Tewkesbury-based
artist and illustrator Sam Morris began her career painting whimsical cows,
growing a thriving art business that’s evolved into a broader
storytelling practice. Her work now spans public art, narrative illustration and sketchbook explorations that celebrate quiet moments, emotional depth and
the poetry of everyday life.
She's also one of the artists behind this summer's Lions at Large trail, having designed a striking sculpture in support of Cheltenham and Gloucester Hospitals Charity's Big Space Cancer Appeal — a cause that’s become deeply personal.
SoGlos chats to Sam about the inspiration behind her lion, celebrating courage, transformation and the moments that shape who we are.
What’s the story or inspiration behind your design for your lion sculpture?
I remember going to the Lions at Large presentation last August and hearing how the project was raising money for the Big Space Cancer Appeal. I didn’t think too much about it at first but as the deadline approached, I thought I may as well have a go at a design.
When creating it, I was thinking about how people going through cancer are 'put back together' afterwards, bringing different, new parts to who they’re becoming. That idea led me to kintsugi, the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold.
I submitted the design without expecting anything but at the sponsors night, the Gloucestershire County Council Fostering team immediately connected with it — they saw a link between kintsugi and families being brought back together. That strong connection led them to choose my design.
Just a week later, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was a real shock and oddly serendipitous that this project came into my life right then. Suddenly, I really understood what it meant to have your life shattered and to try and hold on to the pieces.
When the lions arrived in Gloucester, I was starting chemotherapy. I’d planned to work on it from home to stay isolated, but the lion was so large, it wouldn’t fit through the door! So, I painted it at the studio at Gloucester Quays instead.
My second round of chemo was cancelled due to low white blood cells and I was really upset. But I thought, 'how can I turn this around?' I ended up having this unexpected week with no treatment and I became the first artist in the studio with the lions. It was peaceful and therapeutic — I had this special time just painting, layering on gold seams, distressing the design, adding a secret heart and giving the lion eyes with real sparkle.
I absolutely loved the process. It carried me through the highs and lows. The lions arrived in Gloucester at the perfect time for me to turn a negative situation into a positive one.
I eventually met my sponsors, and we’ve formed this emotional connection through the design. It feels vulnerable, strong, raw and authentic. If ever there could be a perfect match, this was it.
What message or feeling do you hope people take away when they see your sculpture on the trail?
I think there’s a strong message for anyone going through cancer treatment right now — that everybody’s experience is different. I’ve really learned that. When you’re first diagnosed, you want to talk to others and compare but every diagnosis is unique. Walking into the oncology ward, I was shocked by how many people were there — but it's also a brilliant thing, to realise how many are getting help and support.
With
the lion, I hope people see that, while you may not return to who you were,
there is a kind of becoming that happens. You enter this in-between, liminal
space, figuring out who you are now and what really matters. It’s a time of
reassessing, of choosing what and who to carry forward. The journey is wobbly —
full of highs and lows — but there’s a deep courage that can emerge through it
all.
The lion felt like the perfect symbol for that. The gold seams in the design represent the experiences you collect, the people who support you and the strength that holds everything together. It’s all those fragments coming together that make you whole.
I hope when people see the sculpture, they recognise something of their own journey — whether they’re going through treatment or something else. Just like the fostering team saw their work in the gold seams, bringing families back together; I think everyone can find a piece of themselves in it.
If your lion could stay in one place forever as a symbol, where would you want it to live and why?
Oh my gosh... in my garden!
But if I have to share him, I’d love for him to be here, there and everywhere; to pop up in unexpected places. Somewhere people stumble across him by surprise — that would be really nice.
You’ve shared personal aspects of your story publicly, what has vulnerability given back to you?
Gosh, that’s such a big question. It’s only with hindsight that I can look back and understand how I handled it. When I was first diagnosed, I didn’t want to tell anyone.
I think you need time to process it yourself; to reach a point where you can speak from a more reflective, positive place. It’s such a personal thing and the timing has to feel right for you.
For me, I had a mastectomy in early December, right before a busy month. I had 200 people booked into workshops and I didn’t know how I’d feel after surgery but I was determined to go ahead, so my husband Mo and my friend Asha dropped everything to help me in the studio.
For every workshop I delivered, I had a surgical drain attached to me, hidden in a little bag which I decorated with paintbrushes, so people didn’t feel awkward or worry about me. I just wanted them to enjoy the workshops.
Strangely, at the first workshop — just two days after my operation — one of the nurses from my ward was a participant. She arrived early to check on me and said, 'I was expecting a cancellation email... but here we are!'
I think having the responsibility to show up, smile, offer people a positive experience really helped me process what I was going through. It gave me structure and purpose.
After the Christmas workshops, I closed my studio on Tewkesbury High Street and moved back home, to my Cow Shed studio. It was only then I felt strong enough to let everyone know.
By then, I’d made it through the surgery and had a sense of what was coming next in terms of lymph node removal and chemotherapy. I felt ready.
You have to understand how you deal with trauma. For me, the worst thing would’ve been sharing too soon — when I was most vulnerable — and then having to carry everyone else’s shock as well as my own. That would’ve been overwhelming.
If you could give one message of hope to anyone facing a tough time, what would it be?
There are really, really tough days but in the grand scheme of things, they’re just days.
When you're in one, try to remember: it's just that day. Tomorrow will be different.
And sleep is a wonderful thing. Once you’ve closed the door on that tough day, the next morning often feels a little easier.
