In the spirit of the pot

In my role as a technician at The Clay Garden studios in Hammersmith, I often get asked questions by members, particularly the newer ones who are just finding their feet with pottery. Making something out of raw clay is one thing, turning it into a shape you like and then choosing a glaze to finish it with is quite another. Glazing is a whole different world, not only do you have to decide on colour but some glazes are runnier than others and how you dip them can affect the outcome. 

There is a lot to learn but as with any craft, we never stop learning.

One of my jobs is to pack and unpack the kilns and the results of a glaze firing will always be mixed, and for all the many successes there may be a disappointment or two. This week one of our newest potters was disappointed at three tiny, raised specks on her plate.  She was sure they hadn’t been there when she made the piece which in her eyes was now ruined.  I immediately thought of Bernard Leach, widely regarded as the father of British studio pottery who was known to say, when confronted with a less than perfect result, ‘it’s in the spirit of the pot’.  I love this statement because it brings you right back down to earth and reminds you that nothing handmade is ever perfect. If you want perfection then go to Ikea or John Lewis, you will find your perfect identical plates and mugs and bowls there!  

Acknowledging that tiny flaws are ‘in the spirit of the pot’ can only be a good thing, proving that the piece has been made by a less than perfect human. I told this story to the young potter who suddenly saw her pretty plate as a very special thing indeed, made with love, and the three tiny specks were a part of that.  It was uniquely hers, and she understood the value of the piece she was holding, made by her own hands. By taking away that pressure I know that in the future she will grow and expand and make beautiful work that thrives on individuality and not on a desire for perfection, and there is joy and beauty in that.

Broken Bones

The new year is always a mixed bag for me. I feel more affinity with a September reboot than a January one but, after what is always my busiest time over Christmas, January is still a good moment to take stock. 2025 was not my best year but sometimes the hardest challenges bring light and new growth.

I came into January last year with a broken left wrist. It was my second broken wrist having broken my right one the previous April, so now I had managed to do both. Not good for a potter. But it wasn’t over yet. They say things come in threes and I would have quite liked them to ring the changes and not give me another broken bone but that wasn’t to be. In March I broke my shoulder and this was the one that totally floored me; it stopped me in my tracks. I was still having physio for my wrist on that side and the whole thing felt very very difficult indeed. I had not been able to do any pottery for four months and now I was facing several more out of action. My hands itched to get back into the clay but that wasn’t going to happen for a while.

What did happen though was joy in the way my family and friends closed around me to help and support me and I feel privileged to have experienced that love. The Clay Garden kept my technician job open for me too which was so kind and gave me hope that I would be going back, in time, and as I began to heal I would go in and chat to my pottery friends there even though I couldn’t join them in making. March drifted into spring and then summer and I began to use the slab roller. My friends would wire off a piece of porcelain for me and I’d use a rolling pin in my good hand to bash it into a smaller flatter shape before feeding it into the machine that would evenly flatten it to the thickness I wanted. Then I’d work on making it mine. I couldn’t create pieces at that point in my hands the way I had before, my hands were stiff and achy and I couldn’t do much at the beginning but slowly, slowly my strength improved, my arm felt as if it belonged to me again and I began to make.

Nothing is ever lost. No experience is pointless. Every obstacle brings change. There is something to learn in everything. The work that I am producing after all my broken bones has a new strength somehow, there is a subtle change to the feel of it, it feels different, deeper, more expansive, not in the sizes and shapes I’m making but within the clay itself which acknowledges my challenges perhaps. It’s hard to explain but nothing stays the same. And as for the slab roller, well it has been the catalyst for a new collection which I will be working on during the long dark January days. Here’s a sneak peek of what’s to come, so watch this space!

Ten years

It’s ten years since I first picked up the clay and I have learned that to be a potter you definitely need a few key personality traits! The first of these is patience or, at the very least, an ability to slow right down and let things flow. It is sometimes extremely difficult but if we rush something we may well lose it. In the studio there are often cries of frustration as we go through the bottoms of our perfect pieces because we couldn’t resist that last teensy weensy trim, or we are just about finished and a crack appears out of seemingly nowhere and we know the piece is done for because you can’t fix a crack on a half-dry piece.

And that leads on to the importance of letting go - once a piece has a fatal wound the best thing you can do is reclaim the clay, move on immediately and start again. It’s not easy when you have worked on it for days and grown to love it.

Glazing is equally fraught. This is why we all pray to the kiln gods, and with good reason. It took me months to get the lustre to work in the kiln. I had no idea what I was doing and, like an oven, every kiln is subtly different. I followed the instructions on the lustre bottle to the letter and watched copious You Tube videos, but I could not get it right. I used to open the lid of the kiln to discover cloudy blobs all over the pieces, black or pink areas and sections where it looked like I hadn’t applied lustre at all. It was a complete mystery to me. Was the temperature too high, too low, were there too many pieces in there? Should the bung be in or out? I had no idea. All I could do was keep on trying different temperatures, ramps and soaks (don’t ask!). And hoping.

On the day it worked for the first time I had woken up at about 5. By now I was used to clay being the first thing on my mind. It was a freezing December morning, and I put my coat on over my pyjamas and went outside to the garage where I kept my kiln. I’ll never forget the feeling of stunned shock and amazement when I lifted the lid to see a perfect piece of lustred porcelain lying in the middle of the kiln shelf. Outside it was still dark, but the lustre had worked and it was like a glorious sunrise all on its own. It was the beginning of something so special and important in my life.

And here it is pictured above - my first ever piece of successful lustre.

Memory

I’ve just spent three days in the magnificent Chelsea Old Town Hall. It was the 18th year of Handmade Chelsea and I was exhibiting there. I’ve written before about the ups and downs of setting up stands and laying out our creations for people to love, hate, walk past without breaking step or make a beeline for. We have to be robust and a sense of humour is vital.

This show was no exception and I was delighted with the responses to my work and all the lovely people I met. It was my second time and so many people came back to say they had bought last year and loved their pieces. Others would pick up a piece for the first time, nestle it in their palm and say they could feel the shape of my hand in theirs and it made me think about the memory the clay holds in every piece.

I’m so conscious when I tear off a chunk of porcelain and start to form it that the clay begins to take on the movement of my hands and submit to the shape I’m making. I have found that if I change my mind and start to make something else mid way it doesn’t like it at all and it resists. It’s as if it has already created a memory of the marks I was making and the direction I was going in and it’s not going to put up with my shenanigans! I find very quickly that I often get nowhere, start to lose the whole piece of clay and need to recycle it for another time.

When I pack my pieces into their boxes with tissue and cards, to go to their new homes, I always have a little private ritual of putting the piece back into my palm again, in to the place where I made it, to feel the familiarity of it before letting it go. It only takes a second but it’s important. I am only just beginning to realise that the clay and I share the memory of the making and creating of every single piece, and that feels very special indeed.

Pathways

Looking back over the years it’s always interesting to see pathways emerge. Those we took and those we didn’t. Are our paths predestined? Probably not but I believe we are drawn in specific directions. We might, for example, have had to take a path that we wouldn’t have chosen, (which is what happened to me), only to find ourselves back on the original path years later. But every path brings learning and experiences. As a young person, not interested in academic work and therefore quite a ‘disappointment’ in an academic family (!), I was desperate to go to art school or, failing that, become a nanny. They say children will show you, quite early on, the direction they might take in life that will probably make them happiest and most fulfilled. Unfortunately though, as parents, we can have expectations of our kids that are different from theirs and end up pushing them in a direction that suits us, not them. In the end, my pleas fell on deaf ears. I was sent to secretarial college to learn to touch type and do shorthand and I hated it. I never mastered those ridiculous squiggles, but as it turned out I did go on to work in creative companies and that sustained me until I had my children (nanny) and picked up the clay (art).  

The first week in September I walked through the doors of Richmond’s Adult Community College to join a ceramics class and learn lots of new things, but especially how to throw. Not quite art school but not a mile off. Yes, I'm already a potter, but I hand build my pieces and throwing on a wheel is a whole other business! I am in my sixties now, but I found myself drifting back in time as, quite unexpectedly, my 19-year-old self appeared. She had been waiting for this moment for a long time, and I have to say my heart sang and I felt very excited. I was shown around the studio, the huge kiln room, the glaze room, the wheels, the big drawers full of tools, shelves loaded with examples of glaze results, the office with clay, masks and tools for sale. It was recommended I start with Flek clay, quite rough and gritty but good for a beginner who has never really thrown before other than a few stabs at it on a couple of weekend courses which had been so ‘hands on’ by the tutors that I never felt anything I had made was actually mine. 

I was given a demonstration and then left to give it a go on my own and told to ‘have a play’. I sat there for a moment to gather myself in, trying to quell my rising fear of inevitable failure, like so many of us I had forgotten how to play. I switched on the wheel, put my wet hands on the lump of clay and pressed down on the controls with my foot – the wheel began to spin as I attempted to centre the clay quite unsuccessfully at first but well enough to stick in my thumbs and make a clumpy bowl of sorts. I’m now in my fifth week and improving, but what’s most exciting is that I am finally on a pathway I had always wanted to tread. Here I am, kind of ‘at art college’ which was my dream. I feel 19 again, learning to throw with all the time in the world, and the results don’t matter and yes, I am playing, and I love it.

Imposter syndrome and other awkward things…

Rather dauntingly, galleries will often ask for an Artist’s Statement and, if you want to slip effortlessly into your imposter syndrome state, this is the moment for it!  Words like ‘self-taught’ which sound quite valid in a one-to-one conversation suddenly sound like ‘hopeless dreamer’ when written down for others to judge and form an opinion about, and when you haven’t been to college or won awards or been potting in China, the whole thing can look a bit thin, which just fuels the already raging self-doubt!

I used to agonise about what to put when I started out, but now I think that we are all like tapestries filled with experiences, ideas, successes and failures, but above all wisdom, and, most importantly, everything counts. Our inspiration can come from anywhere; it can come from other artists, life experiences, with the way our hands feel when we touch the clay, the potter friends we pot alongside with, the joy of opening the kiln when it has all worked out the way we’d hoped. But it still remains hard to try to make a statement about your own art in a way that doesn’t sound pretentious.
 
As a ceramicist, most of my Instagram feed is filled with my passions; art, collectors, potters, cooks and nature and there are several people I follow who write very beautifully and authentically about their art and inspiration and the things that make them tick – two of these, Edmund de Waal and Nigel Slater inspire me in every post. Edmund is one of these amazing story tellers who weaves his art and ceramics into his past as well as his present. He paints a beautiful picture of his pottery and his life and I love his writing. His words have made me think about what messages I want to give about my work and he has definitely inspired me to think more deeply about my own influences, what I like and who I am as a person, not just as a potter. Nigel is a cook, not a potter, but he adores ceramics and he paints such a wonderful picture of his kitchen and garden on Instagram that I’d like nothing more than to knock on his door, press a small gold bowl into his hands (to bribe him obviously) and sit at his table to hear more. I really hope he might have just taken a cake out of the oven as well…
 
I’d like to say that impostor syndrome fades with time but I’m not sure it does. What does happen though is that we get braver. And with that bravery comes a stronger sense of who we are and what we create and then we can be proud occasionally and enjoy sharing what we make with our hands.

On trusting our own creativity

For a while I taught beginners pottery in Devon and, often, when people arrived for their first class, once they had introduced themselves, they’d add a disclaimer such as they were very clumsy or not at all creative, their hands were too big or they were hopeless at art. In the beginning I tried to reassure them that they would be fine, but after a while I just smiled to myself because I knew what was going to happen!

Give anyone a chunk of clay and however scared they are of making a fool of themselves, they have to do something with it - it longs to be smoothed or poked or hollowed out and before long something personal will begin to appear that invites further exploration and then they are hooked, because clay is wonderful stuff. As the course developed, I would see everyone’s energy, self-belief and opinions about themselves start to change. My ‘very clumsy, not artistic, big handed’ students all produced pieces they were astonished by and completely thrilled with.

We might not be painting a masterpiece or knocking up a moon jar but we are all being creative all the time in most everything we do; from cooking a meal to choosing what to wear, from hanging a picture on a wall to planting a flower in a pot.  So why is it then that we are so hard on ourselves when it comes to creating in front of others? We instantly judge ourselves against some fictitious standard that doesn’t exist and I’m no different, but being mindfully creative is such a wonderful release allowing you to switch off and use your head, heart and hands.

My grandfather Ted lived through two world wars and fought in the first one. We know now that he found solace and joy in whittling wood but he kept it very private and hardly anyone knew, as if he felt it was something to hide. He carved exquisitely life-like boats and animals, particularly fish, in miniature, which he painted and varnished, and which we discovered in his belongings after his death, like an afterthought about himself that had no real value. But I think it was one of the most lovely and exciting things about him and I wish he was here now to talk about how his art fitted into his life. His daughter, my mum, inherited his artistic gift but it was a different shape from his; if my brothers and I sat still for a moment she’d sketch us. She was extremely good and in fact it became a bit annoying to be drawn all the time! I couldn’t draw in the way she could, just conjuring up a horse or dog out of her mind, so I didn’t consider myself to be artistic like her but of course I was; it was just about finding the right medium in which to express myself. It took me a while but eventually I did and it changed so many aspects of my life.. For anyone who thinks they are not creative I’d say, give it a go! Pick up a lump of clay, ignore your self doubt, just trust your own creativity and be truly amazed at yourself.

A beautiful question

At the end of June I was visiting my grown-up son in Yorkshire. It was a glorious day and we had stopped to drink our iced tea on a bench beside the river Nidd in Knaresborough, a place I know well having been born in Yorkshire and brought up only a couple of miles from there.  

We sat quietly for a while under the trees, watching the children playing in the water below and then he asked me, ‘Are you happy with your life so far?’  Perhaps it is a measure of my age and recent challenges that he felt he could ask me this, but I was surprised and moved.

It's a big question and he’s my son but it only took me a moment to race backwards in time and, as I thought about my answer, I could immediately see a golden thread of creativity which has accompanied me throughout my life, from childhood to today.  Life is tough and full of challenges, no one gets off scott free but my creativity has never failed me and I am of an age now where I can see it for what it is. I am happy and proud to say that I am a writer and a potter. I have always written stories, poems and plays, and I wrote my first diary (which I still have) when I was 6. My huge pile of excruciating teenage journals with extra pages, added to the back when I was in the middle of many an existential crisis, saved me. Art at school, art at home, creative jobs, creative homes, two children, (my most creative act ever) followed by children’s picture book writing and publishing and now my ceramics, perhaps the single most creative aspect of my life and one which, with a fair wind, and no more broken bones, I can still be doing in my nineties.

He was pleased at my answer and so was I and as we got up to leave, we agreed I still have a lot of life to live, and many more things to do with my creative mind and creative hands, perhaps in helping others find their creativity through words and clay. It was a beautiful question, beautifully timed and it made me realise how much I have been blessed.  He’s 6 foot tall and a junior doctor now, but not too old for me to reach for his hand and hold it in mine.

Joy in the making

At school, art was my favourite subject. Not so much for the creations I produced, more for the peace it gave me. Art for me has always been a form of meditation.

When I was 14 our teacher made a huge slab of Plaster of Paris which she broke up into pieces. She gave us one each and I remember holding the shape I had been given and, rather than starting right away, I found myself looking at it carefully trying to see what it wanted to be. In the end it became a mythical animal with a gentle face and a huge antler that curved around the entire top. Creating this piece and working on it as it emerged mattered so much to me. Our art lessons were only an hour at a time twice a week, with long days in between filled with normal less engaging (to me) subjects, but I thought about my plaster carving all the time and I longed to get back to it. I loved the feel of the smooth plaster in my hands and the soft noise it made when I carved into it with my blunt school knife. When it was finished I missed it. I didn’t want to stop. I was proud of the final result but the real joy had been in the making of it.  

Creating is a process and it has to be done in stages, but for me, once I have formed a shape in my hands in its most scrappy early state it is imprinted in my mind and I can’t wait to get back to it to work on it. When I am under pressure to make specific pieces I have to work hard not to lose this feeling or my strong connection to the clay. It is annoying but it no longer surprises me when the shape I am intending to form just won’t appear. Art has to be a heartfelt collaboration between the maker and the material; it is just so much deeper than knocking something up!  

You can see this beautiful relationship in work that resonates. It doesn’t have to be perfect. The tips of finger prints left at the base of a piece showing where it was carefully held by the maker when it was dipped in the glaze; the slightly irregular pinching of the rim of a jug or bowl made to be used, not necessarily admired. The rough trimming on a dish that is now your favourite, not for the way it looks, but for the way it feels in your hands. I always like these pieces best because in all of them we can feel and see the joy in the making, as well as the joy of the maker. 

Healing power of clay

In early 2023 I returned to live in London after 21 years living in Devon where we brought up our children. This was a huge life change and alongside everything else, I had to leave my studio and my kiln behind. I was having sleepless nights about how I would manage without making in clay until I got settled so I started to google studios in west London where I was going to live temporarily. I wanted to see if I could find a place to go and sit with clay in my hands. Those of you who follow me will know how important the clay is to me and how it has brought me solace and healing over the years, but pathways are never, or at least rarely, straightforward and this one wasn’t either. 

I found The Clay Garden under the arches in Hammersmith and I knew it would be perfect for me but they had a long waiting list for members. In the meantime I could do drop-in sessions there as I was an experienced potter except, I couldn’t, because 4 days after arriving in London, I tripped on the tube steps at Hoxton and broke my arm. Life has a way of working out though … as my arm began to recover, a space came up to be a technician in the studio one day a week in return for a full membership. The timing was perfect; I applied and I got it. 

I have always done my pottery alone and I wasn’t sure how I would feel, putting my workings out for all to see alongside others on the huge communal work tables, but being part of a studio was a revelation. I had a shelf and a cubby hole for my clay and an instant sense of belonging. Here I was, for the first time, surrounded by other potters, a whole community of like-minded people, all making and creating their own things, and it was wonderful. So many of these potters and other technicians (all potters like me) have become my dear friends; we all share a deep love of this extraordinary material, we share our doubts and fears that we are rubbish at pottery, how we manage imposter syndrome, frustration and disappointment when things don’t turn out the way we had hoped, and we share our joy when they do. We encourage and push each other and revel in each others’ progress; we share skills, tips, tools and advice and we laugh, a lot!

The support is immense and it is always there, in this special studio of clay and kindness. I am learning and expanding my practice through my weekly technician job and, in the studio in my free time, I can experiment with new ideas, clay bodies and glazes, something I could never have done before on my own. At a challenging time in my life, I found a healing artistic community where I could continue to put my heart in my work. And, once again I was led by the clay.  How lucky am I?! 

Homecoming

Only once before in my life have I made things out of clay. When I was 12 my mother died after a short illness; it was the end of the summer holidays and two weeks later I was returned to boarding school 200 miles away from home and it was very hard. I felt different from everyone else now, and I was grieving and terribly homesick. One evening, after supper, my friend Louie suggested we go to the art room; it was closed and out of bounds of course and I was worried about being caught, but she was the youngest of three and fearless. I loved art, we both did, but as I headed for the paints, she went straight to the huge black clay bin, lifted the lid, dug out a lump of sticky and wet terracotta clay and put it in my hands. Gradually, as I started to feel and shape it, something inside me shifted into a calmer place. My mother had been an artist and I'm sure that being in that warm space, making and creating, helped me to feel connected to her.

Louie and I sneaked up there on our own whenever we could, and during those long autumn evenings before the bell rang for bed, we made things out of clay until the light faded and we could barely see our hands. We always had to put the clay back in the bin as if it had never been touched and we were never caught, but they must have known by the inevitable terracotta on our school uniforms.  I’m glad they never stopped us because it became a sanctuary for me – it was healing and as I shaped and formed things with my hands, I was able to forget for a while so that, in time, life became more bearable and hopeful. When I was 14, I left to go to a school nearer home, leaving Louie and the clay behind, but what she did for me then was an act of extraordinary compassion and understanding in one so young - she seemed to instinctively know that the clay would help me, and it did. She went on to become a successful potter herself. And then, a whole lifetime later, I pull another chunk of clay out of another bag in another world, once again at a time when I need help, and I feel a jolt of recognition that moves me - I am momentarily 12 again, next to my new friend, my hands in the clay, making and creating. 

Finding the Light

I met Sophia Angelov at Celebrating Ceramics in Waterperry Gardens this July - we chatted and she said she wrote the Meet the Maker pieces in London Potters Magazine and she’d be interested in featuring me and my work. A week or so later she got in touch and sent me some questions. Years of posting on instagram have helped me to hone the profile I want. I never post personal stuff but these were personal questions. What got me started in clay was very personal and exposing and I suddenly wasn’t sure whether or not I wanted to share that. I talked to a couple of potter friends who said yes tell it as it was, so I took a deep breath and I did.

I have had optic neuritis twice and it is a terrible thing. Your sight starts to go gradually until it has gone. I was very lucky, I only had it in one eye but the experience is terrifying and incredibly painful. There is no cure and all you can do is wait it out until hopefully your optic nerve will reduce its swelling and your sight will return. Again I was lucky, it doesn’t always come back or will only partially return. The first time it happened in my early 30’s I did not return to work full time for 5 months.

Life resumed, I got married, had a family and gradually I stopped fearing for my sight then, almost 25 years later, I had another episode. I couldn’t believe it. It was worse this time and I had to give up my work. I was in my late fifties and I knew my chances of recovery were not as good.

I was with a friend when she talked about a space in a small Monday night clay group locally. I hadn’t touched clay since school but it appealed to me. I was beginning to slowly get my sight back and I would be using my hands not my eyes so I asked if I could take up the space and she said yes.

I was very nervous that first evening. Doing anything creative, in public especially, is daunting and this was an established group. They all knew the ropes. I couldn’t see very well at all and I felt vulnerable. The bag of stoneware was already open and I was invited to take some. I put in my hand and I remember it felt cold and unyielding to the touch. I dug in my fingers and twisted off a chunk which I pulled out and held in both of my hands. At that second I felt a jolt of, what I can only describe as, recognition. I felt my body change, my ears were filled with silence, I wanted to cry for no reason I could understand. I was home. And I knew it. What I didn’t know was that It was the beginning of a healing journey for me which would encompass far more than my sight alone.

Pictured above... from my very first stoneware pieces and my first use of gold leaf, to my current work with black and white porcelain and lustre.

Sharing

It has been a very long time since I posted in my journal but I’m excited and happy to be back! Do sign up to my e-newsletter below if you’d like to receive my occasional thoughts and stories on all things clay. I have missed writing to you!

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Ever since I set foot on this glorious path, whenever I’ve been showing at an event or craft fair other potters will come up to my stand and ask me about my making process with the lustre. We all know it’s not easy to use and they want to know how I get it so smooth, but more importantly, they want to know my firing temperatures and tips for working with this notoriously tricky glaze.

Perfecting any process takes a long time and there are inevitable bumps in the road so it took a lot of trial and error to get the lustre to do what I wanted it to do. It’s hard to know what to do with a hard won skill and when I started out I never knew whether to tell people my trade secrets or not but now I share all that I can. I knew then that I had something a bit different and didn’t want anyone to steal it, but of course no one can really. They can take the concept (and actually the instructions and firing temperatures are on the side of the lustre bottle and in a thousand You Tube videos!) but the energy of the individual maker and their vision is found in the spirit of their pots and theirs alone.

I appreciate so much the joy of and support in sharing skills, tips and ideas between potters, largely a generous bunch of warm sensitive individuals. Events can be daunting and we spend a lot of time together as strangers initially as we set up our stalls side by side and put the very essence of who we are creatively out on the table in front of us for people to look at, pick over, comment on and like or dislike. Some days are good, some less good and some downright terrible but we help each other through in any way we can and it’s a joy to be surrounded by likeminded souls. By the end we are congratulating, encouraging, comforting, hugging and supporting each other with genuine understanding. New friends are always made and it’s a reminder that a rising tide lifts all boats.

Three mothers

I really love being asked to make special pieces for people. There is always a story behind every commission and it’s so lovely to be a part of it. Last year I was commissioned to make three vases by a bride-to-be for her three mothers. They were to be made from white porcelain and lined with gold lustre and she wanted them to be ready for her wedding in August. Her three mothers would all be there, her mother, her stepmother and her soon-to-be mother in law. She wanted to give them each a vase on the day to thank them for all they had done for her and to celebrate their important roles in her life. I was so touched by this and I made all three out of the same piece of clay; the vases were all different, tall and willowy like arum lilies and she loved them. Families come in all shapes and sizes and it warms me to think of these three mothers sharing something so special. They each received a gift, hand made for them from one piece of clay, linking them together and always reminding them of their lovely thoughtful daughter. Never have we needed to stay as close to our families and friends as we do now. Stay safe and keep well everyone.

The next generation

My first ever craft fair was ‘The Contemporary Craft Festival’ in Bovey Tracey. It was June 2017 and I was in the StartUp tent for new makers. To think that less than three years earlier I had never made anything out of clay was pretty amazing. And now, here I was, displaying my work on a stand at one of the biggest craft fairs in Europe, That June weekend it poured with rain from start to finish - an endless stream of visitors struggled with wellies, umbrellas, rain coats, take away coffees and paper carrier bags full of glorious hand-made purchases - the rain never stopped, but they kept on coming. People were so warm and encouraging, they gave me fabulous feedback and I sold well.. Then, towards the end of the first day, a little boy appeared in front of my stand. He had bright blue eyes, blond hair and had to reach up on tiptoe to look at my work. ‘Look at these Mum’ he said, ‘aren’t they beautiful’. His mum tried to stop him touching, but I said it was fine, he could pick up any piece he wanted. I had a row of small bowls at the front of my display and he picked one up and.placed it gently in the palm of his hand, I could see he really loved it so I packaged it carefully in a box and I gave it to him. There is something so wonderful when children understand the importance, individuality and joy of ‘hand made’. This little boy and his little bowl set a precedent for me. At every show since that first one I have given away a tiny bowl to a young child who is brave enough, and passionate enough, to pick one up off my stand. I always instantly know who to give it to; sometimes it will happen on the first day, once or twice it has been in the last half an hour of a show, but they always come and I always know. Things which are made by hand are so important and when children understand this, and appreciate it, then we know that there are new generations coming who will carry the hand made baton forwards and that makes me happy..

Inspiration

My mother was an artist and a very bright woman but, like so many of her generation, there was nowhere for clever, inspiring women like her to shine and thrive; we women are so lucky today. She was an only child and her letters home from boarding school to her parents in Argentina were peppered with drawings; it seemed as if words were not enough for her, she had to illustrate everything she wanted to say as well.  Art school in London was swiftly followed by marriage in Yorkshire and then three children, so her painting took a back seat for a while, but she always drew - this was an integral part of who she was. I couldn’t believe how she seemed to know the shape of things she couldn’t see and could draw an animal or a person, or anything at all from her imagination; it seemed like magic. When she found the time she painted in oils and I remember the warm smell of the linseed as she worked the paint with her palette knife. She loved working in pastels too, blending and scraping to get the effect she wanted; her hands and clothes were often covered in a sludgy mixture of chalky colours. She was always in a hurry; thoughtful, sensitive, passionate about creativity, a great cook, a brilliant wordsmith, an avid reader, a quick decision maker, a good friend. She encouraged us to be all of these things too, but above all to be creative. She wanted us to experiment and try new things, to read books we might not have chosen for ourselves, to write stories and poems and plays, to use our hands. She sketched us often, casually capturing the movement and sense of us far better than any photograph ever could. I wish I still had those sketches but my memory of them, and her as she drew us, will have to do. She died far too young and even now, after all these years, fifty in fact, I would give anything to see her again for a moment, of course I would, but I don’t need to have her here beside me to know she would be thrilled that I am a maker now. She’d laugh her tinkling laugh and say, ‘My darling, what took you so long?’

Labels

Recently I found myself sitting next to a delightful Dutchman at a lovely family wedding.  We exchanged basic information on who we knew, how beautiful the bride looked (his niece), how handsome the groom was (my cousin), and what a touching, modern and uplifting exchange of vows we had just witnessed, then we turned to introduce ourselves to the people on our other sides. Later, as we tucked into homemade lasagne (made by the mother of the groom) I asked him a question I must have asked a thousand times, 'what do you do?' He looked momentarily confused as if his understanding of English had failed him, 'What do you mean?' he replied, 'do you mean, what do I like to do?'  It suddenly struck me how rigid we are in our thinking in the UK, how we allow ourselves to be entirely defined by our work and our jobs and how this has become our narrow culture. Of course I was asking about his job, but he heard a different question. He was thinking about his life as a whole, his love of the outdoors, his hobbies and family time and he started with that and then he told me about his job which is only a part of his life, not the whole of it.  There is such a lesson there and I made my own vow that day to look at my life and all the parts of myself with new eyes and greater value, I'm not defined by my work, I am so much more, we all are. And the next time someone asks me what I do I will talk about my life in a different way and try not to package myself into one little box labelled 'work'.

OPEN DOOR

I went to Ceramic Art London in March.  It was so exciting – a collection of some of the best makers on the planet all in one space at St Martin’s School of Art, Kings Cross.  It was a really blustery day with blue skies and the fresh Spring weather matched my excitement at the prospect of being inspired. I wasn’t disappointed; the level of skill across all of the ceramics was so incredible it was almost impossible to imagine this work could have been made by hand. I didn’t intend to go to a talk but as I walked towards the exit, I passed the open door to the lecture theatre and they were calling for people to take a seat so, on a total whim, I slipped inside and sat at the back.  It was a talk about architecture, how ceramics are used on the exterior of buildings, and I have to be honest, my energy didn’t exactly jump at the prospect. How wrong I was. The owner of Darwen Terracotta, Jon Wilson, told a story which amazed me. Only 4 years ago he had started the business and rescued a large number of very skilled crafts people who had been let go from another company with no prospect of finding similar work.  He raised the money with another colleague to take them on and start Darwen Terracotta and now, not only are their skills saved for future generations but the company is thriving and doing wonderful artistic, uplifting, restorative work on buildings, and working with contemporary ceramicists and architects all over the world.  Jon’s story moved me. I know from personal experience how simple it seemed in the 1990’s for aggressive buyout teams to storm into family businesses and discard all the workers, some of whom had been there all their lives, as had their parents and grandparents, and try to replace them with machinery or other cheaper less skilled workers. It was so short-sighted. These skilled craftspeople WERE the business. Most of these businesses and with them, many of our famous and beautiful handmade British glassware and ceramics brands, simply didn’t survive. Jon has done a very good thing, not only for the people whose livelihoods and skills he saved but also for the next generation of young people who are learning from these ceramic and glazing experts. When the talk was finished I left the lecture hall and as I came out of St Martin’s into the bright sunlight I found myself looking up at the tops of buildings, the tiled exterior of the tube station, the ceramic art on a nearby fountain and the amazing ceramic sculptures on old facades with new eyes, chances are they were made/repaired/designed by Darwen Terracotta’s team of skilled craftspeople. How uplifting, surprising and exciting life can be if you keep your eyes open and occasionally change direction - if only to walk through an open door - I recommend it!

Finding your thing

The other day I was thinking about where creativity comes from and what makes some people naturals when it comes to making things with their hands. Having just got back from Made by Hand Cheltenham, where I was one of 100 lucky makers given the opportunity to show their work, the standard was quite astonishing.  The best time at these events for me is first thing in the morning before the day gets going and people arrive. You can wander from stand to stand in the quiet as makers arrive with coffees and start to set up, looking closely at the work and considering the practice and skill and sheer imagination that has gone into such perfect pieces of hand-made joy. For anyone who hasn’t been to one of these events I urge you to go. You’ll never want to buy mass produced again and the pleasure of meeting and talking to makers, so happy to share their experience and skill, is such a privilege and the icing on the cake. 

There is no doubt in my mind that some people just know what to do when they find their thing, be it clay or paint or glass, textiles, wood or jewellery … the list goes on. That’s not to say that hundreds of hours of practise haven’t gone into the work as these makers hone their skills, learn from their mistakes and perfect their craft, but if you are lucky enough to ‘find your thing’ it’s definitely a feeling that you have come home. I wonder if a leaning towards making in clay for example like I do could be carried in our DNA and passed down from generation to generation. There are no potters that I know of in my family but I like to think that perhaps some ancient ancestor of mine made pots in the way I make pots, with their hands and heart, pressing their fingers into the clay to form a vessel that can hold something beautiful or a simple treasure. And if so, perhaps the very first time I picked up the clay, which felt so familiar to me as soon as I touched it, their hands reached across the generations and took mine in theirs to show me what I already knew.

Past Present Future

So, it’s here, my empty nest moment.  I’ve known it was coming for a while since I realised that by a simple quirk of fate, both of my children, even though they are almost 5 years apart in age, would leave home within a month of each other.  The thing that strikes me the most is how they have taken their very essence and energy with them.  Our house feels very empty and I wasn’t expecting that! I know there will be many new and wonderful things to come out of this; opportunities, experiences and more happy days when they are once again sitting round our kitchen table, telling us about their lives, but right now it’s quite a challenge as I learn to accept the ending of my most important and creative job. My friends who are a bit ahead of me tell me how parenting is never over and they come back, and I know that, but what is over is the ‘knowing’ of how they feel in the day to day, the sharing of triumphs and disappointments as they happen, the casual, but important, conversations late at night just when you are desperate to go to bed! Those memories make me want to reach back in time and hold their hot little hands in mine once more. I have watched with wonder and pride as they have grown from babies to toddlers to children to young adults and now they are gone to start their adult lives which is the right order of things of course. It has been a privilege you know, and I loved every minute.