Inside the Tiny Shed of a DIY Miniature Maker in Scotland

We’re in the shed now.

It’s tiny and cosy, packed with cardboard buildings, glue pots, paints, music, stained glass — and a little doll that looks suspiciously like the artist herself.

This is where Karen Bones builds her world — one miniature at a time.

A former painter and lifelong goth, Karen now spends most days turning cardboard into buildings. Not grand ones or architecturally precise models — but the places that feel real. The pubs with nicked tiles, the houses with ghost signs, the lanes that smell like a night well spent.

She doesn’t work from blueprints. She works from memory and impressions. A flicker of light on stained brick. A story someone tells at a market. A place that just won’t let her walk past.

Her models aren’t replicas.

They’re portraits — full of warmth and weathering. And Karen loves every minute of making them.

In Their Own Words: Karen on Finding Her Way into Model Making

Full transcript of our conversation with Karen.

My name is Karen, and I make miniature models. Before that, I worked as a freelance illustrator for years, mostly sketching buildings in Culross and Fife. But before illustration, I worked in the bar trade. Drawing bars came naturally, and everything really began there.

I studied illustration and printmaking at Duncan of Jordanstone in Dundee. Later, I discovered an artist in London building models from balsa wood and card. I wondered if I could do something similar using recycled cardboard. I had loads of it lying around the studio.

My first model was very rudimentary, very basic, but it was surprisingly well received. Since then, it’s taken off. I now work mainly with recycled cardboard, though I use anything that fits — buttons, packaging, plastic. But it always comes back to cardboard.

Iconic Builds

My years working in Glasgow’s bar and music scene have shaped my work. Bars and venues are a recurring theme. Many are now closing, which makes documenting them feel even more urgent. Each model becomes a kind of memory-keeper.

My favourite model so far is probably Glasgow Barrowland. It was the first one I lit from the inside, which made it a real challenge — but it’s also the one I’m best known for now. My favourites change often, though. I’m always drawn to whatever catches my eye at the moment.

“Nick’s Cave”

I build everything in my wee shed. It’s a small 8×6 sanctuary in the garden that I retreat to constantly, shut the door, music on, fire on, and get building. It was bought during lockdown when my husband took over the spare room. I insulated and decorated it myself. It’s cosy and full of everything I need.

My shed has become a personal space full of little talismans. I’m a huge Nick Cave fan, so a friend dubbed it “Nick’s Cave.” I listen to his music as I work. I also have stained glass from a friend, and a photo of five of my oldest college friends right above my desk.

I have lots of things around my shed that are really personal to me. Apart from the posters and postcards of Nick Cave, right in front of where I work, there’s a photograph of five of my oldest college friends — they inspire me and help keep me going. I also have quite a bit of stained glass in the shed, made by a friend of mine. I just love looking at it with the light shining through — it brings me a lot of joy.

I also have a doll in my shed that, mysteriously, looks just like me. She’s a fairly new addition and came from a girl I spoke to online after seeing her work on Facebook — she makes dolls and teddies. She doesn’t usually take commissions, but I used to make puppets myself when I was at art college — I’ve gone from figurative work to buildings since then. When I saw her dolls, I asked if she’d be up for making one of me. I’d never done one of myself, and I thought — why not?

I wanted it to look like me in the ’90s. I’m still a goth, but these days I’m more of an ageing goth. She was lovely and put it together with all the right touches — stripy tights, leopard print — and sent it over. I absolutely love it. The doll now sits on a shelf in my shed and watches me while I work.

How It All Gets Done

I typically work from 10 am to 3 pm, sometimes returning at night if there’s a deadline. I usually have two or three models going at once, rotating between them while glue sets. Small commissions take around two weeks; larger ones can stretch out for much longer.

I tend to work most days from about March onwards. I do craft markets every weekend, so Sundays are technically a day off from making — but I’m still working, just selling instead. I usually take the odd Saturday off to spend time with the family, and I do go on holiday — but my husband will tell you I’m a nightmare on holiday these days. All I want to do is look at buildings, take photos of them, study their shapes… all for reference, so I can recreate them when I get home. So every trip just adds to my ever-growing list of buildings I have to make!

As for the process — I usually start with the windows and doors, then build up the brickwork using foam sheets. I especially lose myself in tiled roofs — each tiny tile is cut out and glued one by one. I can spend hours on it, almost in a kind of zen. Once the basics are done, I start adding the details — pipes, signs, graffiti — all the little things that bring it to life.

I have to listen to music while I’m working — it’s the very first thing I do. Well, second, if it’s winter — then the first thing is putting the fire on in my shed. But music has to be on. I just can’t concentrate without it. It can be all sorts, really. I always say I’m an old goth, so it’s usually 80s or 90s goth music, or just 80s stuff in general. But I always need something playing. Even if I pop into the house to make a coffee, I’ll stick the radio on for five minutes. I just don’t like silence.

When someone commissions a model, I always ask for photos. But if I can get there myself, I prefer to take my own pics because I know what I’m looking for. I just need to be able to see it myself, so that I can always do better work, the more small details I spot.

I once had to recreate a house that no longer existed — Wooers’ Alley in Dunfermline. That was probably my trickiest and biggest build. I was only given three old drawings and photos to work from, and they were all from the same angle. The house itself was huge, and at first I honestly didn’t think I’d be able to do it. It felt too big, too important — especially knowing it would be part of the Carnegie Museum exhibit.

Then I met up with the woman who’d commissioned the piece. She’d put together a whole folder of research: old photographs, plus information on other buildings designed by the same architect. She also got Stirling University involved, and they created a CAD drawing for me. Without all of that support, I don’t think I could’ve done it. But I did finish it — and it was really, really well received. It’s just come out of an exhibition where thousands and thousands of people saw it and loved it. So yes — very challenging, but definitely worth it.

I’ve just completed two more models of the building that are no longer there — both were Victorian cafés I was asked to recreate. I was only sent black and white photographs, but they wanted the models in colour. That made things quite tricky, especially since I’m all about detail. I had to rely on the photos I had and spent a lot of time looking up old references to piece it all together. In the end, I managed to make it work, and the clients were really happy with the outcome — but it was definitely a challenge.

How The Buildings Choose Her

Honestly, I don’t even fully know what draws me to certain buildings. There’s just something. Recently, for example, I was coming back from a day out in Leith. I stopped at a traffic light — I don’t know if I’d ever stopped at that one before — and there was this small, quite unassuming building on my right. But something about it caught my eye.

When the lights changed, I pulled into the next available parking space, got out of the car and walked over. There was a girl outside, taking down some gates, and I asked her, “Is this your building? Because it’s amazing.” I told her what I do and asked if I could take some photos. She said she was just opening it up as a new artist hub. It’s on Ferry Road, coming into Leith — and that’s going to be a new project for me. The building has this beautiful old ghost sign, which I’m always drawn to. I love that kind of detail.

And you know, I probably would’ve walked right past it if I hadn’t been stopped at that light. But some places just call to you.

Portal in Leith was like that too. The very first day I went to Leith, just to check it out before doing a market, we parked not far from a building that instantly grabbed me. It wasn’t even open at the time — it wasn’t called Portal yet — but it was the very first photo I ever took in Leith. I came home thinking, I have to make this.

Later I found them on social media, saw they were now called Portal, and asked if I could recreate their building. They absolutely loved the idea. Now they even use the model in some of their promotions.

So yeah — it’s not always the grandest or the most famous buildings. It’s just something about them. Sometimes they just call to me, and when they do, I have to make them.

The Emotional Builds

Probably the most powerful reaction I’ve had to one of my models came from quite a modest piece. A girl had reached out to me on social media and told me she’d been brought up by her aunt and uncle in a council house in Fife. They’d both passed away fairly recently, and she asked if I could recreate the house because it meant so much to her.

She said she couldn’t bring herself to go back there — it was just too emotional — but she really wanted to have a version of the house. She added, “It’s only a council house… would you even do that?”

Of course I would.

A council house can be just as meaningful and just as much of a challenge as a stately home — and the story behind it was so beautiful. I couldn’t say no.

She sent me photos, but she also asked me to recreate the house as she remembered it — the way it looked in the 70s when she was a child. So I had to change things back: the colour of the door, the original windows, the garden. I had to undo the present-day version and go back in time, in a way.

When we met and I gave it to her, she burst into tears. She was in floods. It meant the world to her — and honestly, that kind of reaction is why I love doing what I do.

Another reaction I often get — and probably one of the best — is for my model of “the most honking lane in Glasgow”. Whenever I take it to a market, it never fails to make people smile. Anyone who’s been to Glasgow and knows the lane off Union Place just gets it. They’ll even say, “I can smell it just from looking at the model!” That always makes me laugh. And when someone walks up, sees it, and instantly smiles, I know exactly what they’re reacting to — I don’t even need to ask. That feeling, that shared recognition, is brilliant. It means they really know the place.

My inspiration is just all around me. My work has changed so much over time. My background is in portrait painting, and in a way, I’ve come full circle. I never had much interest in buildings — not really — until the last three years. I used to draw them, but building them is a completely different thing. It’s so much more complex. You’re looking at all the different parts, not just the structure as a whole. So now, everything around me becomes inspiration. I go to different places, I see new things. In every city I visit — especially when I’m on holiday — I’ll spot a building and think, I have to take a photo. That constant spark keeps me making.

What pulls me in is definitely the character. Probably why I’m so drawn to buildings that are run down. The more worn, the more graffiti, the more visible damage — the better, in a way. As much as it’s sad, it gives me more to work with. Especially in Glasgow city centre — there are so many beautiful old buildings falling into disrepair. It’s heartbreaking, but from an artistic point of view, it gives me so much material. And I like to highlight that. These incredible structures that have stood for hundreds of years are being left to crumble. They could be repurposed — turned into artist studios, creative hubs — but they’re just being abandoned. The ones covered in graffiti are some of the most striking.

I’ve got a lot of friends who are graffiti artists. Right now, the city centre is like a playground for them. And it’s brilliant. Graffiti’s still so underappreciated. A lot of these guys are shunned and looked down on, but they’re some of the best artists I’ve ever known.

One of my favourite models I’ve ever made — and one of my first — was of my old studio on West Regent Street. That building ended up being demolished too. It was probably unsafe even when I was still working there, but it was a proper hub for artists. There was an amazing little bike shop in the basement, a print shop, and the whole place had a real community feel. People used to come by and hang out.

A few years later, we all had to leave — the roof was caving in, the whole thing boarded up. From my perspective, it looked incredible — so raw, so full of texture. I had so much to work with. But now it’s gone. It should have been saved. It could’ve continued being a creative home for so many people.

The very first model I made, the very first basic one, was of a café in Limekilns. That’s what started it all. It was a beautiful little café with a bed and breakfast upstairs, and they put the model behind the bar, right on display. Because of that, so many people saw it. They’d ask about it, and the owners would tell them I had a stall at the market in Culross on Sundays. People started coming to the market saying, We saw your model in Limekilns! That led to commissions.

After that, I decided to go back to the places I know best — which meant Glasgow pubs. So I started building the music venues: King Tut’s, NiceNSleazy, the Barrowland. Since then, I’ve discovered so many different places — but it’s really grown from there.

The one place that really introduced me to somewhere I’d never been — and that I’ve now completely fallen in love with — is Leith. I’d never been to Leith until about a year ago, and honestly, I can’t believe it took me so long. It’s an amazing place. I’ve been told it’s changed a lot — that it used to be much grittier, rough around the edges, especially back in the Trainspotting days. But I love it.

Leith Walk, in particular, was a total revelation. There are such great little shops and a brilliant energy to it. I grew up in quite a rough part of Glasgow — spent my childhood in Drumchapel, which had a pretty notorious reputation back in the ’70s. So maybe I’m naturally drawn to places that had a hard past but have found their feet again.

Right now I’m working on a commission of the Scotia Bar in Glasgow — said to be the city’s oldest pub, dating back to 1792. I got the commission after someone saw my model of the nearby Laurieston Bar, which is another classic. They’re quite similar in shape, and both have that iconic Glasgow pub feel.

The Scotia’s a bit special for me — I think my dad used to drink there back in the day. It’s known for its banter and the crack, but it’s going to be a tricky build. The exterior has this odd plasterwork at the bottom that almost looks lumpy — I’ve no idea yet how I’ll recreate that!

It also has a flat roof, which makes me think there was probably a tenement above it at some point that’s since been demolished, leaving the pub behind. That’s Glasgow for you.

When I first looked at photos of the Scotia online, I noticed a patch where the plaster had come off — in one shot there was even a giant snooker ball stuck to the wall. Turns out the sign must’ve fallen and taken some of the plaster with it. I drove down to check it out in person, but sadly the patch had already been fixed and covered with a new sign. Bit of a shame — I actually like when bits are falling off. It’s kind of my thing… though probably not ideal for them.

I try to replicate things as closely as possible — that’s what people seem to love: the detail. I add everything I can — fire alarms, tiny stickers on lampposts, bits of graffiti, even patches of dirt — unless I’m specifically asked not to. That’s what makes it feel real. My buildings aren’t architectural models. They’re still very much handmade, crafty. I love building up texture just with paint and plaster.

People often ask me what scale my models are — and honestly, I couldn’t tell you. They’re certainly not millimetre-perfect. I’ve had plenty of train enthusiasts approach me, asking if I’d make kits for their model railways, but that’s not really my thing. Some say they’ll come by and measure everything to figure out the scale for me — but I just do it all by eye. So no, I’ve no idea what scale my models are… and I kind of like it that way.

Culross in Miniature: A Village That Keeps Giving

I started doing the Culross Market about three years ago. We’re based right on the village green, so I spend hours there every Sunday, just standing and staring at the most incredible buildings. At first, I simply drew them. And honestly, unless you’ve seen them in real life, you’d think I’d completely messed it up — the roof tiles are all wonky, the angles make no architectural sense, but that’s what makes them so special. Every house has character.

Over time, I made friends in the village. People would stop by the market stall, see my drawings and ask, “Could you draw my house?” Then someone else would say, “Could you do mine too?” And once I started building miniatures, it was the same story — “Could you make ours?”

One of those commissions was from David Morgan, who now lives down south but still returns to Culross to visit the house his mother Jenny once lived in — the white cottage on Tanhouse Brae, now one of the most photographed homes in the village. David’s holding the model I made of that exact row of houses — the white one once his mother’s, the pink “Greek House” on the left, with a Greek inscription around the window, and the orange building, once an old butcher’s shop.

Each one is completely different — in colour, shape, and layout. Some look small from the front but stretch into enormous gardens at the back. That’s the magic of Culross.

The stairwell on the middle house was probably the trickiest bit to build — stairs always are. I’d just started working in 3D at the time, and each section had to be made individually and pieced together by hand. It probably took two or three weeks in total.

Culross is one of the most complete surviving examples of a 17th–18th century Scottish village. I first came across it around seven years ago, when I used to take my son to the playground by the green. The road into the village is a bit twisty, and I remember the first time I saw the sign for Culross — it genuinely felt like stepping back in time. In more recent years, it’s become known for its role in Outlander. The village is now a tourist hotspot in summer, with visitors flocking to see the filming locations — especially the Mercat Cross, which features heavily in the series.

Dream Project & The One Karen Would Never Sell

I think my dream project — the one I’d absolutely love to do — is the Glasgow School of Art. I’m a huge fan of Charles Rennie Mackintosh. It’s such a big, complex building, and I’d really need proper time to do it justice. I’ve got a lot of commissions just now, but I will get to it one day. Hopefully I’ll manage it before there’s another fire and it disappears completely. I already lost the ABC, which I’d recreated — that was right in front of it. So yes, the Glasgow School of Art is the one.

There’s one model I’ll never sell — the one of Roseangle, Dundee’s infamous “murder house.” It was one of my earlier builds, and it’s deeply personal. I lived there while I was at art college — the building’s right across from the campus, which was perfect at the time. You could literally roll out of bed and into class.

What we didn’t know back then was that a very well-known murder had taken place there in the 1980s. We only found out when our boiler broke and no one would come out to fix it. One tradesman eventually showed up, realised where he was, and said, “Don’t you know what happened here?”

This was pre-internet, so of course we didn’t. Some of my friends went to the Dundee Courier office and dug up the story. It was grim — and very real. We all moved out not long after.

The house itself was stunning: stained glass, mosaic floors, real character. But it’s been left derelict since the late ’90s. It’s still standing, barely, but it hasn’t been touched in years and will probably be demolished eventually.

I had to recreate it. And I’m so glad I did. The model means a lot to me — it turned out beautifully — and it’s one I’ll never part with. It’s mine. Just to remember.

I often sell my work at local markets. Most Sundays, you’ll find me at the Culross Market on the Green in Fife, or at the Dunfermline Artisan Market. I’ve also done the Briggait Craft & Flea Market, and I pop up at Leith and Stockbridge markets every couple of months.

However, most of what I do is online. You can find me on Facebook and Instagram, and just drop me a message there if you’d like to get in touch.