The Yes I Don't Regret: Seven UK Makers on Free Work, Favours and Where the Line Sits

Let's get the obvious out of the way. Free work is not a business model, and 'it'll be great exposure' remains one of the most expensive sentences in the English language. If you are being asked to underwrite somebody else's project with your own rent money, the answer is no.

But that isn't the whole picture. Most makers I know have done something for nothing at some point, and a handful of those jobs turned out to be quietly formative — the kind of thing that shifts how you work rather than what you earn. The interesting question isn't whether free work is good or bad. It's where the line sits, and how you decide before you're standing in front of it with your stomach doing somersaults.

So I asked seven people. Each of them named the unpaid or nearly-unpaid project they'd happily repeat, plus the rule that stops them saying yes to everything else.

Ruth Okonkwo — ceramicist, Bristol

The project: A set of forty mugs for a community kitchen that had lost its funding halfway through a refit. No fee, materials covered by a whip-round.

What it taught her: 'I made forty of the same object in six weeks, which is more repetitions of one form than I'd done in three years. By mug thirty-one I understood the shape properly. That knowledge went into everything I've sold since.'

Her rule: 'One free project per year, decided in January, before anyone asks me. If a request arrives in June, the slot is either gone or it isn't — I don't have to weigh it up in the moment.'

Callum Fraser — graphic designer, Dundee

The project: Branding for a five-a-side league that had been running out of a leisure centre for two decades and had never had a logo.

What it taught him: 'It was a proper lesson in designing for people who will never read a brand guideline. They printed the badge on a banner and it looked terrible, because I'd made it too detailed. I redid it in two colours in an evening and it's still on that banner eight years later.'

His rule: 'Free means free. No third round of amends, no creeping extras. If I've given something away, it is finished when I say it's finished, and I say so on day one.'

Priya Nayar — illustrator, Leicester

The project: A mural for a temple community hall, painted over four weekends with a group of teenagers holding the brushes.

What it taught her: 'Working at that scale with other people's hands in it. I couldn't be precious. I had to draw big, simple shapes that a fifteen-year-old could fill in confidently, and that constraint made my personal work better almost immediately.'

Her rule: 'I'll do it if I'd do it for a mate. And I'd never charge a mate for a small favour. That test filters out most of the things I'd resent later.'

Tom Hedley — furniture maker, Northumberland

The project: A reading bench for a primary school, built from reclaimed timber, in the school holidays.

What it taught him: 'It taught me how much I'd been overcomplicating joinery. Kids climb on things. Everything had to be blunt, sturdy and honest. I came back to my commissioned work with a much cleaner approach to construction.'

His rule: 'The unpaid job has to teach me something I couldn't buy. If the only thing I get out of it is gratitude, I decline, politely, and I don't agonise about it.'

Bea Lindqvist — photographer, Cardiff

The project: A year of portraits for a residents' association documenting a street before half of it was demolished.

What it taught her: 'Patience with people who aren't used to being photographed. Six visits before someone lets you take their picture properly. I'd never have learned that on a commercial shoot with a schedule.'

Her rule: 'Nothing unpaid between October and December. That's when paid work is thinnest and my resolve is weakest. Having the rule written down means I stop pretending I'm being generous when I'm actually being desperate.'

Ade Ogunleye — sound designer, Manchester

The project: Sound for a friend's short film that went on to do the festival rounds.

What it taught him: 'It was my first proper credit, and it was the first time I had to work to somebody else's emotional instinct rather than my own taste. Argue your corner, then serve the film. That's the job.'

His rule: 'I ask what happens to it afterwards. If it's going to be sold, sponsored or monetised in any way, I'm not the free option — and I say that without apology.'

Hannah Pryce — textile designer, Hebden Bridge

The project: A banner for a fell-racing club, stitched over a winter in her front room.

What it taught her: 'Something about making for a place rather than a market. I knew exactly who'd be carrying it up a hill. Knowing the person who'll hold the object changes your decisions at every stage.'

Her rule: 'If I catch myself hoping it'll lead to something, it's not a favour, it's a punt. I'd rather admit it's a punt and charge accordingly, or not do it at all.'

What all seven have in common

Not one of them framed their free project as a gift to the requester. Every single one was, in some way, a gift to themselves: a skill, a repetition, a credit, a lesson they couldn't have bought at a course. The gratitude ran in both directions, which is probably the only honest reason to do this kind of work.

What struck me more was that six of the seven had a written or spoken rule they could recite without thinking about it. The rule does almost all the emotional labour. When a request lands in your inbox and you're tired and a bit flattered and unsure, you don't have to make a judgement call under pressure — you just check it against the line you drew when you were calm.

That was my takeaway, and it's reshaped how I handle my own work this year. I have one free slot, I know what it's for, and I've stopped treating every request as a moral test of my own generosity. Saying yes has got easier and less resentful. Saying no has got much easier, full stop.

If you're going to give something away, do it on purpose. Know what you're buying with it. And don't let a warm feeling in October turn into a bitter one in March.