On craft, climbing and finding the right curve.
You’ve mentioned that you find yourself thinking with your hands more than your head.
It’s built into everything I do; there is a priority for my hands because that’s where my thoughts feel clearest. Communicating with words feels so much harder than just using my hands. It’s where I feel most comfortable.
What is it about a bowl that holds so much energy for you?
The curve of a bowl is where all the magic is. It’s where the action of making the pot is held—a memory of the energy of throwing. That "right" curve is what I’m looking for all the time; it’s a constant search and a preoccupation.
Other people find joy in music or poetry, but for me, those curves make me really happy.
Polishing a piece can sometimes strip away its life. How do you recognise the moment a piece is finished without overworking it?
Polishing is a real danger. You can keep working on a pot until it loses its energy. I’m always trying to find that sweet spot of capturing it at the point where the energy is still there. It’s a kind of sensitivity to that moment.
Throwing quickly and efficiently is my way of getting there without overthinking it.
How has your relationship with perfection changed over the years?
When you first start making pots, perfection is the goal because it feels like an achievement. But once you’ve been doing it longer, imperfection is where the magic is. You stop chasing perfection because your window shifts.
The unknown becomes more desirable than controlling something and making it known. I want to open a kiln and be happy with five pieces and unhappy with twenty. The happiness comes from that difficulty you put into the process.
Failure is a frequent guest in any ceramic studio. What does a "failed" piece teach you?
Failure is a constant companion every day I’m in here.
It teaches me to keep persevering. You never really get it "right," and once you do, what’s the point? If you’re constantly pushing up against failure, you’re moving in a direction. In the kiln, you don’t control the elements — it’s the heat of the sun.
Things go wrong, and that is a constant source of learning.
Is there a parallel for you between finding a grip while rock climbing and finding the form in a piece of clay?
There is a relationship between the two. Something like hard rock can't be moved; it is a static contrast. Clay is that same rock that's gone through many thousands of years of erosion to become clay. They're inextricably linked, but the softness of clay is alive, tactile, rhythmic, and beautiful.
I often say it’s like your two hands communicating with each other—the pot is formed by the conversation between them. They are both ways of reading with your hands.
How does leaving the city to climb or be in nature enliven your work back in the studio?
Climbing is like clearing away the cobwebs. Being in the city can close down your world, but then you go out and see a sky filled with stars and you come back enlivened. It’s not necessarily that climbing relates directly to pots, but being in nature does.
Finding that energy is important.
Ceramics is a slow, protracted craft. What has working with the earth taught you about patience?
It’s all about patience with the process; it’s at the very foundation of making pots. The whole thing takes weeks of managing, drying, and caring for the pieces before they even hit the kiln. It’s about capturing one energetic moment and turning it into stone.
Does the rhythm of your garden spill over into your studio work?
Nature is right outside my door. I find a lot of my own clay and add that to my pots, so there is nature actually captured inside the work. I also use she-oak branches or wattle in decoration to loosen things up. It adds a randomness I can’t control.
What are the small rituals that help you get into the right headspace to make?
I love weeding. That’s my ritual for getting calm and happy; weeding in the garden just calms everything down. When I'm in the studio, I’m totally inside my body—it’s a sanctuary that slows everything down in my brain.
You’ve said you’re deeply in love with nature. How do you try to communicate that through a pot?
If I can communicate that feeling, it would be extraordinary. I'm not looking for twee mountainscapes on the side of a pot, but the feeling of moving in nature. My responsibility is capturing this moment I’m experiencing right now. Pots are dug up thousands of years old — what I make is captured in stone forever.
