I’ve always had an affinity for porcelain. I’m intrigued with its clarity and the way light is drawn to and through it. I soda-fire to add warmth and an element of serendipity to what can be a formal medium.
Every time I choose a particular pot from my cupboard I think of the potter who made it. They each have a story to tell. The potter who made one of my favorite porcelain cups died recently. When I use this cup I remember her elegant way of being in the world.
On my windowsill sits a mysterious paper-thin bowl I’m trying to get to know. It has uneven blue lines coursing through it, and patches of yellow and grey glaze. The bowl was hand built by a French potter I’ve never met. Nevertheless, she and I are having an intriguing conversation. This human connection is what drew me to pots, and keeps me engaged with making them after three decades.
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