Screen printer Hannah Carvell is one of Ideal Home's new Open House contributors, sharing her thoughts on colourful home design for a creative family to live in. See the rest of her articles here.
When two content creators came to photograph our Somerset cottage, I spent days worrying they'd notice every unfinished project and wonky corner. Instead, they reminded me why we fell in love with this house in the first place.
If someone tells me they're coming to photograph my house, my first instinct isn't excitement. It's panic. I immediately become aware of every unfinished job that's been happily blending into the background for months. The hallway still needs painting. The skirting boards could do with a wipe the dogs have scratched the paintwork on the door. Why do I let a menagerie of animals sleep and do parkor off the living room sofas.
As someone who runs a creative screen printing business from home, I'm no stranger to styling a corner for a photograph. I spend hours screen printing homewares, photographing new collections and sharing little glimpses of our cottage online. But that's the thing about social media you choose what people see.
A few weeks ago, I was asked if two lovely content creators could use our home for a lifestyle shoot for a renovation brand they were working with. My immediate response was, "Are you sure you've got the right house?".
In my head, I could think of a hundred homes that felt more worthy. Houses with beautifully renovated kitchens, immaculate utility rooms and not a muddy paw print in sight. Ours is still a work in progress and I told them this before they even arrived.
It has wonky walls, decorating projects waiting for "one free weekend and some spare cash", and enough animals wandering around to make styling a room an unpredictable experience.
There is almost always a dog asleep in the middle of the floor, and if the back door is open for more than thirty seconds, there's every chance one of the chickens will decide to pop in and see what's happening.
Despite every instinct telling me to politely decline, I said yes, and I'm so glad I did. Watching someone else move through your home with a camera is a surprisingly emotional experience.
As we sat chatting in the garden afterwards about why we'd chosen this house, I realised I'd spent the whole experience seeing it through someone else's eyes.
They weren't looking at the things I'd been worrying about. Instead, they noticed the morning light pouring through the kitchen windows. They rearranged a vase of garden flowers I'd picked without thinking much about them. They commented on the old beams, the character of the cottage and how peaceful it felt.
At one point they stopped to photograph a corner I'd walked past hundreds of times without really seeing.
It made me realise how easily we become blind to the homes we live in every day. We stop noticing the things we once fell in love with because we're too busy seeing the list of jobs still waiting to be done.
Living in a house while raising children, running a business and juggling everyday life means it's never really "finished". There are always ideas saved in Instagram, paint charts tucked in drawers and always another project waiting for the school holidays.
For the longest time, I thought I'd finally relax once everything was complete. The trouble is, I don't think homes ever are. Perhaps that's exactly as it should be.
I do chase perfection. I'm trying really hard to accept that it doesn't exist. If I stop and really look at life in our little Somerset cottage, tight budgets, muddy floors and chaos included, it's probably as close as I've ever come to the life I used to dream about.
Running my screen-printing business has taught me to look for beauty in everyday moments. So much of my work is inspired by simple things: wildflowers growing along a country lane, the colours of the Somerset landscape or the changing seasons outside my studio window (I did a whole serious of prints around the pink cloud and sky I love living here) , wisteria season I will always reach for the Lilac inks.
It's funny that I find it so easy to spot those details out in the world, yet sometimes struggle to see them in my own home. That day reminded me to slow down.
To notice the afternoon light across the old (and scratched) wooden floors. The wild flowers picked that morning from the garden sitting in a favourite jug. The stack of well-loved books beside the sofa. The very excited dogs running from room to room. The evidence of a home that's being properly lived in.
As the photographs started appearing on their cameras, I found myself looking at our cottage through fresh eyes. Instead of seeing all the things that weren't finished, I saw warmth. I saw personality. I saw the home we'd slowly built over the past few years after taking a leap of faith and moving our family to Somerset.
It wasn't perfect. But then, it never was supposed to be. I think we're all guilty of apologising for our homes before anyone even walks through the front door.
"Please excuse the mess."
"We're halfway through decorating."
"It normally doesn't look like this. (in fact its normally messier, we tidied up before you got here)"
The truth is, the people who visit us rarely notice the things we're apologising for. They're too busy noticing the smell of coffee brewing, the fresh flowers on the table, the dogs wagging their tails or the way the sun streams through the windows.
Maybe we're the only ones keeping score, I am no stranger to drooling over other peoples beautifully decorated homes on instagram, longing to buy tiles or change the scratched up wood floors in our living room.
The photoshoot lasted just one afternoon, but it left me with something I hadn't expected. A renewed appreciation for the home we'd created. Not because it suddenly looked perfect, but because someone else had helped me see that it never needed to be.
Sometimes all it takes is a fresh pair of eyes to remind you that home isn't about flawless interiors or finishing every project on the list. It's about the life that's quietly unfolding inside those four walls.
These days, whenever I catch myself focusing on the jobs still left to do, I shall try and remember that afternoon, someone else's camera lingering on the things I'd stopped noticing. Maybe that's the secret to loving our homes. Not making them perfect, but learning to see them with fresh eyes every now and then.
