The room came before the business.
In the winter of 2012 the top floor of Riverbend Works was a paper merchant’s storeroom with the windows painted out. It took two of us a fortnight with scrapers and a bucket of warm water to find out what was behind the paint: a bank of north-facing lights running the whole length of the long wall, the kind of even, patient daylight nobody builds into a building any more.
Neither of us had planned to start a studio that year. One of us was shooting product for a furniture importer on a rolling contract, the other was doing portrait work for a regional magazine that had begun to look shaky. We took the room on a short lease between us because it was cheap and because it was obviously a room for photographs, and we agreed to give it eighteen months before deciding whether it was a business or an expensive hobby. The first year brought eleven commissions. The second brought forty. We stopped counting the months after that.
The name is not a metaphor. There is a mill pond behind the works, fenced off and largely forgotten, and the street sign at the rear entrance still reads Stillwater Lane. We wrote it on the door in chalk while we were arguing about better names, and it stayed there long enough that clients started using it. The chalk has been repainted twice since, in the same handwriting, because the first sign-writer we asked wanted to improve it and we did not want it improved.
Very little else about the room has changed. We put a track of diffusion panels across the windows in 2015 so the daylight could be softened or cut without moving a stand. We painted the corner cyc in 2017 and have repainted it eleven times since, which is what happens to a white wall that people walk on. The long steel-topped table arrived second-hand from a bakery that closed and has taken more punishment than any camera we own. Everything else is stands, boxes, paper and a kettle.