For jeweller Liz Willis, the River Thames is more than a body of water – its shorelines are a treasure trove of stories waiting to be uncovered. With each rising tide, the foreshore reveals fragments of London’s past: nails, pins, shards of ceramic, and other overlooked objects, each carrying centuries of use and wear. It is this thrill of discovery through the careful practice of mudlarking, and the artistry of stitching and metalwork that defines Liz’s distinctive work.

Based in Hertfordshire, Liz transforms found objects into contemporary jewellery, combining silver, silk threads, and fragments that once had a life and purpose. Pieces of discarded metal, with signs of age, wear and tear, are hand-stitched to silver forms, blending with or creating a contrast to the colours of rust or patination on the finds. Everyday objects, such as pins and nails, that were handmade generations ago are worked to give them a new chapter, raising their status again, through the creation of little pieces of wearable history.

After a career in nursing, Liz returned to university as a mature student, earning a BA in Applied Arts from the University of Hertfordshire in 2008. Seven years later, a residency in Húsavík, Iceland, deepened her fascination with found objects. Her latest series, the Mudlarked Collection, was developed as part of a retail project piloted by the Goldsmiths’ Centre on behalf of the Goldsmiths’ Company and Goldsmiths’ Foundation for the London Museum. Inspired by the exhibition Secrets of the Thames: Mudlarking London’s Lost Treasures, each piece of jewellery incorporates a mudlarked nail or pin. Liz’s Port of London Authority Creative Foreshore Permit – one of only 30 granted – allows her to work with these finds.

This is the story of how mudlarking – the quiet, absorbing search for forgotten fragments along the Thames foreshore – became central to Liz’s practice, and how these small, overlooked objects continue to shape and inspire her work today, told in her own words.

Finding My Way to Mudlarking

‘In 2013, I first began experimenting with found objects. My work had always been shaped by the things I noticed while walking or running through the landscape. At that time, I was making a lot of brightly coloured, geometric stitched pieces that were commercially appealing. But alongside them, I found myself drawn to rusty old nails and curious fragments I picked up along the way.

I loved the patterns and the textures. I began exploring how to combine textiles with metal, and translate these qualities into stitching. But I was nervous about what people would make of rusty nails and bits of metal stitched to silver, and whether that would be perceived as jewellery. Was I really making commercial art, or fooling around with art jewellery? I shelved that strand of work for years, though it never left the back of my mind.

Then, in 2014, I came across a jeweller posting about mudlark pins on Instagram, and I began following a woman known as the London Mudlark. The pins were the most gorgeous things I’d ever seen. I bought some on eBay and shared that I had done this online. At the time, I was making tiny spoons that evolved into earrings, and the London Mudlark reached out after seeing my post. She explained she disliked people selling finds, which should remain free for anyone to discover, but she didn’t mind artists creating with them. To my delight, she sent me a parcel of her own finds and that lit the spark that set everything in motion.

I soon realised I needed to experience mudlarking for myself. Living only half an hour by train from London, it was easy enough to reach the foreshore. By 2018, I had secured my own mudlarking licence. That same year, I spent a month on an art residency in Húsavík, northern Iceland. I went with the specific intention of collecting found objects and building a body of work, though deep snow and ice made searching nearly impossible. Still, that trip shifted my perspective. It pushed me to see objects differently - to play with how colours and patterns could be stitched into silver and metalwork. That way of looking has stayed with me ever since.’

The Fight for Creative Mudlarking

‘Recently, there was a major upheaval over mudlarking licences and the question of selling finds. Could you sell items made from what you discovered, or was that crossing a line? The uncertainty meant I had to pause my work with Thames finds for a while. During that time, I turned to metal-detected objects purchased on eBay. They carried history too, but it wasn’t quite the same.

Thankfully, the Port of London Authority eventually introduced a new creative mudlarking permit. I was fortunate to be among the first to receive one – I think only thirty were issued initially. That was thanks in large part to a group of fellow mularks, in particular Alexandra Abraham and Nicola White (aka Tideline Art) who fought tirelessly to make it happen, and I remain deeply grateful for their persistence.

Although I still enjoy working with other types of finds, there is something undeniably special about mudlarked objects. They share the same history as the objects found on the Thames, but there’s something different about those lifted from the river. It’s as if the whole history of London is wrapped up in them, and that’s what I love.’

What It’s Like to Mudlark

‘Mudlarking is fabulous. Above you, London rushes by - the noise of cars, sirens, and the general city bustle - but once you step onto the foreshore, it’s like beachcombing in your own little world. As you search, your eye begins to pick out what isn’t a pebble. Straight objects like nails and pins quickly stand out among the pebbles, rubble, and gritty sand. Once your eye adjusts, they almost seem to reveal themselves.

Another remarkable thing is the sound of the water rushing in and out. The first few times I went, it really caught me - the gentle tinkling, almost like a wind chime. It’s the shards of glass, china, and small stones moving back and forth with the tide. It’s utterly fascinating. It took me a while to realise what was making that light, delicate sound, and it instantly reminded me of Tinkerbell in the Peter Pan stories - the little, magical noise just before she appears.’

The Challenges of Mudlarking

‘Sadly, these days, pollution and sewage are a real concern - something my daughter, who works with Surfers Against Sewage, has made me very aware of. There are some excellent projects raising awareness of these issues, but it’s still important to be cautious. Gloves are essential - thick ones, because sharp objects can pierce rubber quickly - and sturdy boots or wellies are a must for navigating the algae, sludge, and mud.

During lockdown, when everything paused, many people imagined mudlarking would suddenly become easier, but it was more complicated. In reality, mudlarking was harder during that time because the Uber and taxi boats that usually keep moving up and down the river, constantly washing silt in and out, weren’t running. As a result, a thick layer of silt would settle across the foreshore, making it difficult to find anything.

When mudlarking, it’s also essential to understand the tides - there are pinch points where exits from the foreshore are limited, and people can easily get trapped. The tide can come in surprisingly quickly in some areas, which can be dangerous.

The boats that travel up and down the river can move surprisingly fast, so you have to stay alert. I’ve had moments where I spotted something lovely, reached for it, and a wave swept it away. But despite that, there’s a peaceful, almost zen-like quality to mudlarking. It’s like beachcombing - you walk, you search, you pick up small treasures, and once your eye adjusts, the discoveries can be incredible. Sometimes it takes a while to get into the zone; I’ve spent ten minutes without finding anything, but patience always pays off.’

Returning to the Same Spots

‘It’s not always easy to find exactly what I’m looking for, which is why I tend to return to the same places. There are a couple of areas along the Thames where pins wash up in huge quantities, usually where the river shelves and bends. Because most of the pins are copper alloy, they tend to clump together, likely due to their similar weight, creating deposits in large patches. To the untrained eye, these spots look like large, crusty, muddy lumps. But when the tide moves in and out, it washes out the small pins and nails, revealing hidden treasures.

I also favour the Rotherhithe area, where old ships used to be broken down. Copper nails from ship plating often wash up there, particularly after a strong tide. While some of the larger, rusty nails are beautiful, they aren’t practical for stitching - the rust will eventually wear through the silk thread, even over decades. I learned this the hard way after making a chunky brooch from a rusty nail for myself; it immediately stained my clothing. Despite that, I continue to return to these familiar spots, guided by patterns that experience has taught me to recognise.’

Combining Silk and Found Objects

‘I probably didn’t take the most straightforward path to combining silk and found objects in my work. I went back to university in 2000 in my thirties and did an Applied Arts degree as a mature student. Before that, I had spent years working as a nurse. I started with a foundation course, trying everything - textiles, jewellery, glass, ceramics. It was a fabulous way to explore different mediums. For some reason, I thought I wanted to be an illustrator, which is slightly funny because I can’t really draw, but it was textiles and jewellery that captured me.

I decided to continue with the Applied Arts degree part-time while still nursing. I was making large experimental body sculptures and I was stitching a lot, but I quickly realised I needed something solid to stitch over to hold the form - metal became the perfect solution. I began wrapping, binding, and stitching over metal, which allowed me to combine my love of jewellery with textiles in a way that didn’t require a full workshop or constant soldering.

At the same time, I was working nights as a private carer for an elderly gentleman. During the long stretches when he slept, I would sit and stitch. Those quiet hours became the foundation for my technique. I soon realised very few people were doing this combination of metal and stitch, and that became the unique centre of my practice. Over the years, I’ve taken courses and learned soldering, hammering, and other techniques, but those early improvisational methods really shaped my approach.

My stitching is entirely self-taught. People often describe it as blanket stitch, pico stitch, or needle lace, but I’d call it a mix - a Liz Willis amalgamation. I start by drilling tiny holes through the silver, anchoring the textile layer with a blanket stitch, and then go back and forth to build the form. Sometimes I flip the textile and stitch through to secure it, or embroider into layers, always working to integrate the metal and the found object. Once both elements are stitched together, front and back, the piece is complete. This approach allows me to merge the strength of metal with the delicate fluidity of silk, giving new life and context to the objects I find.’

Tiny Details, Timeless Threads

‘The scale of the stitches in my work are incredibly tiny. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be, so I rely on very strong work glasses, bright lights, and the tiniest embroidery needles, around a size 12, almost like acupuncture needles. I use fine silk threads, which move beautifully and do exactly what I want them to.

I began working with silk during university. I experimented with cottons, linens, and other threads, but silk has a lovely sheen that complements silver so well. Working with rusty metals and found objects, I liked the idea of using something that carried a sense of preciousness, even if the materials I was using weren’t inherently valuable. I use mulberry silk - it holds colour well, is easy to hand wash, and works perfectly with my stitching.

There’s also a lovely historical resonance for me. My father was deeply involved with the Huguenot Society, and our family - the Champion de Crespigny branch - settled in Spitalfields as silk weavers and some as silversmiths. Whether or not our heritage is definitively Huguenot, there’s a poetic link between my work with silk and silver today and the crafts my ancestors practised centuries ago.’

Shaping Silver Around Found Objects

‘The shape of the object I find often dictates the shape of the silver I marry it with. For example, my nail and little pin earrings naturally develop into oval shapes. They’re probably the most popular pieces I make, and I often need to produce quite a few quickly. I usually work from a template, which makes them straightforward to hammer into shape. People often say they look shell-like, which feels fitting since they were found in the river.

The pins themselves - some straight, some slightly curved - were originally used to hold clothing in place before buttons existed. Many people are surprised to learn that historic nails and pins were handmade, since we’re so accustomed to mass production. The mechanisation of pin-making only began in the 18th century, so many of these objects predate that and some even go back to the 14th century. Many have very specific bends or curves, and I’ve amassed hundreds of pins over the years, stored in bags, ready to match to the shapes I need. Occasionally, when I need a break from other tasks, I’ll lay out all my pins and pair them up, which is a surprisingly satisfying form of procrastination. Their natural curves lend themselves beautifully to these small, curved bowl or oval shapes.

I’ve also been experimenting with larger, wiggly nails and pins, which has inspired me to push further with my metalwork. Some pieces don’t involve pins or nails at all - I enjoy the challenge of replicating shapes or textures in silver and seeing how I can make metal bend and move in unexpected ways. Over a year ago, I took a fantastic one-day course with silversmith Rauni Higson, which sparked even more ideas for shaping silver into curves, bends, and odd angles that I can then stitch through. I have a head full of concepts, and I’m looking forward to dedicating more time next year to exploring these silversmithing techniques fully.

Predominantly, it’s the shape of the found object that dictates the shape of the silver, while the colour I choose for stitching is often guided by the patina on the metal. The little earrings and nails are particularly lovely because I can work with bright, eye-catching colours, which people really enjoy. The pins themselves were originally used to fasten fabric, so who knows what colours they might have been associated with - some may have been embedded into textiles or clothing. I love that each piece is handmade, with its own unique bends, nicks, and signs of use. There’s a fascinating connection between the hands that originally made them, the hands that used them in everyday life, my hands finding and working with them, and finally the hands of someone who will wear the finished piece. It’s a beautiful continuity of human touch and history - and that’s what I love about this work.