TL;DR
I actively avoided doing anything “special” to mark the tenth issue of this Substack and got so interested in why the number ten feels meaningful to humans that I ended up doing something special and writing about it.
RAMBLINGS: I reflect on my time on Ocracoke island in January 2023 and how fully embracing a sense of loneliness created a chain of events that connected me to so many people and things.
ARTICLE: I recently read about the amphioxus, a primitive marine creature from 500 million years ago, and it helped me better understand why I’ve always been suspicious of the idea that logical, linear thought is the saviour of the human race
BUY: Stuff in my online shop
OPEN STUDIO: Come visit my studio (and others in the building) on 18th April 2026.
WORKSHOP: Paper cutting in my studio - 28th March 2026
WORKSHOP: Masks - 10th July 2026.
WORKSHOP: Super Secret Musical Improv (SSMI XLI) - 8th May 2026.
A photo of a giant guinea pig DJing at a modern folklore festival to encourage you to scroll to the end of the Substack and read about how you can financially support my work by Buying stuff in my shop, becoming a patron of my studio, become a paid subscriber or buying me a coffee (tip jar).
1. Hello
I decided a couple of issues back that I didn’t want to do anything special to mark the tenth edition of this Substack. For a moment I considered doing something different with the format, maybe asking readers what they would like in it, or writing about how it has been to produce these long-form pieces over the last ten months. But within seconds of coming up with these ideas, I realised that I hated them because they were way too obvious. (Not Keith Johnstone’s definition of obvious, which relates to uncensored spontaneous self-expression, but the definition that is more aligned with common sense, cultural trends and what everyone else would do!)
I got a bit annoyed with myself for even feeling that issue number ten was significant. It is just another number and another piece of writing that I am doing because I love getting lost in the process of following abstract chains of thought. I started to wonder why ten feels so significant anyway and decided to try to find out more about why this progression from single digits to double digits feels meaningful to humans.
The most obvious explanation I came across is that ten feels important simply because we have ten fingers. From the earliest days of human history the number ten has likely felt meaningful even before language fully developed. And then, as language and concepts such as mathematics and science emerged, the number ten took on even more significance. The Pythagoreans believed that ten was the most perfect number and revered a geometric shape called the Tetractys, which arranged the first four numbers (1, 2, 3, 4) in rows that not only added up to ten but made a really cool triangle shape. The Pythagoreans loved this idea so much that they believed the number ten and the Tetractys contained the entire structure of reality and represented proportional balance, the hidden structure of the cosmos. (To be fair, it’s as good as any other theory I’ve heard.)
As society has evolved, so has our interest in the significance of ten. A 2014 scientific paper published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences (PNAS) suggests that existential reflection increases for humans near decade boundaries of age (i.e. 29, 39, 49 etc). And whilst the process of ageing and experiencing time is continuous, the cognitive experience of approaching a new decade signals a boundary that we simultaneously treat like an ending and a beginning, prompting a moment of life evaluation. We can experience it as the metaphorical conclusion of one chapter and the start of another. Or, to adopt a more modern metaphor, the number nine is like the end-of-level boss in a computer game that we must work out how to defeat before progressing to the next level.
A Threshold Guardian is an archetype that appears in human storytelling throughout the ages. We find threshold guardians in folklore, myths, legends, and more recently in books and films. A threshold guardian is a being or an obstacle that stands between the protagonist’s present reality and whatever lies beyond. Often the threshold guardian tests the hero’s resolve and readiness for the next stage of the adventure, forcing them to dig deeper than they have before in order to defeat or overcome it. In Greek mythology the three-headed dog Cerberus guards the entrance to the underworld, preventing the living from entering and the dead from leaving. In many folktales (and children’s stories) a troll guards a bridge and demands a toll or sets a challenge before people can pass to the other side. And in one of the most memorable scenes in The Lord of the Rings films the Balrog blocks the heroes’ escape from Moria across the Bridge of Khazad-dûm
I like the idea that the progression from 9 to 10 feels significant and worthy of ceremony or celebration because, at some level, we experience it as facing and overcoming a temporal threshold guardian. And having crossed that threshold, we find ourselves in a new realm of experience where the potential for novelty, difference and adventure feels much richer.
So maybe that’s why I couldn’t help but think about marking the occasion of issue 10, even though I really didn’t want to, because it felt a bit too meh!
(And I of course now realise that by writing all of this about not wanting to do anything significant to mark issue ten, I accidentally have.)
The totem of aloneness
February saw the three year anniversary of moving into my flat. I normally pay little attention to anniversaries such as this, but this one always feels significant. I had spent much of the previous year house-sitting which, whilst an exciting adventure, was also a time of deep uncertainty and anxiety. So finally finding a stable base felt like a much needed change. But the anniversary of moving into my flat also feels significant because it is inextricably connected to a bizarre, dream-like experience of living on a remote island for a month in the depths of winter.
The island adventure began when my American friend Jim sent me an email saying, “How is your housing situation? I have an idea for you if you are looking for something in January. It would be a very unique experience.” I originally met Jim ten years earlier at a strange creative experiment in the mountains of Spain and we reunited at the same event in the summer of 2022. We bonded further that week through a number of unusual experiences, including getting lost in the Spanish summer heat and accidentally coming face to face with a wild boar. We kept in touch regularly after this, so when I told Jim that I was running out of properties to stay in he was keen to help.
Initially when I read Jim’s email I thought that maybe he had a quirky flat in London that I could stay in, or a remote cabin in the forests of Scotland. But when he told me the property was on Ocracoke Island I jumped onto Google Maps to find out where on earth this place was. As the map loaded I saw this strange-looking, long sliver of land around 30 miles off the coast of North Carolina and thought to myself, “There is no way I can go and live there for a month!” But part of me was intrigued, so I did some research and discovered that the island has a 26km long sandy beach, is virtually deserted in the month of January and is home to a plethora of wildlife, including Atlantic ghost crabs. (This last fact alone sealed the deal for me.)
So I accepted Jim’s kind invitation and told him that I liked the thought of officially making it an art residency. Jim built on this and suggested that the art could be inspired by the places, people and creatures of the island – including the famous “ocracats”. I loved this and proposed that fellow artist jdwoof could come along, as she is known for painting amazing portraits of creatures, including cats. Jim agreed and, as the date for heading off to the island approached, Jo and I invited patrons to help us raise money for art materials. Many people generously obliged.
On the 8th January 2023 I boarded a flight at London’s Heathrow Airport bound for New York, before taking a connecting flight to Wilmington, where I met Jim and his wife Laura. From there we drove three hours through rural North Carolina to the remote ferry terminal at Cedar Island and boarded a ferry across the Pamlico Sound. Three hours later, I finally arrived on Ocracoke Island and the the adventure became very, very real.
Jo wasn’t arriving for another ten days, so when Jim and Laura left I found myself totally alone and very quickly started to think that this whole thing was a terrible mistake. There are no holidaymakers and very few residents on the island in the depths of January and the house I was staying in was some way from the main town. My aloneness very quickly turned into loneliness: a despairing feeling in which I felt no desire or motivation to make any art. What made this feeling worse was that I had £750 worth of art materials on the table that our generous patrons had paid for. It started to feel like the pile of supplies was tormenting me, saying “Come on! You’re supposed to be an artist. Be productive and make some art.”
I felt terribly down, lost and lonely. I know from past experience that when I feel these kinds of feelings, trying to fight or resist them only makes them more entrenched, and that the best thing I can do is move towards them. So I decided that I needed to feel even more lost and lonely and headed off on my weird bike to the remotest part of the beach, knowing it would be the furthest away from human beings that I could be. The beach was totally deserted and my only company was the crashing of the winter waves and the occasional passing pelican or dolphin. I hid my bike behind a sand dune and walked on, trying to stay close to what I was feeling in order to get to know it better. After a while I came across an interesting piece of driftwood and decided that it might be a nice thing to paint. A little further on I found a slim tree trunk and a sheltered place in the dunes where I could sit and work. I wanted to honour how I was feeling so I painted the words “I need to be alone” onto the driftwood before nailing it onto the tree trunk that I had decorated with little black and white shapes and creatures. I realised that I had created something akin to a totem of aloneness, a celebration of the experience of being alone, and I felt a little more connected with myself through the process of making it. I dug a hole, planted the totem in the sand in the middle of the beach and headed off to try and remember where I had left my bike.
I got to know the island a little better over the following few days and discovered that there was one bar that was open for a few hours each evening. As it was the only place to go, I decided to give it a visit. As soon as I opened my mouth to order a drink, the handful of locals present heard my accent and asked what I was doing on Ocracoke at this time of year. I told them I was an artist doing an art residency on the island for the month of January. One of the locals looked at me and, after a short pause, asked in a very serious sounding tone “Are you the one who left that thing on the beach?” My immediate thought was that I had done something wrong. Ocracoke is a nature reserve, and maybe my impromptu art installation was illegal or offensive. I reluctantly admitted that I had made it and was surprised when the man shouted to the others in the bar, “Hey, this is the guy who made the thing on the beach! We love it. It is all over the Ocracoke Facebook group.”
And from that point on, everything changed. I got to know the locals in the bar and they got to know me as the British artist who made things out of driftwood. Many of the locals worked in the one shop on the island or in the couple of eateries that were open, so I started to get to know people outside of the bar too. I let go of the need to use any of the art materials and simply visited the beach each day with my black and white paints to see what the ocean had left for me to work with. Some days there was nothing, which I took as a sign to take a day off. Some days there were huge pieces of wood that took me most of the day to decorate. I even found an old cigar box that I turned into a geocache-style bit of buried treasure, with some cryptically painted signs (also driftwood) hinting at the location.
When Jo arrived on the island we continued to make all sorts of art from things that we found, which connected us with even more locals. We ended up meeting one of the presenters from Ocracoke Community Radio who invited us both to appear on his show. As a result of this, we met a local journalist who wrote a two-page article about us for the Ocracoke Observer website and the subsequent newspaper.
On the 31st January we left Ocracoke to begin the very long return journey and the whole experience of the last month started to feel like a strange dream. I had run out of house-sitting properties by this point, so I moved straight into my rented flat and began to reflect on what that last month had been about. What I kept coming back to was the experience of that initial day on the beach and making the totem of aloneness. It struck me that by moving towards the things I was trying to get away from - feeling lost, lonely and disconnected - I had discovered company and connection in spontaneous, organic ways that were much more exciting than any formal introductions that Jim could have made in advance.
I’m fascinated by the difference between aloneness and loneliness. I have a real need for self-regulating alone time, but I also know that, very suddenly, this can tip into feeling lonely and I don’t fully understand what causes this shift. Psychologists have long argued that our experience of loneliness evolved as a warning signal, indicating that important social needs are not being met, and prompting us to change our behaviour in the same way that hunger motivates us to seek food. In fact, some neuroscientists have suggested that loneliness may function as a form of “psychological hunger” – a biological signal, similar to hunger or thirst, that motivates us to seek connection for survival.
But whilst I like this concept, I still don’t fully understand what it is that satisfies this psychological hunger when I can be sitting in exactly the same room, yet oscillate between feeling peacefully alone and painfully connection-starved. In their 1981 research, Perlman and Peplau defined loneliness as the gap between the social connection we want and the connection we feel we have. In other words, when aloneness is voluntary it can result in an experience of calm and self-regulating solitude. But when it feels imposed or unwanted it can mutate into dysregulating loneliness.
Philosopher Hannah Arendt offers a deeper perspective on this. She makes a distinction between solitude and loneliness. For Arendt, solitude is being “two in one” with oneself – being objectively alone but still in dialogue and in deep contact with our inner experience (I use the word dialogue to mean a kind of connection that includes language, but also emotions, senses and sensations.) Arendt goes on to suggest that loneliness results from the loss of that internal dialogue and deep contact with our being. This means that, regardless of whether we are physically alone or not, this disconnection from our here-and-now experience can result in a sense of emptiness or alienation where we feel that we do not belong anywhere, not even in ourselves
But the bit that really excites me about Arendt’s work is her thoughts on the paradoxical nature of all of this: that intentionally practising solitude can actually protect against loneliness. This helps me make sense of my early Ocracoke experience. By intentionally moving into the empty, desolate landscape, far away from other humans, I entered a space where aloneness was simply the condition of the environment, softening the experience of loneliness into solitude. Finding the materials and becoming immersed in making the totem helped restore that “two-in-one” relationship with myself. The process of making it became a kind of non-verbal dialogue in which I was both listening to and responding to my here-and-now experience, eventually resulting in a physical artefact.
Placing the artwork on the deserted beach then formed a kind of social bridge between me and the Ocracoke community who remained on the island during the cold winter months. By moving intentionally towards solitude, I had unintentionally found connection.
NOTE: For those of you wondering what happened to the art materials that initially sat on the table tormenting me, we donated everything we didn’t use to the island’s school.
2. My distant uncle who was a happy little stomach on a stick
Amphioxus are tiny, translucent sea creatures that burrow into the sandy seabed. Only the front end of their body sticks out as they filter-feed, capturing plankton from the water that passes through their gill slits. Fossil evidence shows that amphioxus-like creatures have existed in this way for over 500 million years and, in that time, their form has changed very little - a very simple design that has turned out to be incredibly effective in evolutionary terms.
I first learnt about amphioxus from the book 7 ½ Lessons About the Brain by Lisa Feldman Barrett, an esteemed neuroscientist and psychologist whose work challenges many traditional assumptions about how the brain works. Feldman Barrett begins the book by introducing amphioxus as a distant relative of ours, sharing a common ancestor that lived during the Cambrian period. While amphioxus retained this original body plan, other animals that eventually gave rise to vertebrates evolved more complex features and systems to support more complex needs such as movement, evading predators and hunting. Amphioxus, however, remained essentially a translucent “stomach on a stick”, while these new creatures required additional systems: a cardiovascular system to pump blood, a respiratory system to take in oxygen and expel carbon dioxide, as well as hormone systems, waste management systems and muscle systems to balance and coordinate a much more complex body.
Feldman Barrett uses this evolutionary process to challenge dominant beliefs about our brain’s primary function. She suggests that “the brain’s job is not thinking… it is running a little worm body that has become very, very complicated.” In this view, the main function of the brain is allostasis – the process of continual change by which an organism adjusts its internal functions to maintain physiological stability. Feldman Barrett therefore suggests that the brain’s main role is simply to manage resources. She compares it to a complex financial investment firm, comprising a number of dedicated divisions and departments that “invest energy in the hope of earning a good return: food, affection, protection.”
I get excited by anything that challenges dominant narratives, but especially when it is about how we perceive ourselves as a species. While I am interested in neuroscience, I have always thought it is fundamentally flawed in that it is a field in which human brains are studying human brains, using equipment created by human brains, and a scientific method that has collectively been agreed as robust by human brains. It all feels a little biased to me. If it were a different species doing all of this, perhaps a totally different life-form from another planet, then I’d be much more inclined to believe the findings were real and accurate.
What really fascinates me about Lisa Feldman Barrett’s work is that it invites us to rethink the brain’s role in terms of creativity. Her research shows the triune brain model to be flawed and the left-brain/right-brain theory to be terribly oversimplified. As a result, the brain begins to look less like a thinking machine and more like a set of highly professional accounting departments managing resources to meet the body’s needs. (I can’t help but wonder whether the brain is light grey because that’s the dress code for the accountants in there.)
So maybe the brain actually has far less to do with creativity than we have been led to believe. Its role may simply be to ensure we have the energy and sense of safety required to express it - a support function enabling something much more mysterious and exciting to arise from elsewhere within us. This perspective completely flips the dominant narrative that the brain and its tendency towards logical, linear and rational thought are the source of everything humanly brilliant.
The wonderfully weird comedian Emo Philips sums up this exciting shift in perspective:
“I used to think that the brain was the most wonderful organ in my body. Then I realised who was telling me this.”
3. Buy stuff in my shop
I normally pick out one thing to highlight in this section but, not only can I not think of what to feature in this issue, it also seems to make little difference to what anyone buys anyway! I might highlight a particular print, but then sales of a T-shirt suddenly go up. Or I might put on a special deal on zines and loads of people buy What the February?! books.
So, for this issue, I’m just going to let you know that my little online shop is open 24/7, 365 days of the year. You can buy original art, limited edition prints, zines, books, badges, T-shirts and more at prices that I have chosen in the hope of keeping things affordable whilst still earning a living.
4. Open Studio - 18th April 2026
My first open studio of 2026 takes place on Saturday 18th April. I love these days as they are a chance not only to meet people, but to invite them into my world.
This April event is part of the Koppel Kingston Open Studios, so not only will you be able to come and see me in Studio Two, you will also be able to visit a number of other artists based in the building.
I’ll have lots of original art to see, my little pop-up shop, badge making, zine making, or you can just come along to chat and hang out.
There’s no need to book and I’ll be there all day, but if you would like more information just drop me an email at stevexoh@gmail.com
..:: OPEN STUDIO INFO HERE ::.
5. Workshops
A few different workshops coming up that you might be interested in.
Mask Workshop
10th July 2026
Bloomsbury, London
£145 + VAT. Limited to 10 attendees.
If you like what you read about masks issue #6 then is the workshop for you. It is my absolute favourite workshop to run. A day of using masks to explore parts of our personality that we have lost touch with or didn’t know existed. We will spend the morning getting to know different masks and the afternoon putting them in different playful and bizarre scenarios and situations.
Previous participants say:
“Simply the best workshop ever.”
“Possibly the most liberating experience you might ever have.”
“I’ll never forget the bits of me I met for the first time at the mask workshop.”
“Very weird. In a very, very good way.”
“A truly magical experience”
“It is like going home with a bunch of new friends inside yourself!”
To keep it playful and intimate the workshop is limited to just 10 places so if you’d like to come along the grab a place ASAP as they sell out quickly.
..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.
Paper cutting with Stevexoh
28th March 2026
Studio Two, Kingston-upon-Thames, KT1 1PH
Tickets: £10-£20 Limited to 16 attendees.
I’ve been wanting to run a workshop at my studio since I moved in and have only just got around to setting one up.
This two hour workshop invites you to play with paper cutting and ideas of negative space, imperfection and seeing the world through an inverted lens - noticing the wonderful emptiness created by shapes.
You need no previous experience and experienced paper cutters are also welcome to immerse themselves in this almost meditative practice. We will mainly work in the studio space but will venture out briefly to take inspiration from the sights, sounds and smells of Kingston-upon-Thames to help us imagine our final piece.
All materials are provided and you will get to take your final piece home with you.
..:: MORE INFO AND TICKETS ::.
Super Secret Musical Improv (SSMI XLI)
8th May 2026
Waterloo, London
£95. Limited to 16 attendees.
SSMIs happen at various times in the year they are an opportunity to come together with a curious, friendly and supportive bunch of people and improvise songs, scenes and musicals. No previous experience is necessary, nor is any ability to sing, improvise or be funny. In fact, any of the above can prove a disadvantage.
Previous participants have described these sessions as “life enhancing”, “beautiful” and “I need SSMI like I need to breathe.”
6. Support my work
Here’s a photo of a giant guinea pig DJ’ing at a recent local community festival to encourage you to scroll to the end of this Substack. I took this photo at the annual Seething Festival in Surbiton - a brilliantly weird community gathering that centres around local folklore in order to preserve the tradition of oral storytelling and how important it is in the community. (I mention the history of Seething Wells in the last issue of this Substack.) That said, I have absolutely no idea of the relevance of the giant guinea pig to any of this but I see it annually at this event. (And at the annual Sardine Festival).
I want this Substack to be free and accessible for everyone irrelevant of financial means (the podcast version too) and this is an important principle in much of my work. When I do charge for things, like art or workshops or events, I strive to do so in a way that doesn’t exclude those who do not have the financial means to participate.
So, when people do support my work financially it means so much and helps me continue to work in this way. If you can afford to do so you can support my work in a number of ways, be that buying me a coffee from £1, buying some art from my shop, becoming a patron of my studio or becoming a paid subscriber to this Substack. (And if you can’t afford it then I absolutely love you getting this for free.)
Buy some art from my shop. I have a big selection of prints, original art, books, badges, t-shirts, posters and more.
.:: VISIT MY SHOP HERE ::.Become a patron of my studio. For a one-off donation of your choice you become an official patron with a badge, a certificate, a behind the scenes blog and your name added to the scroll of honour in the window of the studio.
.:: BECOME A PATRON HERE ::.Buy me a coffee. Like a tip jar.
.:: BUY ME A COFFEE HERE::.Become a paid subscriber of this Substack. I didn’t even know this was an option until a few people spontaneously did it! You don’t get any extra content or anything but you do get my eternal gratitude!
As ever you are a beacon of light, sharing your thoughts, endeavours and wisdom- I never cease to be inspired when reading your work or taking part in your world…❤️