I have three shows opening here in the next three weeks, so clearly, it is.
I’ve been in London for about three years now, and for a while, it felt like I wasn’t getting anywhere. Maybe it just took time. But I’ve also started thinking about what it would mean to leave—if I moved somewhere cheaper, I could still come back regularly, and the cost of traveling here would probably equal what I spend living in London.
So, I’ve been considering a setup where I come back once a month or every other month for a weekend. That way, my time here would be more targeted—seeing exhibitions, networking, going to events. Right now, I haven’t been able to do any of that because I’ve just been in the studio constantly. I feel like I’m in London but not actually experiencing it.
"All the artists in the work/live spaces know each other—we help each other out all the time. We have a WhatsApp group where people ask for help moving things or share materials. It feels reciprocal, which is really nice."
Looking ahead, do you think working outside of London could help create more balance—both financially and in terms of how you engage with the city?
Yeah, I think so. I recently sold a piece to the Arts Council Collection, and I went to this dinner where I met people from all over. Some of them live in really remote places, yet they’re still part of these major art networks. It made me realise that you don’t have to be in London full-time to be part of the art world.
Living in a smaller place definitely has its advantages. I really love the work/live community here—we all help each other out, we’re friends, we see each other all the time. But in London in general, it’s harder to find that sense of community. Everyone is so spread out, and people are busy.
When I lived in a village before, there were only about 2,000 people. I knew my neighbours, the people in the shop—there was a real sense of familiarity. That’s something I think about when considering setting up an artist residency or gallery outside of London.
I imagine preparing for your shows has been all-consuming. Have you had a chance to explore your neighbourhood since moving in?
Not really! It’s funny because it’s such a vibrant area. When I moved in, my dad sent me a list of the best Portuguese cafés and pasta places nearby. But I’ve been so busy that I either stay in or go into central London to meet people. I either have people over, or we go to exhibitions—I haven’t really explored much locally yet.
Before moving into this space, did you already have a vision for how your work would develop?
In a different space, I might have reached a point where I thought, “This is as big as I can go,” like when I got to the fourth bag of plaster. But here, it feels like there’s no limit. I can keep going, adding more material, making the work physically larger without worrying about whether I can get it out of the building—because the lift is great!
So, in that sense, the space has really shaped the work. It might not fit into a traditional gallery, but at least I know I can get it out the door.
You mentioned that it’s hard to get that sense of community in London. What has the work/live community been like here?
I do really love the community here. All the artists in the work/live spaces know each other—we help each other out all the time. We have a WhatsApp group where people ask for help moving things or share materials. It feels reciprocal, which is really nice.
In previous studios, I sometimes felt like I was the only one asking for support—like I’d ask people to engage with my work, but no one else seemed to be reaching out in the same way. Here, it feels different. Everyone is in it together, and that makes a huge difference.
Dig Me A Grave, Claye’s solo exhibition he has been preparing for since moving into a work/live studio, will open at Steam Works Gallery in Wandsworth on Thursday, 20 March.
Claye Bowler is an artist based in London. His practice centres on collection and documentation of experience, memory and the remnants of humanity.
Bowler uses sculptural practices to highlight stories that are not historically collected through institutional means, often working with narratives of queerness and disability.
Whilst also working in museum registration, Bowler often incorporates, yet questions, the ethics, administration and aesthetics of museum collecting in his work.
Bowler has a strong connection to sound and music, increasingly integrating these elements into his work, using field recordings and traditional British folk song.
Acme has been providing work/live support to artists in London since our inception in 1972. Our work/live studios offer artists a period of respite from insecure tenancies, overinflated rental charges and the lack of care and trust experienced by many in London’s private rental system. We have recently reshaped our work/live programme to better respond to artists’ needs and provide stable, yet flexible, tenancies that encourage professional development and are allocated as fairly as possible.
Find out more about our current vacancies at Fire Station here.