Getting Intimate with Clay

Working with clay is an intimate experience, a sensual relationship, an adventure of the senses. I make with my hands, my body, my breath and the ground under my feet—rooted. Throwing pots on the wheel can be both a deeply personal moment and a creative act offered into space.

Entering the workshop

The cool earth caresses my feet. The humid air of drying pots whispers against my skin. The birds sing. I pause – breathing in, breathing out – and tune into the rhythm of my body. An idea flickers, a spark of motivation. I cup it lightly, ready to let go if the moment leads somewhere else.

My hands meet cool, wet clay—I never know what will come. Each act of creation is a step into the unknown. Sometimes the process flows seamlessly; other times, it slips into chaos. But I am rooted to the ground, leaving my fingers free to explore and play the unknown.

Beginnings 

Creation is a precise moment—a dot in space and time from which form emerges. The challenge lies in that instant, feeling it, trusting it and following it through no matter where it leads. It’s a path of ease, a balancing act in which fingers move with intent and clarity. 

The process is not always kind. Pieces collapse. Fingers and tools rip apart a pot. Yet the adventure only ends when clay is cut from the wheel. Although imagination is always present, nourishing a world of possibilities, my practice is guided by instinct. I love the feeling of pushing clay to its limit and seeing what will happen. 

A creative spiral

I most often throw series of 10-20 pots. While many potters sketch their ideas on paper, I’ve never felt comfortable with a pen in hand. Instead, the first couple of pots are my sketches: re-iterations of an emerging idea until something clicks. At this moment, I know I’m invited to repeat and explore a given form, design, texture and/or movement until the end of a series. With practice, the end of one series is often the starting point for a new series. And I continue to dance around a theme until the end bell rings. 

The end is simple 

No more clay on the wheel. Tired hands. A loss of concentration. It’s time for a break: a cup of tea, a walk in nature, or simply, lunch. 

Tea #2

Sitting still as a bee,
Drinking delicious cold tea.

A sunny day rains and shines,
Making sure freedom is mine.

The bird sings a broken heart,
Spring comes like a dying art.

Deep blue

I sit there looking at you,
suddenly everything goes blue.

My heart drops to the dumps,
but I’ve learned to ride the bumps.

Spiraling’round the funnel,
I see light at the end of the tunnel.

You spit me back out,
with barely a breath left throughout.

Sputtering at the blue sky,
I feel a weird high.

Without a thought for me,
you roll on free.

What just happened?
Was this not the end?

Everything goes blank,
like a fish out of its tank.

Again, I sit looking at you,
wondering when it will all turn blue.

On work #2

Work is done and soon forgotten.
Living on, never downtrodden.

Looking out, there are no doors,
Simple space and open floors.

Rain or shine, blue or gray,
There is no single way.

Red, white & blue

Front to back, through and through I’m a hack.
Looking at this track, I no longer know what’s a fact.

In and out, everything makes me want to shout.
Skinned like a trout, I’m getting ready for the next bout.

Red, white and blue, always gave me such a fright.
Like a child in the night, I’m blind without any insight.

Lacking humility, I suffer the woes of absent tranquility.
Jump’in up and down, my tantrum is crowned with a frown.

This deep rent in my heart, what is the spark of this discontent?