My hands are drawn to texture like a moth to a flame.
It’s a primal fascination, a need to understand the layers that make up the world around me, whether it’s a glaze’s smooth, glassy skin or the rough, yielding body of clay.
Each piece begins as an exploration, a tactile conversation between me and the materials.
Some experiments reveal hidden harmonies, and others teach me the stubborn limits of my medium. There’s a vulnerability in this process, a willingness to be surprised, even humbled, by what emerges.
I find a raw, almost visceral joy in working with heavily textured clay. Its weight in my hands, its unyielding presence, feels like a direct connection to the earth itself.
This isn’t just a material; it’s a partner in creation. Then comes the delicate dance of slip glazes and brushstrokes, a counterpoint to the clay’s strength. It’s a process of balancing power and fragility, of finding harmony in contrast.
Each stroke, each layer, is a step in a dialogue, a negotiation between intention and nature’s force.
The finished pieces are more than just forms; they are records of this journey, tangible expressions of my emotional engagement.
They bear the marks of my hands, the imprints of my process.
I seek to evoke not perfection but a sense of lived experience, a feeling of something honestly and painstakingly made.
The imperfections, the subtle variations, are the whispers of the maker, the echoes of the creative struggle and the quiet triumph of bringing something new into being.
In these moments, where the clay yields and the glaze sings, I find a profound and deeply personal connection to my art.
