The Truth in Each Piece
We potters all struggle to find the truth in each piece. Every step in making pottery involves choices. When throwing, I start with: what will this be? Then come questions of width, height, thickness. Later, when trimming: how much to remove? where? is it enough?
I imagine a production potter settles into a routine—making a series of cups or bowls, maybe vases. They weigh the clay, set the measurements, and get into a rhythm. There’s a kind of simplicity and predictability to it.
I am not one such potter.
I may begin with the goal of making mugs. I might even plan to make four to six of similar size. But by mug number three, I’ve usually wandered into another idea—taller, wider, maybe even lidded forms. I find a lot of joy in letting the mood take over.
Glazing, though—glazing is a whole other story. It’s more stressful. The same pull of curiosity and instinct is there, but it comes with higher stakes. I might intend to glaze a cohesive group, but that intention often gets thrown out the window when a new idea takes over. Like most artists, I can’t resist the impulse to try something just a bit different.
I’ve been glazing long enough to know what won’t work, but not quite long enough to resist the temptation to try it one more time.
The Pottery Notes app on my phone has become my truth-teller. If I want to repeat a mistake, the app offers a way to tweak it slightly, to use it as a tool for learning rather than just record-keeping.
Pottery is full of heartbreak. My last kiln load included two or three pieces that really missed the mark—one glaze left odd, unappealing splotches in the center of a bowl; another piece seemed to reject the glaze entirely, bubbling up in protest. But then—there are the successes. A few pieces emerge with quiet perfection, and they gently massage the wounds. And then the joy kicks in again. Sometimes, I feel downright gleeful.
With all the external turmoil in the world, I cherish the time I get to spend struggling with clay.