Maryann Morris Photography

Name: Maryann Morris Photography
Address: Marks Tey, Colchester, ESSEX, GB
Telephone: +447943551687
Price range: $$$

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Maryann Morris Photography

Published photographer, Artist, Coffee drinker, Biker, in whatever order you like and sometimes all at once.

BA (hons) Photography Graduate 2016 following my heart with my camera in tow.

21/04/2026

Cold water. New friends. No hesitation.

We ran straight in, breath stolen, skin stinging, chatting like we’d known each other for years. Afterwards, it was the good kind of chaos. Towels, chatter, gathering food from the water and cooking it right there on the shore with salty hands and wind-tangled hair.

Simple. Real. Exactly what it needed to be.

Somewhere in it, Luca took a photo.

I saw it later and stopped. I actually liked it. Not just the image, but me in it. Open, present, a little untamed.

Didn’t expect that.

28/03/2026

It’s been a rough few months, winter has been harsh, wet, windy and absolutely relentless, which of course in turn has an effect on my mood, and then questioning my why, what and when. And finally finished up (I bloody hope) some absolute c*nts emptying out our just filled heating oil tanks as we discovered last night. You can see why I’ve had enough?

So this feels a little momentous -

There is an exhibition coming in August.

At present, it exists only as intention. There is no completed body of work, no resolved series, no quiet sense of readiness. Only a commitment to process, and a decision that feels both necessary and deeply unsettling. Terrifying. I’ve never done this alone, but here we are.

So today I stood in Porthleven as a little break from normal life and to try and calm down a little, and watched the sea.

I went there in search of something resembling courage.

Not certainty, but permission to begin without it, without feeling ready or perfect. (There’s too much stock put in perfect)

For some time, the work has been delayed by the familiar negotiations: the need for the right conditions, for more energy, for a clearer idea, for a version of myself that feels more prepared. These conditions rarely arrive in the way we imagine they will.

The waiting, however, does.

This exhibition marks a departure from that pattern. I will do this, and I’ll do it in my terms.

The work will be created using collodion wet plate, produced in the landscape rather than in controlled environments. This approach itself invites instability. It is shaped by weather, by time, by the physical limitations of the process itself. Each plate carries the marks of its making, unrepeatable and often unpredictable.

There is no separation between subject, process, and place. Photographer or viewer.

Standing at the edge of the sea today, something shifted.

Not into confidence, but into acceptance and a quiet excitement. That the work does not require perfect conditions to exist. That beginning is, in itself, a sufficient act.

In August, the exhibition will take place in Porthleven.

The work will be made between now and then.

And that is enough.

F**k.

02/01/2026

Happy New Year. Stepping quietly into this new chapter with gratitude, soft hope and a steadier heart. No rush. No reinvention. Just a deeper commitment to living truthfully, creating with intention, and trusting that what is meant to unfold will do so in its own time. Here is to gentler beginnings and beautifully honest days ahead.

26/11/2025

I’m crap at writing these, especially when it hits this hard. I was so nervous meeting Pam, but I needn’t have been, we spent a wonderful afternoon, laughing, chatting and just generally being ridiculous while maybe taking a few photos in the meantime. That afternoon will forever live in my heart.

Fly high Pam, you will be sorely missed. Your spirit and balls… well that’s not going anywhere.

My condolences to Pam’s family

14/11/2025

If you are craving a quiet break in Cornwall our little farm cottage is open for bookings. It sits right in the middle of the fields where mornings are soft and slow and evenings drift into peaceful silence broken only by the breeze and the occasional opinionated goat.

Weeknights in November are available and December currently has both weeknights and weekends free. It is the perfect season for wintery walks, simple living, and sinking into the wood fired hot tub under a cold clear sky.
Have a look here: https://alifelessorganised.lodgify.com

10/11/2025

After writing about perfection and the fear of putting myself out there, I finally did it. My first big kiln firing. And it went better than I could have imagined.

Opening that lid felt like holding my breath. Months of learning, doubt and small disasters all sitting there in the heat, waiting to show their true colours. And somehow, they came out beautiful. Not flawless, not identical, but full of life. Glazes running in unexpected ways, soft tones I didn’t plan, textures that tell their own stories.

It feels like a little proof that I can make beautiful things, even when I stop trying so hard to make them perfect. A tiny glimpse of what is to come, and a reminder that sometimes the best results appear when you finally let go and trust the process.

So here they are. My first real pieces, born of trial and error, patience and clay. A few imperfect pots, a lot of heart, and the start of something new.

03/11/2025

There’s a hush that comes when you open the kiln after a bisque fire. The heat still lingers, dry and ancient, carrying that faint scent of dust and earth turned to stone. It’s a quiet kind of alchemy, not yet about colour or gloss, but about endurance, about the first breath of permanence.

You place the pieces in carefully, green and fragile, knowing they’ll never be the same again. It’s the most vulnerable moment in the making process. You’ve shaped them, handled them, given them form, and then you surrender them to the fire. When the door closes, it’s an act of trust.

The firing hums away unseen, transforming what was once pliable into something that can hold its own. And when you finally lift the lid, it feels a little like uncovering relics, warm, pale forms emerging from the stillness, matte and unassuming, yet solid now, ready for what comes next.

Each one carries a whisper of the journey, a tiny crack, a curve that shifted slightly, a reminder that this is a collaboration with the elements. It’s the first time the work truly stands on its own, no longer clay, not yet complete.

Opening the kiln after a bisque feels like the quiet exhale before creation continues. A pause between intention and expression. You look at what the fire has given back and think, yes, we’re ready to begin again.

02/11/2025

The first bisque firing is finally complete, and the kiln, my faithful and slightly unpredictable beast, is cooling as we speak. There is always this delicious sense of anticipation at this stage, that quiet hum of excitement wondering what alchemy has taken place inside. By tomorrow, I’ll get to lift the lid and see what’s emerged from the heat, the first glimpse of new forms and textures, each piece transformed by fire and patience.

After that comes the meditative rhythm of glazing, mixing, brushing, dipping, and dreaming up finishes for each piece. It is a slow and deliberate process, equal parts science and intuition. If all goes to plan, I will load the kiln again for its final firing later this week.

Right now, I feel utterly in my element, grounded, soothed, and completely absorbed in the magic of creation.

28/10/2025

The Trouble with Perfect

Lately I’ve been spending more time with clay, trying to perfect a new skill. I tell myself I’m just learning, just practising, but somewhere along the way, I stopped creating and started correcting. Every wobble felt wrong, every imperfection something to hide.

The irony, of course, is that clay doesn’t care about perfection. It has its own rhythm, its own quiet will. It slumps when it wants to, resists when it’s too dry, collapses when you push too hard. It asks you to meet it halfway, not to control it but to listen.

I think that’s what I’d been missing. Waiting until I was good enough before I allowed myself to call it art. But if I keep waiting for that, I’ll be waiting forever. The truth is, the beauty of ceramics, of any art really, lies in the marks of the maker. The fingerprints, the uneven rim, the glaze that runs just a little too far. Those are the things that make it alive.

It’s terrifying, though, putting myself out there in this new way. Photography has always felt like home, but clay feels raw and uncertain. There’s nowhere to hide. Every piece holds its flaws in plain sight, every firing could go wrong, every step asks for patience and surrender. Yet there’s something freeing about that too.

Art isn’t meant to be perfect. It’s meant to mean something. To make you feel something. To remind you that you were here, hands in the clay, heart wide open, shaping something from earth and intention.

So I’m trying to let go. To stop chasing flawless and start embracing real. To find joy in the process again, in the soft hum of the wheel, the cool slip between my fingers, the moment a lump of mud becomes a vessel.

Because maybe that’s the point. Not to make something perfect, but to make something that feels true.

And strangely, clay is the very thing that’s encouraging me to pick up my camera again, it’s re-teaching me to let go and enjoy the process. That and this amazing book - The Creative Life by Sally Mann, days spent watching waves, reading the book and drinking coffee in the wind is healing something I never knew was broken.

Address

Marks Tey
Colchester
ESSEX

Telephone

+447943551687

Website

https://linktr.ee/Maryannmorris

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