To consider the ceramic vessel is to contemplate its spatial interior. For Tokoname-based ceramic artist Kato Mami 加藤 真美 (b. 1963), the interior of a vessel, far from being an empty void, embodies its essential nature. Interior and exterior coexist, forming a site that mediates the relationship between human and object (vessel). This is a function Kato regards as a fundamental theme in all vessels: “I was captivated by the inside of everyday vessels: how they receive, wrap, and hold,” Kato reflects, “Rather than emptiness, the space holds a certain presence, a trace of a soul.”

For Kato, this philosophy of interior presence also extends outward into form: the vessel’s “soul” finds further expression in textures and surfaces that invoke potent themes from the natural world. Working primarily with sheets of porcelain clay, Kato constructs sculptural forms that echo glacial terrains, quarried mountains, or oceanic tides. Her process is defined by formal tensions between sharpness and softness. Delicate slabs and ribbons of porcelain clay are layered, folded, and draped to achieve structure while still retaining organic fluidity. Under shifting light, the surfaces of her works comprise crystalline tones and dramatic, angular shadows that impart an ethereal impression on the viewer. Subtly iridescent glazes, in pale greens and blues, emerge through the matrix like glacial melt over porcelain, recalling distant and celestial terrains. The making is meticulous: hand-building, painting, glazing, drying, before finally firing in a gas kiln.

The thematic sensitivity to form and containment in vessels finds one of its most poignant expressions in Kato’s celebrated chawan (tea bowls), among the most beloved vessel forms in Japanese ceramics. In her chawan, she compresses vast imagined landscapes into the intimate scale of human hands. Each bowl is formed by draping a slab of clay over a mold, resulting in asymmetrical seams and distortions that accentuate its interior form. Kato invites the beholder to contemplate its mikomi (見込み; a term that refers to the interior space of a tea bowl among its other meanings) into more than just a container for tea. Interior space becomes a site of convergence where, in the hands of the beholder, projected imagination completes the vessel itself. It is here that the question returns with new force: what constitutes a vessel?

In 2014 and 2024, Kato made history as the first woman to win the the Shōroku Award Chawan Exhibition (renamed to the Mino Chawan Exhibition in 2015). This was a turning point in both her career and the broader landscape of Japanese ceramics. About the winning tea bowl, Kenji Kaneko (concurrently the Director of Bizen City Art Museum, Tōshin Mino Ceramic Art Museum, and the Ibaraki ceramic art museum) who was serving as a panel judge, remarked:

“This tea bowl was formed by draping a slab of clay over a mountain-shaped plaster mold. Where the slabs overlap on the body, they are slightly misaligned and crimped, creating a distinctive nuance unique to the artist. These subtle distortions lay bare the internal structure of the vessel, posing the question: What is a vessel? In this way, the artist imbues the work with a deeply personal reflection. It becomes, in a sense, a space through which the self is released.”

Following this milestone, among several other accomplishments, Kato was also awarded the Grand Prize, at the prestigious 44th Mino Ceramics Exhibition, Japan in 2019. In 2021, her work received the Grand Prize at the 22nd Japan Ceramic Art Exhibition, where the jury noted how the surface of her ceramics, which resembled crackled icy frost in color and form, still radiated a presence of warmth from within. The winning vessel from 2021 was inviting, beckoning viewers to look inside through various systems of undulating curves that guided the eye towards the centre of the piece. This abstract duality, between coldness and vitality; structural and organic, are expressed throughout her oeuvre.

Over time, Kato’s vessel forms have continued to evolve. She meditates upon how vessels outwardly connect and communicate with subjects and viewers. Her recent works establish a dialogue between nature and vessel, between physical form and emotional resonance. In 2024, she was nominated for the prestigious Paramita Ceramic Art Grand Prize Exhibition.

Beyond her studio practice, Kato is a dedicated educator, sharing her techniques internationally. She has led tatara (slab-building) workshops, including one in the serene town of Santa Maria de Palautordera in Catalonia, Spain. These cross-cultural exchanges have affirmed her understanding of the ceramic vessel as a universal form, one that transcends language. Most recently, in May 2025, Kato led a workshop at the Taoxichuan Art Center in Jingdezhen, China: the historic birthplace of porcelain. It was a full-circle moment, connecting her to the lineage of porcelain while sharing her own techniques with a new generation of international ceramic artists. During her time there, Kato reflected on her personal journey with clay, which began during a period of illness while she was in university. In that quiet and vulnerable time, she first encountered clay: its gentle textures and forms became a moving source of comfort and discovery.

Reflecting on this memory, she shared:

“I seek forms that transcend time. A silent presence that radiates a sense of universal beauty. I hope my works resonate with the natural world, whether in remote earthly landscapes like deserts, glaciers, and ocean depths, or in terrains on other planets like Mars. I surrender meaning to the viewer. I want each person to form their own personal connection with my work. To feel something, to be moved, to imagine.

There are many poetic metaphors in pottery: I think that my experience has taught me that people and vessels share similarities in the breadth and ability of acceptance. This is the sanctuary that ceramics offer.”

Kato’s vessels are sites of contemplation, connection, and feeling. In October 2025, she opens her first solo exhibition in New York at Dai Ichi Arts gallery titled “Silent Earth.” On the occasion of her solo show, in a recent interview with the artist, we expanded upon the material and thematic roots of her practice:

KL: Firstly, regarding material in your practice, what made you choose to work with porcelain?

MK: I still make earthenware to this day, but I’m not exactly sure why I began working with porcelain. At the time, I was in a self-deprecating mindset, but I wanted to turn things around. So, I started working with porcelain almost instinctively perhaps.

I was drawn to its smooth, fine texture. The purity of its whiteness felt like a blank sheet of paper. It showed me something honest, unadorned. I found myself chasing that feeling, hoping to become like that—unclouded and clear. In a way, porcelain helped me shift my perspective. It became the medium that best expressed what I wanted to create.

[Note from the artist: After the economic bubble burst, most of the galleries that represented my work went bankrupt, and I was struggling financially. Around the same time, a highly decorated object maker said to me, “Your work is just vessels, but mine is art.” It was a deeply crushing moment. I didn’t mind being told that my work wasn’t good, but to say that vessels couldn’t be art felt fundamentally wrong to me. I could feel things. I knew I carried a rich inner world. I just needed to embody it, and prove it to myself. That drive led to my submission to the Chozo Prize Ceramics Exhibition, where I was awarded the Koie Ryoji Prize.]

KL: You were the first woman to win the Mino Chawan Competition in 24 years: Congratulations! What made you want to submit to this competition in particular? Could you also share more about the winning piece, and what makes a good chawan to you?

MK: Thank you very much. Before receiving the Shuroku Award, I applied to the Chōza Tougei Exhibition with a porcelain piece for the first time. It had been a long time since I’d submitted to an open call show. The ceramicist Koie Ryoji, who exhibited a vessel-shaped objet d’art, reviewed my work and commented, “It’s simple, but I can hear its music.” He awarded me the Judge’s Award.

At the time, I had been prepared to quit pottery altogether. But being recognized by Koie made me think, “Someone was able to empathize with me. Even if it’s quiet, someone can still hear my voice. Maybe my work isn’t so bad.” With that shift in mindset, a friend encouraged me to apply to a chawan exhibition, and I submitted my work.

The awarded frost-glaze chawan was made by first cutting porcelain clay into long, thin slabs—like slices of bacon—and wrapping them into a circular form. When a flat slab is formed into a cylinder, an interior space instantly appears. I pull the slab, stretching and wrapping it naturally into a spiral. Then I use a spatula to gently expand it, allowing the interior to become a rich, mellow space. It feels as if the air mass inside is expanding, pressing against the porcelain walls.

When making a chawan, I consider its spatial aspects deeply. I don’t start from the exterior—I begin from the inside, the mikomi (見込み), the internal depth of the bowl. For the lip, I made it thin, considering the delicate experience of drinking usucha (薄茶), thin tea. I also aimed to avoid a monotonous flow in the form.

I believe the inner space of a chawan (mikomi)—the part that holds something, yet feels full even when empty—is essential. It’s not just empty space, but a space filled with a kind of presence, like a soul. This spatial richness is a fundamental theme not only for tea bowls, but for all vessels. The inclusive nature of a vessel feels maternal in a way—accepting, embracing everything. Through making this piece, I was able to embrace myself, too—to reach into its depths and, in doing so, accept and forgive parts of myself I find hard to face. There is a mutual vector at work: between the maker and the object made.

A good tea bowl is difficult to create. Yet in a tea ceremony, it becomes a tool for expressing the host’s intentions for the day. I want a bowl to have a unique presence—a small landscape held in the palm of the hand, a microcosm to entrust the heart to. Physically, it should feel comfortable in the hand and seem deeper and wider inside than it appears from the outside. If the interior is poor, it’s not worth serving tea.

NS: In your vessels, there’s an evocative sense of ruins and the passage of time: was that a conscious choice?

MK: I think it’s an unconscious, latent desire. Of course, I approach it consciously—seeking balance—but still, it comes from somewhere deeper. There are moments in life when I grow tired of both my own ego and the claims of others. In those times, I find myself longing for a presence that simply exists—quietly standing there.

There’s something moving about a thing that has been abandoned and left to decay naturally. The process of returning to nothingness… the disappearance of artificiality through deterioration. Everything, eventually, crosses over to the other side. It feels like a kind of purification. And I find that beautiful.

Perhaps that’s why my work ends up feeling so natural. There may be a Buddhist element to it; the acceptance of impermanence. I think it’s something I’m able to express because of my own weakness.

NS: Regarding the theme of pottery as a universal language, we’re interested in how history and memory has influenced your thinking. You said in the past that you visited archaeological sites with your father from a young age: How has witnessing the resilience of unearthed artifacts and the process of archaeology influenced your own works?

MK: Rather than saying that pottery is a universal language, I feel that I create it as a metaphor for a universal landscape.

I vividly remember being six years old, barefoot at an excavation site in Nagasaki, when a scholar pointed out a pottery shard embedded in the mud. The idea that this shard had been made and used by someone in ancient times—and was now right there in front of me—struck me as incredibly important, essential, and romantic.

That image of pottery fragments has remained in my subconscious ever since. I think my awareness would occasionally return to it while creating. I also enjoyed imagining the original shapes and curves that once connected those fragments into a whole.

I developed an original glaze called frost glaze, which I mixed to achieve a weathered texture. It resembles the silvered Roman glass often found in excavated pieces.What I find beautiful is how, with time, the artificiality of old objects fades. They begin to resemble something more natural, as if returning to the earth.

KL: What do you hope that people can receive about your most recent works in 2025, and what do you hope to develop or continue in your practice?

MK: While the board construction technique presents physical limitations, I’ve recently begun to draw out a certain softness and vivid movement from it. I’m no longer bound by the materials or the methods I use. This shift has quietly breathed life into the world I’ve been working in until now.

Often, I’m the one who ends up impressed and inspired by how others perceive my work. So I prefer to leave the interpretation up to you. I simply hope that you’ll journey both inside and outside of the forms, and listen to their small whispers.

Looking ahead, I want my work to feel less artificial and less tethered to what I’ve already done. I hope to create something that goes beyond all of that, something that makes people sigh in quiet relief.

That’s about it.

Pottery will remain on this earth long after I’m gone, sometimes bathed in moonlight, sometimes resting in silence, traveling through time with the traces of me. I hope to create something with a universal presence. Something that can belong anywhere: in a desert, on the moon, or beneath the sea. Those with little talent have no choice but to be honest.

So I ask myself: how far can I go?

[Author’s note: The comments above from the Mino Chawan Exhibition were commissioned by the Mino Ceramic Art Association. The inclusion of the above comments are courtesy of Ishizaki Yasuyuki, Kaneko Kenji, and the artist Kato Mami].

Silent Earth: Contemporary ceramics by Kato Mami is on view from October 23 to November 6, 2025, at Dai Ichi Arts in New York.

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Captions

• Kato Mami at Tao Xichuan Art Center, Jingdezhen, during her residency program in May 2025. Image credit: Taoxichuan Art Center International Studio, Jingdezhen
• Two tea bowls by Kato Mami. Photography by Yoriko Kuzumi
• Frost glazed purple teabowl, 2025, Seto porcelain, (h) 11 × (w) 13 × (d) 12 cm. Photography by Yoriko Kuzumi
• Gekka (Under the Moon) 1, 2025, Seto porcelain, (h) 29.5 × (w) 42 × (d) 39 cm. Photography by Yoriko Kuzumi
• Gekka (Under the Moon) 3, 2025, Seto porcelain, (h) 22 × (w) 22 × (d) 23.5 cm. Photography by Yoriko Kuzumi
• Two works by Kato Mami #1, (Right) Gekka (Under the Moon) 1, 2025, Seto porcelain, (h) 29.5 × (w) 42 × (d) 39 cm / (Left) Bowl with Frost glaze, 2025, Seto porcelain, (h) 16 × (w) 22 × (d) 26 cm. Photography by Yoriko Kuzumi
• Two works by Kato Mami #2, (Left) Tsukuyomi (Moon reading), 2025, Seto porcelain, (h) 29.5 × (w) 23 × (d) 22 cm / (Right) Gekka (Under the Moon) 2, 2025, Seto porcelain, (h) 26 × (w) 29 × (d) 26 cm. Photography by Yoriko Kuzumi
• Interior view of Gekka (Under the Moon) 3, 2025, Seto porcelain, (h) 22 × (w) 22 × (d) 23.5 cm. Photography by Yoriko Kuzumi
• Gekka (Under the Moon) 3, 2025, Seto porcelain, (h) 22 × (w) 22 × (d) 23.5 cm. Photography by Yoriko Kuzumi
• Michishio (High Tide), 2025, Seto porcelain, (h) 32.5 × (w) 42 × (d) 35 cm. Photography by Yoriko Kuzumi
• Tea bowl “Himuro” 2025, Seto porcelain with Frost Glaze, (h) 11.5 × (w) 13.5 cm. Photography by Yoriko Kuzumi
• Frost glazed white tea bowl, 2025, Seto porcelain, (h) 10.5 × (w) 13 × (d) 12 cm. Photography by Yoriko Kuzumi

In 2022, Anne-Laure Cano and Jim Gladwin – two artists who work with clay – began working together towards an exhibition at the Museu d’Esplugues in response to, or translating from, the historical remains of the Pujol I Bausis (La Rajoleta) ceramics factory near Barcelona and its extensive archive. Founded in 1856 near a clay deposit, La Rajoleta made architectural and industrial ceramics for over 100 years until it ceased trading and fell into disrepair in the second half of the 20th century. During the late 19th and early 20th century, it was famous for its production of art nouveau and modernist ceramics commissioned by architects and designers including: Gaudí, Domènech i Montaner, Puig i Cadafalch and Gallissà. These pieces can still be seen in different areas of Barcelona, such as Parc Güell, or in buildings like Casa Lleó-Morera or Casa Amatller and at the Pere Mata de Reus Institute.

How did your experience of working on this project change your work?

Anne-Laure Cano: Through my work, I explore themes of memory, identity, and sense of place, so initiating and working on this project was something I had been dreaming of. I’ve wanted to work with an institution for a long time and had been trying to find a way to approach a museum or institution to work on their collection. La Rajoleta seemed the perfect place. It created a framework within which I could work creatively. I found that I had to work more as a researcher and creatively use these methods. This recalibrated the relationship both with the work and audience. Until recently, I’ve worked on individual pieces shown in galleries or competitions. The project and exhibition allowed me to initiate and maintain a dialogue with a collaborator and collection, to think about how to connect and communicate with an audience in a different way. I’ve worked on a larger scale and developed installation as part of my practice.

Jim Gladwin: In some ways for me it was a strange, alien way of making, responding to something that’s already there. My work comes out of clay, the material. But for me, having the connection with the factory, being able to hold some of the things that they used to make created joy and opened new ways of looking. It was fantastic to have that connection to think about the people that worked in it, their processes, methods and materials. Industrial production is an aspect of ceramics and society that’s often ignored, but it’s crucial. Traces remain in the archive, architecture and fabric of the urban environment and we wanted to contemporise this.

The project, which you called Translate: L’Ofici Ceramista (The ceramicist’s trade or metier), seems to encompass various modes of translation. It moves between languages, media, time and place. In English, as I read it, Translate could involve an action and an imperative, or a suggestion to the artist and viewer that they translate.

A-L C: We gave a lot of thought to the title, which word might we use, in which language, what we wanted it to say, and what this might communicate. Jim suggested the word, Translate. For me, the title, which is not in my mother tongue, wasn’t an imperative at all. It was just an infinitive, so it was more neutral. It described our experience, the process and act of translating from our source of inspiration (museum, factory and archive) into new work. We struggled working between the four languages, but ultimately decided not to translate the title into Spanish or French or Catalan, but leave it in English. I find translate broader in scope than traduire, for example, which refers to translating word-for-word between languages. In English – it sings – is more open to other possibilities or nuances and communicates exactly what we wanted to say. The subtitle: L’Ofici Ceramista, remains in Catalan, so people who don’t understand English can understand that the exhibition is about the metier of the ceramicist.

J G: For me, it’s less of an order and more of a question, or invitation, asking people to think as they engage with the show. Hopefully, it made visitors think. Also, it’s short and to the point in that it describes our process while working towards and thinking about the show. At a pragmatic, functional level, we worked between languages: Anne Laure speaks French, I speak English, the museum and archives operate primarily in Catalan, but also in Spanish. When we were doing our research, we had to negotiate the slippages between these in terms of the languages the archives and factory records used to name equipment, technical processes and materials. So, in that sense there was also an imperative, in that there was a job for us, to work from the records and remains of the factory and translate from these into our work. But it’s also a verb and, as artists, I think it’s something we do naturally in our creative practice, we translate ideas into, media, into three dimensional forms.

Let’s discuss – or refract through the prism of translation – some of those thinking and making processes, the connections made through your work that continue to inform it and underpin your choice of title. Acts of translation involve working from an origin that asks to be translated, transported metaphorically or literally elsewhere into another text, medium, object, location, culture, or time. What did the origin you worked from ask of you?

A-L C: We worked from the remains of a factory: it’s museum and archive. Jim and I have collaborated on previous projects, so after I won the Pujol I Bausis Prize, at the Angelina Alós International Ceramics Biennial of Esplugues at the Can Tinturé museum (2021) I had a good conversation with Carme Comas Camacho (Director of the Museus d’Esplugues de Llobregat), who was quite open to my suggestions. She was keen to recalibrate the relationship of visitors to the museum and thought that it might benefit from other ways to engage and help them understand more about the processes involved in making the ceramics produced at La Rajoleta. They were interested in using artists in residence to make an exhibition that responded to their collection. In many ways, Carme gave us free rein, but she did have an objective in mind in relation to how the exhibition might help to inform the audience. From our conversations, I began to understand our role as artists to be more like one that accompanies the audience in a process toward understanding more about the different forms and amount of labour involved in the work of a ceramicist, when making a clay object or sculpture.

J G: In terms of source, there was clearly a job we had to do: to respond to the collection, to work from the archive, to bring into focus the people that worked in the factory.

A-L C: Yes, we did want to bring attention to the workers and their skills and see if we could incorporate the local clay that had been used by the factory. Clay is at the core of Jim’s practice, and he was particularly interested in using the local clay. He had sourced and experimented with clay from the region years ago and given me ideas where to find it when I first moved to Catalunya. Sadly, it was too difficult for us to make this part of the project.

J G: Yes, we looked into this, and it was a big part of our discussions. Carme showed us the old clay pit, which is still there, it’s massive, but now it’s a park. The clay is good, but it wasn’t possible.

There are often questions around how faithful a work of translation is to the original. Or to put it another way, how much the translation may have distorted or altered the original during the process of transfer to make it fit with a particular viewpoint or stance. For example, you have both had very different cultural experiences to the people working in the factory: you are English and French, you are artists and you live in a different century. Inevitably, your background influences how you responded to and worked from the museum collection, archive, and factory. Did this create moments when you questioned what you were doing in your work and how you were doing it?

J G: I think there was actually a lot of this going on. As artists, we work creatively, so inevitably we impose our own ideas and personality onto the project. And yes, those question marks arose as we worked. We consistently asked ourselves if we were doing the right thing. In making connections from the archives, we were aware that these were formed by our views on the source material, and we kept questioning if we were bringing too much of ourselves into it. But we weren’t trying to translate in the traditional sense, we were translating creatively, so there was more freedom. But that’s another reason why I liked the title in relation to our project, because it alludes to and questions these factors in the work translators do, how their own personality and culture inflect as they work with the source material to form part of a new creative production. We were working within this too.

A-L C: The way I thought about it in relation to my work was similar, but a bit different. For example, I did not want to faithfully reproduce the factory-made ceramics we explored in the archive and elsewhere. The ceramists working in the factory achieved perfection. I didn’t see how I could strive to attain that form of perfection… and any way probably fail. Pursuing this goal wouldn’t add much to the conversation we were having between past and present. That isn’t the way that I work. So, in my translation I tried to be faithful to the emotion I felt when visiting the archive collection or when reading about the factory work. Essentially, I was translating my experience of trying to get closer to the factory and the workers into a new body of work. This experience changed my own artistic language. I’ve always worked with high firing clays and glazes, but to get closer to the workers and the materials that they worked with, I started to use low firing clay and earthenware glazes. This meant I worked with a completely different palette and developed a new register to express this.

How did this make you feel?

A-L C: I was terrified at first. I was overwhelmed by the archive. By the quantity and quality of the work, the perfection, and human imperfection, the sense of responsibility, or desire to honour these people and their work. Finding a way to translate these emotions and discover a new vocabulary, with a requirement to deliver work for an exhibition, felt vulnerable. But I also wanted to take risks and embrace this opportunity to push myself. It’s opened my horizons, I’ve learned a lot. My installation pieces Inventar-io and En Proceso grew out of this experience. Inventar-io is comprised of tests and draws on thousands of tests made by workers in the factory. En Proceso takes this source of inspiration back into my studio, into the bedrock of my practice by displaying on shelves beneath the five finished sculptural pieces the tools, clay and the maquettes that became integral to my creative process on this project.

J G: I also wanted to retain some of my usual way of working in the project and to work in a way prompted by the collection; that was very different from my own work. The pipe piece I made drew directly on the factory’s bread and butter, core production of structural ceramics. These aren’t like the fancy, expensive, ornamental ceramics the glazed tiles, finials and sculptural pieces commissioned by architects that you see all over Barcelona. They’re functional, vernacular forms and would have been churned out by factory workers using moulds and extruders. Today we see the same forms in plumbers’ merchants. They’re made in plastic now, but they used to be ceramic. Salespeople would carry sample boards of these forms: S-bends, T-bends, U-bends in miniature. I don’t often use extrusion in my work, but for this project, I wanted to work from these and play around with extruded forms using slip and bits of glazing. So, for us translating, working from a source was positive and prompted new ways of making.

Translators often claim that their role is to step aside and let a source communicate or speak through them. What you’ve both just commented suggests to me that in working towards this exhibition, you were conscious – as artists – of working like translators, of making yourselves, your own visual language, registers, modes of expression less visible… Perhaps assuming the role of working more like mediators between the collection and the exhibition. Is this the case?

A-L C: I have my own voice when I make individual sculptures, but this project gave me an opportunity to explore something else. It felt like this project was its own world, separate, apart, so I tried to adapt, be open to learning and new ways of making and didn’t push my own voice in the same way. In some ways, this felt like a safe way to work to say something completely different from what I say when I make my own work. In my individual pieces, I always want to work through and communicate something in particular, but with this project I questioned whether I could force my habitual way of working onto it. It was another conversation entirely.

So in some ways, the title and its subtitle are indicative of your intent to step back and bring attention to or give voice to the hidden or lesser-known aspects of the factory and its history. The people, their skills, techniques and materials used that are embedded in the finished product.

J G: We both felt a deep sense of responsibility towards the workers. A haptic, tacit connection to the people whose labour produced the ceramics that we see in the fabric of buildings around Barcelona and beyond. We could have spent years researching in the archives and the thousands of glaze recipes, orders for materials shipped from all over the world. We read names of factory workers, saw their handwriting, their time sheets, logbooks listing their jobs and the tasks they did each day.

We didn’t want to be too literal in our approach as we made work about this, but there was a real sense of loss. The loss of humanity, of lives and community that had developed around shared skills, knowledge of material and technical expertise. We wanted to find a way to bring out these embedded histories, or hidden voices that wouldn’t compromise, or undermine their authenticity. For example, citing people’s names would have been too obvious and maybe too superficial or tokenistic. For me my way into this became quite simply about finding a way to show the making, to bring attention to the fact that human hands had made the work in the factory. So, my pieces are all about the hand, the mark of the maker. I don’t try to hide finger or thumb prints. These points of contact with the clay form it and become the decorative feature. The tablets inspired by the covers of logbooks create these connections for me, as do the pipes and the flower pieces.

Brightly coloured flowers are not something I would usually make, but I used my fingers to form these flowers. If you look closely, they are entirely made of marks. It was also very important to work from the archival records of raw materials the factory workers used to develop surfaces and glazes. For the flower piece, I wanted to recreate the luscious, brightly coloured, metallic copper greens, cobalt blues and iron-rich honey glazes that only lead can deliver.

A-L C: Sadly, there isn’t enough information about the factory workers. My work was more about their absence, the fact that they had disappeared, and that we forget them. There is a stark contrast between the millions of tourists who come to Barcelona each year to visit attractions like Park Güell and La Casa Batlló and engage with this side of Barcelona’s cultural history through these visible vestiges of its ceramic production and the total ignorance of where those ceramic objects were made, with what materials and by whom. My pieces: En Proceso (In Progress) and 8 pesetas 64 centimos ya es jornal (8 pesetas 64 centimes is a day’s pay) all derive from their absence. The are intentionally left unfinished, and I use this lack of completion to evoke this sense of loss.

In a sense, all that can be drawn are provisional boundaries or lines in the sand. As I have come to understand it, acts of translation are a manifestation of the engagement of the mind with that which resists easy understanding. By nature, this is a creative, infinite task and as such precludes completion.

“….. there is no ‘original; which is not also a translation – ad-jointed to a prior text which lives on with it, because of it; indebted for its own life to another text which returns life as a result of it: calling for a complementarity and supplementarity which it also gives. This means that ‘originality’ is always divided from itself – since it is only as a translator that every supposed creator originates, fails, falls, and calls for translation in his/her turn. And it is through the supplementation and completion of an original text that the translator ‘extends, enlarges, makes grow.”¹

Brigit Connolly is a prizewinning artist, researcher and educator. She holds an MA in Ceramics and Glass and PhD in Critical and Historical Studies from the Royal College of Art. Initially trained as a linguist and translator, her PhD thesis explores the development of theories and practices of translation intrinsic to artistic practice. She is course leader for the Ceramics Diploma at City Lit in London.

Translate: L’Ofici Ceramista by Anne-Laure Cano and Jim Gladwin is on view between November 7, 2024, and May 25, 2025, at Museu Can Tinturé, Esplugues de Llobregat, Spain.

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Photos courtesy of the artists

To mark its 20th anniversary in 2025, Sabbia is presenting twenty, a landmark exhibition featuring 68 artists and over 50 newly commissioned works, accompanied by a national public program and a commemorative publication. On this occasion, we spoke with Anna Grigson about the gallery’s origins, its impact over two transformative decades, and the evolving practices of the artists it represents. In this conversation, she reflects on Sabbia’s most meaningful collaborations, the importance of mentorship, the resilience of artists, and the values that continue to shape the gallery.

Ceramics Now: Looking back on the past 20 years, what inspired you to establish Sabbia Gallery in 2005, and what was your vision for it at the time?

Anna Grigson: I have worked in a number of public and commercial galleries since my university days and while completing my Master’s. I was curator at the innovational Quadrivium Gallery in the Queen Victoria Building in Sydney from 1996. We exhibited contemporary artists from Australia and Asia in the art mediums of works on canvas, paper, ceramics, glass and jewellery. Here, we recognised the art movement that was occurring in Australian studio glass in particular. Young and more established artists were collaborating with artists from the North West of the USA and the innovative artworks being created by these often new artists was extraordinary. The gallery focused more on exhibiting glass and ceramics to acknowledge what was happening within Australia and the acknowledgments they were achieving in the USA And Europe.

Sabbia came about as an extension of this period, where I identified just how under-represented these artists were within Australia. They were being exhibited and collected overseas but were relatively unknown in their own country. Sabbia was established in 2005 to give a voice to these exciting and passionate artists who were groundbreaking in their approaches to their material.

Sabbia has been instrumental in championing contemporary ceramics, glass, and fibre artists in Australia. How do you see these mediums evolving today compared to when you started the gallery?

In 2005, glass blowing was a large part of the artwork being created in glass, and kiln forming and casting were being utilised to a lesser degree. Since then, the artists have refined their skills and developed new techniques for which they are internationally known. Australian artists are never content with simply leaving the surface after being blown, kiln formed or cast, but rather spend weeks surface working their artworks to achieve the finish and results that maximise their material and best tell their stories.

Ceramics in 2005 consisted of many established artists predominantly throwing functional objects and larger vessel forms. There was a strong association with Japanese ceramics, and with this, they had enormous success in the 1980s to 1990s, but there was less of a market within Australia for this nature of work. Since 2005, the number of artists and collectors interested in ceramics has increased exponentially. There is a confident group of ceramic artists experimenting more with their material, forms, glazing and techniques and being recognised for this. It’s as though ceramics is new again.

In 2025, the combination of creativity and technical skill to achieve such extraordinary and unique artwork is what places our artists among the most avant-garde in the world. With passion and drive, they push their materials to extremes and new places. Developing original techniques and processes, the artists master these dynamics to share their stories and discoveries through their art.

The twenty exhibition is a major celebration, bringing together 68 artists and over 50 newly commissioned works. What makes this exhibition special for you?

twenty exhibits the new work of 68 artists. There are 101 artworks included. These artists include our entire present stable of makers, along with artists Sabbia has represented in the past 20 years who have changed their art focus or who no longer actively create art. We are also fortunate to have artworks included by four artists who have passed away: Les Blakebrough AM (1930-2022), Kunmanara Carroll (1950-2021), Gerry King (1945-2024), and Klaus Moje AO (1936-2016).

The artists were asked to look back at their time with Sabbia and find a seminal moment, be it an exhibition, an opening, an event or a conversation, that somehow changed the trajectory of the art practice. The artists embraced this curatorial premise with open arms, resulting in some beautiful new works of art, many reminiscent of pieces from the past but with another layer of refinement.

The conversations that have occurred whilst curating this exhibition have been heartwarming, with the support of all these artists for the Sabbia team and the exhibition being very important to its success.

We have been able to look back at the 20 years and enjoy the many memories and achievements over that time. It has made me realise the lifelong friendships that have occurred.

Sabbia has played a significant role in supporting First Nations artists working in glass and ceramics. What have been some of the most meaningful collaborations or milestones in this journey?

Sabbia has worked with APY Lands artists that work out of the Ernabella Arts studio in Pukatja since 2008. We have been excited and supportive of the artists telling their Creation stories on ceramics since that time through many group and solo exhibitions. We have extended the artists to include glass artists from Ninuku Arts in the APY Lands, Girringun artists from Far North Queensland, artists from the Tiwi Islands, Hermannsburg artists in the Central Desert, Erub artists in the Torres Strait and well as urban-based First Nations artists.

Since then, we have placed hundreds of artworks, including some large-scale sculptural artworks and installations, into public and private collections around the world, giving access to stories of Country to an entirely new audience. We have also worked with the remote art centres to represent these artists under their own name rather than under the umbrella of the art centre. It has been important to me personally to place these artists amongst their peers within the fine art world. These artists include Alfred Lowe, Jenni Kemarre Martiniello, Kunmanara Carroll (1950-2021), Rona Panangka Rubuntja, Carlene Thompson, Selinda Davidson, and Anne Nginyangka Thompson, amongst others.

The Clay Stories touring exhibition from 2017 to 2019 is a highlight. This exhibition travelled to seven public galleries across Australia and included 22 artists from 6 remote art centres in Australia and the Torres Strait. It was a highly successful and popular exhibition the went a long way in the education of what is happening with First Nations Art.

You’ve worked with many leading artists, from Clare Belfrage to Honor Freeman and Kunmanara Carroll. What do you think defines a Sabbia artist? Is there a shared philosophy?

When working with materials such as ceramics, glass and fibre, you need to be highly skilled with the medium before you can begin to tell your story. Our artists are masters of their material, which they have achieved after years of research, development, and a deep understanding of how far they can push it and the qualities their material can provide.

Being able to manipulate and utilise their medium to achieve dynamic artworks is what all our artists strive for. The process is just as important for them. There is honesty in both the artwork being created and the artist’s approach to their practice.

Education and mentorship have been central to Sabbia’s mission, from the Sabbia Mentorship and Solo Exhibition Prize to collaborations with major institutions. What impact has this had on emerging artists’ careers?

We have awarded the Sabbia Mentorship and Solo Exhibition Prize to a ceramics graduate from the National Art School Sydney and the Sabbia Solo Exhibition Prize to an Ausglass Emerging artist for over 15 years. We will announce the inaugural Sabbia Mentorship and Solo Exhibition for a Glass Graduate at Sydney College of the Arts Sydney University in 2025.

Professional practice is something that can only be achieved with life experience. Understanding the complexities of running an art practice, liaising with curators and galleries, handling finances, and everything else involved in running a small business is crucial to the continued success of an artist. Sabbia, through its prizes, works with emerging makers and helps them navigate through their first few years without the support of an educational institution. We offer both encouragement and advice in all aspects of their artistic studio life.

It is important that we bring our artists and these younger makers to the attention of curators, writers and galleries within Australia and overseas. Being able to experiment with your art for different opportunities that these interactions bring further extends an artist’s practice.

Having their work collected for these galleries, institutions, and private collections allows a greater audience to experience their art.

Sabbia has worked with public galleries and institutions over its 20 years in exhibition collaborations, collection advice, and for the advancement of our stable of artists and the emerging artists we support. We seize any opportunity for the work of our artists to be seen and appreciated.

Reflecting on two decades, which exhibitions or moments stand out the most? Perhaps a breakthrough or a conversation that made you stop and think, ‘This is why I do this’?

20 years is a long time, and there have been many moments that stand out. My conversations with our artists are always important, whether working together in realising an exhibition, studio visits, or at an opening event celebrating good art. My conversations with the late Klaus Moje AO were instrumental in the way I approach running the gallery. His drive for pushing his material was always inspiring, but it was the advocacy he continually showed in supporting so many other artists that made me understand that it takes a community for the success of all. I can see his continued impact on many artists we represent, and he plays a role in why I love what I do.

The gallery has been such a significant part of your life for two decades, and running a gallery comes with many challenges. Can you share a rewarding aspect of running the gallery? Were the moments of doubt along the way?

I convinced my sister Maria Grimaldi to establish Sabbia in 2005. I knew that opening a commercial gallery would always be risky, but I knew I had so many exciting and passionate artists who would support us, so I felt assured knowing that.

I told Maria that we would give it two years, and if it didn’t work, we would walk away. Maria retired in 2019. In 2025, it is now 20 years, and the gallery is stronger than ever.

Sabbia has had its hurdles, but each one brought some positivity. The Global Financial Crisis of 2005, just after we opened the gallery, saw our international collectors disappear, but in turn, our Australian clients expanded and continue today. COVID saw us all hiding away, but the Sabbia team stood strong, and we continued running our physical exhibition program despite all the challenges that this time brought, with our exhibitions continuing to sell out and an increase in our collectors.

Every exhibition is a nervous wait. An artist works for months, often years, on a new body of work for an exhibition, and it is Sabbia’s role to support them along the way as well as achieve audience response and a financial outcome. We are lucky to represent the premier artists working in their field, and the exhibitions are usually very successful.

The Sabbia team is the backbone of the gallery. They are so committed to the gallery and our artists. We have been able to work together to overcome any challenges we face.

You’ve seen many artists grow and evolve over the years. Are there any stories of transformation, artists who took unexpected creative leaps, or whose journeys were unconventional?

All our artists have a story of transformation; I will make a note of a few below.

Artists Ben Edols and Kathy Elliott ran a large hot glass studio in Sydney for many years; after power prices increased so much, they had to close the studio, which was devastating for them both. A period of time occurred after this when they questioned their practice and considered no longer creating art. It took a few years, but they found their feet and the confidence to work again, resulting in some beautiful and important exhibitions, and their art continued to be enjoyed by so many.

Pippin Drysdale’s resilience over so many years of making sees her at 82, continually driving her practice through new form and glaze development. Being a finalist in the Wynne Prize in 2023 at the Art Gallery of New South Wales is a highlight in her career and a major installation being acquired by the gallery in the same year. After enormous success overseas, in particular Europe, being recognised within Australia was long deserved.

Brenden Scott French is our unsung hero. I consider him one of the best glass artists working in Australia. He is also continually developing his art, with new processes being achieved almost on a monthly rotation. He knows glass so well and what it can do for him. He never stops and pushes himself to always do better. He never ceases to delight in the art that he creates. He is an incredible glass blower.

Susie Choi is one of our younger artists, but even with only three years of exhibition experience, we know she will have a long and successful career. Susie is the child of Korean migrants, and she has recently responded to her childhood and to the colours of the traditional Korean dress she was made to wear, as well as the beautiful Korean knotting that was part of so much of her past. We can see this new introduction of thread and fibre in her ceramic artworks and the colour palette being more reminiscent of her heritage.

Looking ahead, what excites you most about the future of Sabbia Gallery?

Thank goodness the Art Craft debate from the 1990s is no longer occurring. Artists focusing on art mediums that were traditionally associated with the Applied or Decorative Arts are finally being acknowledged standing beside their peers in the popular Fine Arts. After 20 years, I can see how far this has progressed. I am proud to have played some part in the success of our artists and the greater understanding of the extraordinary artwork through creativity and highly technical skill.

I am excited about what the future brings for all of Sabbia’s artists and the relationships that will continue to develop.

Sabbia Gallery’s 20th anniversary exhibition twenty is on view at Sabbia Gallery, Sydney, between March 8-29, 2025.

Interview by Vasi Hirdo, Editor of Ceramics Now.

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Captions

Installation views, twenty, Sabbia Gallery, 2025. Images courtesy of Sabbia Gallery

ATLA, a contemporary gallery with a reverence for the history of craft, opened its new space in the Los Feliz neighborhood of Los Angeles at the beginning of the year. The joint endeavor of artist and curator Jenny Hata Blumenfield and her husband, Ryu Takahashi, ATLA takes an intersectional approach to ceramics, which is so often siloed into discussions of craft and material, or exclusively elevated into fine art. The gallery synthesizes work from the East and West, highlighting the influence Japanese craft has had on California ceramics for decades.

With The Aesthetics of Everyday Objects: The Plate, the couple continues the conversation they started with their first “everyday” show in 2024, which focused on the cup. Hata Blumenfield sees these familiar forms as the perfect prompts for a particularly tricky question when it comes to ceramics: what is it? From young ceramicist to auction house employee to gallerist, Hata Blumenfield has tangled with issues of form, function, and value for her entire career; now, through curation and community-building, she has found a way to address it head-on.

Jenny, could you tell me where this new iteration of ATLA sits in the lineage of your work, and what it means to open this space? It seems like you’re creating something that doesn’t really exist yet—how would you articulate it?

I’ve long worked on different sides of the art space. When I finished school, where I did pursue ceramics, there were only two people in the graduating class. Post-college, I went to New York and got an internship at Christie’s and worked in the Post-War and Contemporary Art department, which at the time was thriving. I was invited to stay on and work under Laura Paulson, and it was such a formative period of my life. I had just come out of this utopian school environment where you didn’t actually have to think about how to sustain your art practice. My favorite question at that time, because ceramics was so associated with craft, was, “So what do you do? You make pots and pans and things?” The other question that was very of the time was “What are you going to do with that?” They were both very realistic questions, but when you’re young and naive and optimistic, also kind of soul-crushing. I felt—and still do—that ceramics was as expressive as anything, and faced with that question, I realized I thought of the material in a completely different way than other people. Working in the secondary art market, I was in this almost dystopian environment, where the perceived value of ceramics is quite low, yet $100 million dollar paintings, or even $50 and $20 million paintings, are flying left and right. So I left and went to the gallery world.

I ended up working for this young gallerist named Daniel Reich—he was a brilliant, brilliant writer, and he found so many great artists, like Paul P. and Henry Taylor. He clearly had a lot of talent and an eye, but he was stuck in a tragic place, and he couldn’t make the gallery function financially. But he lived in the Chelsea Hotel, curated the work in his bathroom, his bedroom. I was introduced to the New York art scene through this alternative lens.

I’ve always gravitated towards alternative spaces, and I think that’s why I gravitated towards ceramics. In high school, I liked punk and metal and materials and music and culture that were just not of the moment; they were always in these little subcultures. So, after I worked in the gallery world, I got a job at Greenwich Pottery, an institution—that’s been around for over a hundred years in New York. Frank Stella lived across the street, and Jackson Pollock famously was the janitor of the building. While I was there, I got a job with Simone Leigh, and she had a small studio in this large warehouse in Williamsburg. It was 2012, and I met Peter Lane there, and Michele Quan—this was one of the few places that had a gas kiln, and you could do salt firing in the middle of Williamsburg.

This sounds like a completely utopic shift for you.

It felt like such a sacred space, a well-kept secret nobody knew about.

All about community, and word-of-mouth?

That’s the charm of the ceramics space—it is very community-oriented. There were a lot of meaningful exchanges there about personal relationships, not just the work. During that time, I mostly focused on the studio side of the ceramic world, working behind the scenes on fabrication. When I was starting to think about leaving New York, I worked for a bit at a ceramic interior design gallery in lower Manhattan, with a showroom. The owner designed all of his own ceramic lamps, stools, and fireplace surrounds, and he invited different artists to include work in the showroom. Then I got into a residency at Anderson Ranch, in Colorado. When I then moved back to LA and got settled, COVID hit, and all the shows that I was working towards were affected—because at that time, I was still a very active, practicing artist. But I’ve always had other jobs.

That’s the nature of the beast, right?

It’s an important part of the functioning of the beast. You have to find other means and methods to sustain this practice. Although, arguably, ceramics might be the cheaper material to pursue because it’s all about labor.

This brings up questions about how we value this labor. It seems like it must vary from situation to situation, so it’s more nebulous.

There’s also a hierarchy in how people value labor in relation to craft and contemporary art. How do you put a price on something where the labor isn’t seen? A lot of ceramic young ceramic artists investigate labor in their own practice. But what I’m drawn to, in conjunction with that, is the labor that’s not seen, and how that ties into this larger idea of “the unknown craftsman,” which comes from a text by Yanagi Sōetsu. This is all deeply tied to the history of material, which isn’t really about the individual, even with Japanese artists. It’s more an investigation of thoughts and questions—at least, that’s what I’ve noticed. And so it is interesting when people dissect this question of labor, because labor in relation to this material is often unseen, and it’s important not to see the amount of time and labor invested in a certain sculpture. For instance, this artist, Yoshikazu Tanaka. When you look at this work, it’s almost impossible to calculate how much time it took, in terms of research and development, to get to this place of making such a simple form, which feels so obvious. But in studio pottery, you can almost calculate that, like the market price is something based loosely on how much time you spend on it.

I think about perceived value quite a lot, especially with how I got to curating. I felt a bit uninspired in my own studio, because I started ceramics with the idea of being in community, and the more I started to show and focus on my own work, it meant that I had less and less of an opportunity to convene in a space. I lost my connection to the material, which I’ve been working in since I was 13, so it wasn’t something that I thought I could lose. It was a strange confrontation of loss, because when you think of yourself as a creative and an artist, and you lose the very thing that ties you to that material—what are you?

How did curating begin to alleviate that?

[In 2022] I had the opportunity to take over a vacant space in Santa Monica [and open Blumenfield Projects], and I got really, really excited about the type of show I wanted to see, which was different from what I was often seeing: some variation on the magic of clay emerging from the earth. [British ceramicist] Alison Britton has long been writing about the material from this dual perspective of artist and writer, insider, and yet, outsider. And she basically says everything has been recycled—even in the last 10 years, with ceramics becoming more in vogue, we’re still having the same conversations that existed decades ago, and it hasn’t really evolved as much as I would like it to.

Do you have a working thesis as to why that might be? Why are we getting stopped out at the same place?

Personally I think the ceramic field has very distinct binaries: craft exists in one capacity, and contemporary art exists in the other. People on the contemporary art side are often trying to elevate the conversation of craft, to recontextualize ceramics amongst paintings and other mediums, whereas the true followers of craft have maintained this purist ideology, and as such, it’s stayed in place.

Is that the sort of resistance that you think keeps this repetition happening?

There’s no dialogue happening between the sides.

What does an integrated conversation look like?

I’ve long wanted to experience the in-between, largely because I have also experienced life in between both of these spaces. My own practice is about that as well. It’s a representation of my outlook, rather than who I am. It’s how I choose to experience life, and I often want to see more of an in-between expression, one that talks about the nuances that have long existed in between those spaces, because I don’t really think there’s a very strong binary. That’s why for me, it feels very punk. The artistic principles of punk—not just being subversive.

This space has come together largely because of the conversations I have with my husband, Ryu Takahashi. Blumenfield Projects was solely focused on ceramics, but when Ryu and I decided to merge two years ago, ATLA came together. He grew up between Tokyo and New York, and works in the music industry. He really wanted to focus on Japan and high craft, but the minute you say “high craft,” people shudder—it’s so loaded. It also immediately, in my mind, exists at the bottom of a hierarchy. This really coincided with what I wanted to do in relation to ceramics, and our space in Echo Park was the starting point of introducing these two interests, and trying to find or further strengthen what that conversation is. There’s long been conversation across the Pacific between American ceramic artists and Japanese artists. The GI Bill fits into that conversation—in the ’70s, studying artists wanted to pursue painting, but couldn’t get into the painting classes, so they were finding themselves in ceramic classes. That really helped to further the study of Japanese ceramics. Peter Voulkus is a byproduct of that, and Edward Eberle, who’s in this show, is also loosely tied to that part of history.

This seems important to do in California—to tie this conversation to place specifically.

Yes, that’s been very important to us, too, because when we were thinking about how to really grow this idea, we started by doing pop-ups. Then we moved towards a space we collaborated on with a publisher, Atelier Editions, [in Echo Park]. When that came up, we were just programming the space twice a quarter. And it did feel like it was fitting a particular need for a larger conversation between craft, ceramics, contemporary art, and further highlighting these embedded hierarchies and biases. For instance, this show—this is a plate show. When I started telling people I’m curating a plate show, it was incredible. Some people were so excited; some people were like, what’s the point of doing that? It was similar to that old question, “What are you going to do with that?”

I’d ask ceramic artists and curators and people who work in the space about a sculptor—or somebody working in clay who maybe doesn’t identify as a potter—making a cool plate, and I couldn’t find a lot of answers. But the more we talked, the more they started to understand it wasn’t really meant to be just a plate. It’s really a blank canvas.

I’ve heard artists say certain forms, like a pot or a plate, can just be the armature for an idea. The object is familiar, which allows you in.

Exactly. And the exciting part about art is when it ignites your imagination. With this show, and so many of the shows we’re going to put together, I hope to further ignite that excitement, that child-like bliss, or that light bulb that turns on. Like, oh, wow—that’s what you’re thinking about when you’re thinking about a plate. Most everything is hung on the wall because I wanted to change how you thought about the plates. There’s not a singular use, and it plays into this duality of perspective.

So why do you think the IKEA plate is exciting?

Because it’s the most recognized and accessible plate that I think everyone has had at some point in their life, especially when they’re moving around, before they’re ready to invest in something.

It says something about who that person is, and what phase of life they’re in, right? It has a larger cultural significance.

What you’re talking about the cultural significance is what I’m really excited about. I’ve also noticed in recent years the way ceramics has really penetrated mainstream culture. I was just looking at the Bank of America business site, and it had images of small business owners in their pottery studios, which I’ve never seen before. It’s a little scary, too, because the accessibility makes it almost seem like the material is a lot easier than it actually is. I don’t create any type of distinction between how much time somebody spends with the material, but I find it interesting it’s that popularized, to where there’s less of an interest in really investigating the material.

What comes after the plate show?

It’s a solo show with Yoshikazu Tanaka. Last year I was in Japan, and we did 21 studio visits. It was an abundance, but I mention the number because there’s so much talent in Japan that hasn’t had an opportunity to be seen internationally. And when we did these visits, we met Yoshikazu Tanaka. His studio was filled to the brim with all this work and experimentation, all of these series he clearly had spent years investigating and bringing to life. His material is so interesting because a lot of people come in and assume these are found rocks that he embeds into the work, but they’re recycled shards of old sculptures. And the glazes he uses are old sculptures ground down into a powder. These are thematic considerations, too—the work is really about the cyclical reuse of material, and nature, and how these are very intertwined.

How has it been inaugurating this space, especially right after the LA wildfires?

Since ceramics is very community-oriented, it makes sense to exist here, on that level. We’re a five-minute walk from Barnsdall Park. We’re close to all of these amenities—restaurants, bars. On this little block, there are a few Lebanese business owners who have been here for 20 years. That is, to me, what LA used to represent, where so many cultures and individuals and offerings can exist in one block. It doesn’t have to be this overly curated experience. It just exists.

Spaces like this feel very needed now, though it’s interesting, because many feel the art space is experiencing a recession. So many small galleries are closing, yet I’m very excited to forge forward, and we have a lot of support, and we have a lot of great artists who we’re working with. In moments that feel rather hopeless, more and more beauty can exist in response.

Born and raised in Los Angeles, Aleina Edwards is the Director of Craig Krull Gallery in Santa Monica, and she writes about contemporary art in California and the American Southwest. Find more of her work at aleinagraceedwards.com

The Aesthetics of Everyday Objects: The Plate was on view at ATLA, Los Angeles, between February 1 and March 9, 2025. The exhibition included works by Amy Bessone, Sandow Birk, Jenny Hata Blumenfield, Nicole Cherubini, Francesca DiMattio, Edward S. Eberle, Stanley Edmondson, Nicki Green, Matt Merkel Hess, Roxanne Jackson, Trevor King, Susanna Kim Koetter, Joshua Miller, Bruno Nakano, Akihide Nakao, Elyse Pignolet, Yoshikazu Tanaka, Shoshi Watanabe, Matt Wedel.

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Captions

• Akihide Nakao, Bullseye Plate, 2024, Glazed ceramic, 16 x 16 x 1.5. Photo by Nice Day Photography, courtesy of ATLA.
• Trevor King, Composition with One Pinch Pot and Four Plates, 2023, stoneware, epoxy, pigment, soil, 17 x 16.5 x 4.5 in. Photo by Nice Day Photography, courtesy of ATLA.
• Francesca DiMattio, (Untitled) 18th Century French Sevres Plate, 2024, glazed porcelain with sgraffito decoration, 9 x 9 x 2.5 in. Photo by Nice Day Photography, courtesy of ATLA.
• Amy Bessone, If Snakes Are Good (green), 2018, Glazed ceramics, 12 x 12 x 4 in. Photo by Nice Day Photography, courtesy of ATLA.
• Joshua Miller, MB in Greens and Orange, 2024, Glazed ceramic, 15 x 15 x 1.5 in. Photo by Nice Day Photography, courtesy of ATLA.
• Nicki Green, Cleave Vessel (Seder Plate), 2025, Glazed earthenware, 8.25 x 8.25 x 2 in. Photo by Nice Day Photography, courtesy of ATLA.
• Nicole Cherubini, Medusa Love, 2025, Glazed stoneware, 19 x 16 x 2 in. Photo by Nice Day Photography, courtesy of ATLA.
• Roxanne Jackson, Crab Dinner, 2024, Ceramic, glaze, underglaze, 22.5 x 3 x 15 in. Photo by Nice Day Photography, courtesy of ATLA.
• Susanna Kim Koetter, After Paul Thek (The Face of God), 2023, Glazed stoneware, 13.5 x 13.5 x 2 in. Photo by Nice Day Photography, courtesy of ATLA.
• Matt Wedel, Mythology Plate, 2019, Majolica on Terracotta, 9 x 9 x 2 in. Photo courtesy of L.A. Louver.

I first met Danijela Pivašević-Tenner in 2016 during my Tandem residency in Neumünster, Germany. As I was taking my first steps as a ceramicist, Danijela immediately challenged my understanding of the material. Her work made a lasting impression on me: installations transforming into paintings—the drying slip covering various utilitarian objects would begin to develop mould, creating new life and continuing its course on its own. Could a material have its own life without our interference? Could unfired clay even be considered ceramics? Why was sustainability so important to her? Why were most of her works unfired, and what was her understanding of the materials she used? And finally—why were these questions so important?

Last year, I had the opportunity to visit Danijela at the Universität der Künste in Berlin. Observing her approach to teaching and her philosophy of understanding her primary material opened new perspectives, which I’m eager to share with Ceramics Now readers. I hope you’ll find this interview as engaging as I enjoyed discovering new ideas through my conversation with Danijela Pivašević-Tenner.

Danijela, your academic background is grounded in traditional ceramics—you completed your diploma at the Department of Applied Arts, Ceramics, at the University of Arts in Belgrade. There, you received a comprehensive education covering all aspects of ceramics, including the technical details essential to the craft. Afterwards, you pursued a master’s degree at the Weißensee Academy of Art in Berlin.

Your work leans towards conceptual art, which might challenge the traditional understanding of ceramics. For instance, some might not recognize your work as ceramics because it often doesn’t follow conventional processes such as firing. I’m curious: given your traditional training, how and when did your perspective on ceramics shift to a more conceptual approach? When did you start developing conceptual ideas?

I studied in Belgrade during a turbulent time marked by wars, inflation, and political turmoil. At the beginning of my studies, Yugoslavia was still intact, but as the former republics gained independence, and later when Serbia briefly united with Montenegro, the idea of a stable country repeatedly dissolved. This constant change shaped my understanding of structure and permanence, leaving me with the impression that everything could be redefined.

My diploma studies lasted five years—an intensive and comprehensive programme quite different from contemporary BA and MA structures. While my focus was on Free Ceramics, the curriculum covered a wide range of subjects, including art history, anatomy, technical drawing, ceramic techniques, painting, drawing, glaze formulation, and product design. This broad education provided me with a solid foundation in the arts and equipped me to pursue various creative directions. Although my passion lay in ceramics, I quickly learned that an in-depth understanding of art history and related fields was essential for artistic development. Initially, I didn’t fully appreciate subjects like product design, but they ultimately contributed to my artistic growth.

Upon completing my studies, I decided to study abroad—not because I needed additional training (my education in Belgrade was quite comprehensive), but due to the region’s unstable political and social situation. The upheaval, wars, and general instability prompted me to seek a more secure environment for my practice. This brought me to Berlin, where I completed a Master of Arts and Art Therapy. Immersed in a new cultural setting with access to well-equipped workshops, and with the opportunity to work as a tutor, I was able to refine my skills. My shift from traditional to conceptual art stemmed from an internal drive, something that I had always felt but couldn’t fully define.

Do you think your art, after all your studies, would be different if you moved back to Serbia?

Absolutely. Although I’ve lived in Germany for 20 years and travelled extensively, I frequently return to Serbia to keep that connection alive. I participate in residencies and symposiums there, and I’ve noticed that when I’m in Serbia, my work becomes more socially engaged. This is a direct reaction to the local political and social climate. In Germany, there’s a stable social foundation that allows me to freely develop my thoughts and interests without having to worry about survival or basic rights. Here, I can engage in a more conceptual approach to art. Had I remained in Serbia, my work might have evolved more towards socially engaged art.

Sustainability is a key theme in your work and teaching. Has this always been the case, or did it develop over time? How do you incorporate sustainability into your teaching?

Sustainability has been central to my practice from early on. As a student, I was always eager to fire my pieces, and I understand how important that experience is for students. However, firing isn’t always necessary; understanding materials and techniques is more important. Firing may sometimes limit one’s creativity; it can be like focusing on a single tree while missing the forest.

My commitment to sustainability deepened after traveling through southern Germany and witnessing the environmental damage caused by the extraction of ceramic materials. This prompted me to research the origins of these materials and question the environmental cost of firing. I started limiting my use of materials, reusing and reclaiming them to create new works without contributing to unnecessary destruction. This approach allows me to create while remaining at peace, knowing I’m minimizing harm.

Sustainability in art is not just a trend—it’s essential. During my time running the Keramikkünstlerhaus Neumünster in northern Germany and in my teaching, I’ve emphasized sustainability at every level. In foundational courses, I educate students about the environmental impact of ceramics, including where materials come from and how landscapes are affected. Many are unaware of these realities and assume ceramics is inherently eco-friendly. While it can be, the issue lies in overproduction.

In another course, I ask students to bring seeds to give back to the earth—small acts that encourage critical thinking. My goal is not to instil guilt but to raise awareness. We discuss when firing is necessary, and often, students realize it isn’t, though I still ensure they experience the full process.

When exhibiting at a gallery, do you create the works on-site? How do you plan and set up an exhibition? Are your sustainable works for sale and where do they end up afterwards?

As an artist, I have the opportunity to engage with the public on various levels, spreading the message of sustainability. For instance, I invite people to bring in their old textiles and share the personal stories behind them. I also incorporate items from living spaces, exploring their personal significance. The community becomes part of the artwork, actively involved in its creation. One of my pieces, Triumphsäulen (42 Szenen der Gegenwart), was initially prepared in my studio but assembled on-site over several days. For larger international exhibitions, such as the Indian Triennale or Indonesian Biennale, curators typically give me about a month to prepare my work. However, for the Unicum Triennale, I only had two days, which required me to complete everything at my studio and quickly assemble the installation on-site. I enjoy these challenges—they push me to explore new ways of working. My approach varies depending on the context. When working abroad, I use local materials, which are returned to the community after the exhibition. The artwork is often deconstructed and recycled at the end of the show, aligning with my sustainable practice.

After 25 years of working with ceramics, I had a humbling experience at the Indian Triennale, where the clay slip was so sandy I struggled to work with it. It took me a month to understand how this new material “breathes”. I try to share this philosophy with my students—you are the ones who need to listen to the material. You are not the master of the material, it’s the other way around: clay is your master, and you need to listen to it and see what it can offer, and only then can you start to work.

I appreciate how you describe the material as the “master”. Traditionally, makers are expected to master their materials by perfecting techniques and avoiding mistakes. In product design, strict criteria must be met, which can limit the material’s potential. Once someone masters a technique, they often fall into repetitive patterns. While mastery doesn’t necessarily stifle creativity, I personally seek practices that push the boundaries of material exploration. Your work is a great example of this.

In my opinion, this is a form of self-censorship. We unconsciously follow rules, often for pragmatic reasons, producing work that meets public expectations or sells well. This limits creativity from the outset. It’s similar to how a journalist might self-censor under political or social pressure—such a journalist isn’t realizing their full potential. Instead, they simply work to meet expectations, leaving their true abilities untapped. It’s a waste not to utilize all the qualities we possess.
This is why, in my foundational courses, I teach all possible techniques. Even if students don’t end up using them, they need to experience the full process to understand what they’ll need in the future. Once they’ve learned the fundamentals, I encourage them to break the rules and find their own path.

I believe this programme structure supports conceptual exploration within ceramics. Traditional knowledge is essential—it teaches you what can be done. Once you understand what ‘s achievable, you can also explore what can be “undone”.

In the art world, we often find ourselves reinventing things that have already been discovered, either because we don’t invest enough time or because we lack information. Understanding a material’s full range of possibilities allows me to push its boundaries further. I draw on the expertise of past ceramic masters and continue from where they left off.

You were the creative director of the Dr. Hans Hoch Foundation and the Foundation of Sparkasse Südholstein in Neumünster, where you initiated the Ceramics Tandem programme. Now, as a lecturer, you work with students. You’ve thus always been able to observe artists and students during their creative processes. What is the most important lesson you’ve learned from this?

The residency programme was unique because it wasn’t a typical artist residency. It was intimate, with two artists working side by side in the same building where I lived with my family. Artists worked within existing infrastructure, becoming part of the household. It was a special environment.

What I learned from observing artists is the importance of letting go. Many artists struggle with wanting and needing everything to be perfect. I would think: be happy with the experience itself, the opportunity to be here and with knowing your work is part of this collection. Why exhaust yourself striving for more? Some artists would work day and night, pushing themselves to the limit. This relentless drive prevented them from truly enjoying the moment.

The key is to be present and let go—of the idea, the art, and the technical aspects. Those artists who allowed themselves to relax and let go of their expectations were the ones who benefited the most. Only then could they truly connect with their inner voice, their ideas, and the material. They also opened up to their fellow artists, discovering new collaborative possibilities.

This reminds me of my residency in Indonesia, where we had almost nothing. I had to face it, deal with it. Otherwise, you waste a lot of energy, but nothing changes.

This was my experience in Indonesia as well. I’d done research back in Germany, but arriving there, I had nothing. There were no materials. I’d have to wait for several days for a single 1.5 litre bottle of slip cast, and so I had to calculate how long it would take for me to get enough so that I could start casting. Situations like these make you think differently.

Reflecting on the Neumünster residency, I was fascinated to observe both young and experienced artists facing similar struggles. But I often wondered: is it worth becoming so consumed with these challenges that you forget to be present in the moment, to truly experience the process—both physically and mentally? Of course, it’s human to struggle, and not everyone can deal with these situations easily. People have certain expectations about how their work should progress and how it should look. When things don’t go as planned, it can be hard to cope with the reality of the situation.

One especially memorable and successful experience was with a group of students during an external residency I organized outside the university. We travelled together and held exhibitions, and through that process, we realized our collective potential. The group consisted of five individuals—painters, sculptors, all at different stages of their careers. But we came together around the topic of sustainability and the environment. We created a time capsule project, imagining a world 500 years from now, where nothing would be the same. We asked ourselves: what message should we leave behind for future beings? What if these future creatures or civilizations didn’t speak our language? The idea was to bury a message that could be universally understood, perhaps explaining why our civilization no longer existed, much like many ancient ones. We didn’t have definite answers, but this thought experiment united us as a collective.

This project led to an invitation to Documenta, one of the largest contemporary art shows in Germany and the world. It was an incredible experience for all of us.

How did you get to Documenta?

We were a group of five, and I truly believe in the power of collaboration—multiple minds are always better than one. That’s why I love working with others and building communities. One of my students was in Berlin on a residency, so we decided to visit him and use that opportunity to work on a joint project.

Our project became part of Documenta through the lumbung Indonesia, an Indonesian collective that organized invitations as a series of expanding rings—one group invited another, creating a growing network. Initially, it was somewhat controlled, but eventually, it became unpredictable. That kind of dynamic can either lead to collapse or to success, and in our case, it turned out well.

A partner, ZK/U Berlin, a centre for art and urbanism, helped transform an old house into a boat, reflecting our focus on resourcefulness. Artists powered this boat by pedalling, moving from Berlin to the Documenta site over two months. Someone always had to push the pedals to keep the boat moving.

The artwork we presented was a collaborative effort: a time capsule, a boat, and unique dining plates with messages and political imagery. We used these plates daily on the boat, finding joy in the different designs.

Upon arriving at the castle just in time for our performance, we invited the public to eat from the plates as if it were our last meal. Afterwards, we held a ceremony in which we buried the plates. Unfortunately, we found out that we lacked the necessary permission, and we only had an hour to complete the performance before the police would arrive. I was worried because, in a sense, I was no longer just an equal member of the collective. I do take on a different role when I teach, but at that time I was able to forget about it and to function as just another member of the group. We realized there were masses of people. It was too late to stop, so we asked ourselves what to do next. I told the group to check the dirt nearby, and we ended up near a palace. It wasn’t the smartest choice, but it was better than being by the river, where the police would have arrived immediately. The public was observing our performance and we continued with our ceremony. If the police would come, we’d keep our poker faces. But we were lucky; they didn’t show up.

The energy there was incredible. People, friends and strangers, were deeply engaged, choosing plates to place. Towards the end, my gallerist asked if she could buy a plate, and I told her she could, but only if she buried it. She agreed, and the whole experience left everyone in awe. The performance wasn’t just some silly game; everyone was fully immersed until the very end. That’s what made it special, more so than any prize or recognition. It was something beyond the usual academic setting.

When students apply to UdK in Berlin, they cannot choose Ceramics as their main course of study, but they can take it as an elective within their Fine Arts programme. How do you balance the technical aspects of ceramics with artistic expression?

They are definitely more free, in the sense that they don’t have any boundaries. When I arrived and took over the course, I completely restructured the programme, adding many projects that we implement at other institutions outside the university. The best part was the total freedom we had in creating our programme, allowing me to introduce something new each semester. I wanted to keep the programme fresh, both for myself and for my students. However, I quickly realized we faced a major challenge. I was at a great university, but the previous lecturer had a very hands-off approach, letting students do whatever they wanted without much guidance. I saw potential in this situation. Since nothing substantial was in place, I decided to focus my energy on the foundational courses for the first few years. I made these courses mandatory, ensuring that students couldn’t skip them. If someone came to me with a project idea but hadn’t completed the basics, I’d direct them to start there. This approach helped me manage the workload and prevented chaos. Without it, I would have been overwhelmed by students wanting to do ambitious projects without the necessary foundations.

In the first year, I doubled the foundational courses, offering them both in the morning and in the afternoon to accommodate as many students as possible. I knew that if I built a solid base early on, I could focus on more advanced topics later. The foundational course provided students with comprehensive knowledge, condensing what I’d learned in five years into one semester. I made it clear that, while not all of it might be needed immediately, it would be valuable later, especially if they pursued teaching. After these basic courses, students moved on to more advanced studies where we delved deeper into specific topics or practices. We also had open studio sessions where students who completed all courses presented their projects, and we created detailed plans together. This approach ensured they could work independently, but with a clear structure. Another issue I noticed was that gallery pieces often originality, relying too much on existing glazes. I started offering glaze courses to encourage students to experiment and create their own. We even established a glaze library with shared recipes available online, promoting global knowledge-sharing.

Your work aligns with contemporary and conceptual art, challenging traditional views of the medium. Given today’s ceramics scene, what’s your opinion of the current situation? How do you see the field evolving compared to a decade ago, particularly in the context of various biennial and triennial events? In Slovenia at least, the ceramics community often debates the value of ceramics as art. What’s your perspective on this?

I believe that question is outdated—ceramics is undeniably art. My work, while rooted in tradition, often incorporates humour and has a contemporary twist that makes it relevant to today’s world. The argument about whether ceramics qualifies as art is unnecessary; what we’re doing now is contemporary ceramics, and there’s no need to question it.

Regarding institutions like biennales and triennales, these events play a crucial role, but the focus should be on the present and future of ceramics, not on rehashing old debates. Ceramics, whether traditional or contemporary, shouldn’t be overanalysed. We’re making contemporary ceramics, and that’s it. I’m here now, not a hundred years ago, so why question it? When we bring up these discussions, it makes it look like we’re uncertain about what we’re doing, but that simply isn’t the case. I stand by every word I say and every piece I create.

It’s exciting when new talent emerges because our community, being small, often recycles the same energy and ideas. This stagnation can make the community feel insular and uninviting. If we identified as artists rather than just ceramicists, our perspective would expand, and the community could grow. We’d avoid the repetitive complaints about the same issues at every event and instead focus our energy on new projects.

As artists and educators, it’s crucial to continuously innovate and reflect on our work, yet many institutions resist change, sticking to outdated methods because it’s easier. But is this beneficial for the art scene and the community? Institutions have a responsibility to the artists and the public who fund these endeavours. They need to adapt and innovate, even though the changes might be small, to stay relevant and engaging.

For instance, when I joined a very traditional institution in Neumünster, it was largely unknown because it was so insular, only serving the interests of a few people. I realized the need to open it up and create something that spoke to a broader audience. Art shouldn’t be a solitary pursuit; it’s about eliciting reactions and interactions. Public participation is crucial to my work. My projects often involve the audience directly, making them co-creators. Such engagement can bridge the gap between traditional and contemporary art, making it accessible and relevant.

One project in Hamburg involved a terracotta carpet painted with traditional patterns. Visitors who walked on it unknowingly became part of the artwork, tracking the patterns through the gallery, which evolved over time. This process highlights the importance of audience involvement—they contribute to the art’s creation and feel a deeper connection to it.

Art should surprise and engage people, creating moments of realization and participation. This is a view that likely stems from my upbringing in socialist Yugoslavia, where community was paramount. My work reflects this idea, striving to connect the past with the present and to involve the public in meaningful ways.
Ultimately, my approach is about deconstruction, not destruction. By breaking things down, I can create something new, which requires letting go of the old. This freedom to continually renew is essential in my art and life.

By letting go of constraints and embracing freedom, I can create something new. If I hold on to my work, conserve it, or worry about preserving it, I can’t move forward or innovate. This freedom allows me to see potential in what might seem negative or challenging, and to find something positive in it.

Nothing is stable or fixed; there is no permanent form. This realization, combined with my experiences, has helped me understand the importance of the environment. Everything gradually came together, but also remained fluid and dynamic.

What is your relationship with the material itself? Sometimes you let the material take on a life and characteristics of its own, allow it to exist as it is. However, when you cover objects with it, the material often drips and doesn’t dry properly, suggesting you are controlling it. How do you view this process? When I see your work, it feels like every aspect is carefully thought out. Everything is meticulously planned down to the millimetre and matches exactly what was envisioned. Do you see this as controlling the material or as a form of freedom? What is your relationship with the objects and the clay?

When I work, I start with a clear plan and prefer to stick to it. Given my multiple commitments—projects, teaching, and family—I need to be highly organized to make art. I plan meticulously to ensure everything works out. However, I experience a different kind of engagement during exhibition openings. About five hours before the opening, I apply the final layer while the material is leather-hard—neither wet nor dry. At this stage, people can touch it, which is intriguing. Observing their reactions—sometimes akin to childhood curiosity—reveals a primal urge to interact with the material.

In the following two weeks, I relinquish control and let the material act on its own. This is the moment I truly enjoy. I don’t know where cracks will form or how the material will evolve. I provide a framework and then step back, becoming an observer. I document the changes and enjoy the subtle transformations, from colour shifts to the development of lines. This process of letting go and observing is what I find fascinating.

I agree. When something is shiny, there’s a strong urge to touch it. Your work, especially when it’s completely dry, creates a similar urge. It feels delicate, and I have this instinct to avoid breaking it. I appreciate how your work provokes this reaction. If I understand it correctly, your pieces invite interaction. For example, a sofa at the exhibition is meant for sitting?

Many people asked if they could sit on it, and the answer was yes. The work was designed to be engaged with, whether by sitting or touching. At one exhibition, I recall a visitor constantly touching the pieces, like a child. Eventually, he came to me saying “Look, I’m dirty because of you”, as if it were my fault that he got dirty from touching the pieces. I found it amusing because I’d been observing him closely, noticing how his touch was changing the work.

I documented this interaction, realizing that each touch left its mark, effectively transforming my pieces. It’s as if I had unexpected collaborators in the audience. I never instructed anyone to touch or handle the work; I simply allowed them the freedom to interact with it. If their actions changed or even damaged something, I accepted those consequences. My initial, intensive dialogue with the material happened during the creation process, but now the material communicates on its own with the public, independent of my direct involvement.

I guess I’ll be sitting on that sofa next time I see you work. laughter

It’s interesting because, while observing your installation, I felt a strange, contradictory sensation. There was a sofa that I could sit on, but it was also a dry clay art piece, making it seem untouchable. This created an intriguing moment of uncertainty for me.

I was unsure whether to sit on it or not. The humour of the situation was clear, but at the same time, I wondered how to interact with the piece. Should I engage with it or keep my distance? If I engage, I understand there might be certain consequences. If I don’t, I’m left with a sense of detachment from an everyday object that I would typically use at home. This tension between interaction and detachment is what continues to fascinate me about your work.

You asked about covering objects with clay and their patterns. For me, it was essential to gain an understanding of the background of these objects through interviews. I wanted to learn why these items were significant, not just about their surface details.

During an interview, a woman brought in a porcelain sauce set. Initially unsure about giving it to me, she eventually sat down to share its story. It turned out her parents had given it to her when she first left home for studies. As we talked, she realized the deep emotional significance of the object, which moved her to tears.

This experience highlighted a broader point: in our over-consumptive society, we often accumulate more than we need. Reflecting on our possessions, we might find that only a few truly bring us joy. My work aims to strip away symbols and patterns, making all objects appear the same, thus challenging the notion of material value and consumption. By covering everyday objects with clay, I remove their distinctiveness and force people to reconsider their relationships with them.

What do you do with the stories people share with you? You said that you know the personal story behind each object. Do you write these down?

Yes, I document them. If there’s an exhibition catalogue, I include them there. Otherwise, I still collect and keep them, thinking they may one day become part of a book or something similar. Everything I’ve published so far has gone into a catalogue, which I believe people find important.

For you, the creation of an artwork seems to begin well before you start touch the clay or cover the object with slip. It starts when you begin planning and searching for objects. So, when does your project truly begin and end?

My work often begins even before I start planning or selecting objects—sometimes a year or more before an exhibition, when I first discuss my ideas with the curator and visit the space. The venue and its history can be a trigger for my creativity. Once I know the exhibition venue, my mind starts planning everything—from materials to the overall concept.

What’s important to understand is that my work is a continuous process, it doesn’t have a clear start or end. Each exhibition leads to the next, with ideas evolving and transforming. For example, during my solo show in Hamburg, a visitor was so inspired by our conversation that she brought me a set of gold porcelain from her mother. This gift became central to a new piece that I did a year later, showing how my projects are always interconnected.

My work may appear minimal and understated, but it’s part of a larger process that never truly ends. The art continues to evolve, and the only question is whether we take the time to notice that and engage with it.

Kristina Rutar is an artist born in 1989 in Slovenia. She completed her studies in ceramics at the Faculty of Education, University in Ljubljana, in 2013. She continued her post-graduate studies in interdisciplinary printmaking at the E. Geppert ASP in Wroclaw, Poland. She mainly works in sculpting and ceramics, questioning the traditions of the two mediums. She received numerous awards and acknowledgments, and her works can be found in public and private collections. She lives in Ljubljana, Slovenia, where she works as an assistant professor of ceramics at the Academy of Fine Arts and Design.

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More than thirty years after his untimely passing, Angus Suttie and his ceramics refuse categorisation. For the UK pottery establishment, his evocative and celebratory works represent humanism, boldness, and freedom, reflecting not only the nuances of his lived experience but also a vital and unique form of activism that chimes with contemporary resonance.

A new retrospective at The Sunday Painter, London casts a revelatory light on the trailblazing life and art of Suttie (1946-1993), exhibiting a collection of his awkwardly beautiful pots of pride that accentuate his immense contribution to postmodern art. The works on show comprise part of a private collection of Suttie’s ceramics in the care of Jeffrey Weeks, – curator, executor and trustee of the artist’s estate and Suttie’s former partner.

Born in the rural, conservative Scottish town of Tealing in 1946, Angus Suttie had a sense of being an outsider from the very start. “Growing up queer in such a place, where homophobia was built in, meant that feelings were hidden and everyone, including Angus’ family, found it difficult to express the love they undoubtedly felt for him,” Weeks tells Ceramics Now.

In the late 1960s, Suttie gravitated towards London, where he began experimenting with ceramics between a long series of casual and unfulfilling jobs before enrolling at the Camberwell School of Art in 1975, delving into the experimental ethos that defined the institution during that period. “1970s Britain was a time of huge political, economic and cultural change that was reflected in our personal lives and art,” recalls Weeks. “Angus was a student at Camberwell when the canons of ceramics were being challenged and his studies provided a means to channel the changes in his own life and outlook into a creative form. Through pottery, he could express his deepest feelings and commitments while playing with traditional forms and challenging expectations.”

Philosophically, Suttie’s ceramics are fastened to the values of the Gay Liberation Front and later the Gay Left, a collective of men committed to the integration of socialist and sexual politics, to which both he and Weeks belonged. Within this space, Suttie came to embrace his intersectional identity as a working-class gay man, using his practice to explore ideas of mortality, memory, and the human condition, often with an underlying queer sensibility, an audacious statement in a relatively conservative craft world. As American West Coast ceramist Scott Chamberlin wrote in 1994: “For years in conversations with Angus, he spoke about the struggle to get his work to be more reflective of his life as a gay man. He was looking for permission, longing for release.”

The pieces on exhibit at The Sunday Painter aren’t the product of protest in the sense that they are angry and violent but instead sensitive, human and considerate. In Suttie’s own words, he expressed that “history is not passive but demands an active relationship with the living.’

Using the domesticated objects of quotidian life – jugs, teapots, eggcups, and saucers – as his starting point, Suttie subverted the functional and stylistic expectations of clay in favour of a decidedly more sculptural expression. Horns protrude at odd angles from vases and totems, and the elongated spouts of surrealist teatime accoutrements wind complex routes that force the viewer to move around, cock their head and bend their bodies just to keep track. “Since pottery has its origins in domestic form, it’s natural that Angus would start here,” says Weeks. “He loved the shape of the teapot and had a vast collection of them from around the world. This and other domiciliary shapes provided a time-honoured discipline from which he could follow his imagination and experiment with form.”

Suttie’s works don’t wholly refuse functionalism, indeed many of his pieces could still be used for their intended purpose, instead they playfully mock it, espousing post-Modernist ideals and particularly those of the New Ceramicists, that elevate ceramics into vessels for humour, whimsy and political commentary. “I started by wanting to make pots which were a reaction against the white, factory-produced earthenware available in every high street,” an article by Christopher Andreae records Suttie saying.

By primarily employing hand-building techniques, especially coiling and slab-building, Suttie was able to create highly individualised, irregular sculptures that did not conform to the cylindrical shape often produced by wheel-thrown pottery or the precision and symmetry associated with Modernism. His hand-building process allowed for more personal and intimate engagement with the clay, leaving traces of the maker’s hand.

Suttie’s ceramics are chimeric composites not only in the formal sense but also insofar as they drink deep from a well of cultural and historic references, revealing his inquisitiveness as an artist. Week’s describes him as well educated in the visual arts and history of crafts with an exceptional eye for detail. “For Angus there was no ‘casual’ visit to a museum or gallery,” Weeks shares. “He would study what he saw and make notes or sketches, later bringing these to the studio.”

In addition to studying the pottery of Picasso, as well as the surrealists and cubists –a learning that manifests in such pieces as Sculptural Vessel (circa 1987) and Jug Form (circa 1985)– Suttie also developed a keen interest in pre-Columbian architecture. This influence is evident in his later works; large-scale monolithic pots that possess a simpler, quieter presence. What this retrospective lays bare is that Suttie’s practice was eclectic and open-minded but never derivative. “Throughout the exhibition you can see a sort of unity, both in his experimentalism and imaginative iconoclasm,” says Weeks. “There is a constant evolution, both in technique, content and form yet from the start, his pots are very Angus, immediately identifiable.”

Although his work is assuredly underscored by thoughtful intention and critical provocation, there is an irreverent edge to Suttie’s practice that concedes pleasure in making. Doodle Plate (1982) for example and Ring (1987) with its cheeky phallic mascot embody a playful, spontaneous aesthetic that centres queer joy. This sentiment is perhaps most obvious in works that contain personal confessions such as Saucer (1985) inscribed with the words’ your bum is the best’ on the face and ‘You Are Callipygian’ on the enlarged lip. The use of text on clay provides us with a direct, emotional connection to Suttie. In Vase (1982), there is a vulnerability in the command, or perhaps question ‘Love me’, poetically answered with the ‘Love You’ that appears on the pots reverse.

Suttie was also unafraid of using a bright, sometimes clashing palette of primaries in loud geometric patterns and employed surface decoration in a manner that feels both joyous and expressive, as if the objects were alive, celebrating their own form. He understood but never obnoxiously presented the personal as political, each non-conformity a demonstration of the conviction and endurance of artistic resistance.

Tragically, in 1993, at just 46 years old, Suttie passed away due to an HIV-related illness after a prolific but brief career spanning little more than a decade. As illness became increasingly intertwined with his life, his art gave way to a more subdued expression; his palette shifting to incorporate increasingly muted hues reminiscent of ancient funerary sculpture.

“If his earlier works are about play and challenge, Angus’ later pieces are about memory and memorialisation, about loss and celebration,” says Weeks. “All are about life and love, but his lived experience got harder, the springs of joy were blocked.” In 1984, Suttie lost his then-partner to AIDS and was diagnosed himself shortly after. Living with a deadly disease in a climate of hate, it’s no wonder that he felt an urgent need to channel this frustration, fear, and sense of loss into his work—his ceramics became not just a means of communication, but a way of memorialising his life, asserting his humanity and vitality in a world that often sought to erase it.

“What struck me most at the opening of the current exhibition at The Sunday Painter, was how many people commented on the freshness and contemporary nature of Angus’ work,” reflects Weeks. “He spoke to his time, but he obviously still speaks to many people today. That’s a wonderful tribute for someone whose life and work ended 35 years ago.”

Millen Brown-Ewens is an art and culture writer and book publicist based in London. She has written for Artsy, AnOther, Dazed, DAMN, Elephant, Huck and DAMN amongst others. Follow the author on Instagram.

Angus Suttie is on view at The Sunday Painter, London until October 26, 2024.

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Photos courtesy The Sunday Painter

Artists: Claude Aussage (France), Elizabeth Le Retif (France), Julia Repina (Germany), Reinhard Keitel (Germany), Douglas Black (USA), Mamie Yamamoto (Japan), Ruth Hazi (Israel), Sayumporn Kasornsuwan (Thailand), Elina Titane (Latvia), Delia Maxim (Romania), Radenko Orovic (Serbia), Nato Eristavi (Georgia), Otar Vepkhvadze (Georgia), Malkhaz Shvelidze (Georgia)

Ceramics Now: Hi Nato. Could you share the story behind the Ceramic Park Sculpture Symposium ‘Bird of Paradise’? What was the vision, and how has it evolved since the first edition in 2022?

Nato Eristavi: The story started 18 years ago from the friendship between Goga Maisuradze, the founder of Lopota, his family, and me. Nobody believed he would realize his dream and create a paradise around the lake, which was far from civilization and lacked communications and infrastructure. There was just this beautiful lake surrounded by mountains, in the heart of the Kakheti Wine region of Georgia. He started with a wine cellar and a small wooden house, and all his friends could offer was motivation and trust in his vision.

At the same time, Ana, his younger daughter, started attending my ceramic classes at the age of six (I was teaching in my studio at that time). Her interest and love for ceramics began in her childhood. Knowing my profession and involvement in ceramic art and design, Goga and I spent many evenings discussing how to integrate ceramics into the Lopota environment. Unfortunately, we could not find any financial support for our creative ideas at that time.

The year Goga passed away, I felt a deep responsibility to realize his dream of incorporating ceramic decorations into the Lopota landscape. I already had a significant list of residencies I had participated in worldwide, and I proposed the idea of organizing an International Park Sculpture Symposium to Ana. As she grew up in Lopota and tried to continue her father’s concept of “handcrafted hospitality,” she immediately accepted my proposal. Together, we started working on the “Bird of Paradise” project dedicated to his memory (as Goga was the first bird in the Lopota area). My memorial work was an installation symbolizing Goga as a white bird on top of the old big Oak he moved to Lopota for decoration.

In 2022, with the help of my friends and wonderful Georgian artists Malkhaz Shvelidze and Otar Vepkhvadze, we decided to organize a first testing Symposium without any support and with a minimal budget. There were seven of us: I invited four of my international ceramic friends, three of whom were Georgian artists, and one helper. We all enjoyed the working facilities, firing possibilities, and technical support from the Lopota staff. It was successful. After the first attempt, Ana and our ceramic team gained valuable experience and documentation for sponsors.

With artists from ten different countries participating this year, I am curious to know how you select the artists. What are your criteria?

As Lopota Resort is a private space, Ana, as the main host, is very sensitive about choosing the works that will be presented in Lopota. So, we decided to announce an open call for artists. All applicants are required to send sketches and portfolios. Of course, my friends and I, as professionals, are responsible for the results. All works must be created, dried, fired, and placed in less than two weeks.

The main idea is to create an International Outdoor Sculpture Museum with a beautiful collection from all over the world. So, we receive professional works from different countries simultaneously. It is also important for sponsors to support a variety of countries. Our criteria are to choose artists who practice large-scale sculptures, hand builders, and artists proposing interesting challenges or experiments.

Can you tell us more about the workshops and masterclasses offered by the participating artists during the symposium? What impact do you think this has on the local community?

A very important part of our symposium is presentations and workshops. After the 1990s, following the collapse of the Soviet Union, the ceramic field of art in Georgia stagnated. There was no electricity, factories were closed, all the reserves of materials from Soviet countries were depleted, professionals changed jobs, and no factory produced Georgian clay. It was impossible to continue working in ceramics, not even at the Academy of Arts, where I was teaching. The long tradition of ceramics in Georgia almost stopped. Only a few of my colleagues and I, several artists, continued ceramic activities by traveling and participating in international workshops and exhibitions. We tried to improve our skills and bring home information about new techniques, technologies, and trends from around the world.

Considering the above, the international professional artists’ talks and workshops are a huge contribution to the interest and development of ceramics in Georgia, benefiting our colleagues and students.

How does the unique setting of Lopota Lake Resort near the Caucasus Mountains influence the artist’s creative processes? Can you share some memorable moments from this year’s event?

Curiously, most of the sketches sent by the artists were totally changed after their first walk around the environment with Ana. The spirit and story of the host helped the artists better understand the space and feel the magical energy and beauty of nature surrounded by the Caucasus Mountains. The symbol and the main host of Lopota is Goga’s clever dog Bobi, who this year inspired the artist from Romania, Maxim Delia, to create Bobi’s sculpture. The artist from Germany, Reinhard Keitel, discovered that this quiet and peaceful paradise needs to be cared for, so he made the composition named “Guardians of Paradise.”

Organizing an international symposium of this scale must come with its challenges. Could you discuss some of the difficulties you’ve overcome and what you consider to be the symposium’s biggest achievements?

My extensive experience participating in different international symposiums worldwide, as well as Malkhaz’s and Otar’s, has provided our team with invaluable knowledge. The Ceramic Gallery/Studio “White Studio,” the ceramic company I founded, also helped a lot with equipment and tools.

As every participant from the past and this year knows, the organization was perfect. We tried to pay attention to any requirements of the guests, and of course, famous Georgian hospitality played a crucial role in our success. Ana and the Lopota staff were ready to help at every stage of the process. The main achievement is understanding the time required for each stage. Our unique invention of a handcrafted drying room helped to start the firing process very soon, so we had enough time to fire, refire, and exhibit all the works by the closing ceremony. The main thing during every ceramic symposium is assembling the right group of professional artists and fostering a friendly atmosphere. The biggest achievement is intuition, which helps predict the character and mood of different people from many countries. These people will live, work, worry, have fun together, and feel comfortable with each other for two weeks.

Establishing Georgia’s first outdoor art museum is integral to the symposium. Could you elaborate on the vision for this sculpture park, how it integrates with the local cultural landscape, and the long-term impacts you envision for the local community?

Fortunately, Lopota Resort is very famous not only among Georgians but also attracts many visitors from abroad. The collection is already quite large, with about 35 sculptures measuring 100-150 cm around the extensive territory. We take care of all sculptures from past years and repair minor damages caused by the weather. We are currently working on a Lopota Park Sculpture Map that will be shared with all visitors so guests from different countries can easily find the sculpture made by the artist from their homeland. We plan to add lighting and QR codes to all the exhibits so people can learn more about each artist’s work. On the property, we already have a small gallery for ready-made works that artists have donated, as well as small works made during the symposium. Everyone interested in the sculpture park can visit Lopota Resort and see the collection.

How have the participating artists received the symposium? Could you share some feedback regarding the organization and what aspects they appreciate the most?

I am happy that we continue to stay in touch with groups from past years. The most gratifying thing is when they send messages from unknown people who visited Georgia and Lopota, discovered their sculptures, and wanted to share their excitement.

We also receive many photos of Georgian traditional food made by artists at home, Georgian words, and good memories from Georgia. Some share articles in local newspapers or interviews about their experience in Georgia and the symposium. During their stay, we organized cultural tours, traditional food-making masterclasses, and visits to Georgian artisans and historical places. We try to help people feel the essence of Georgian culture and history. This is most important because, unfortunately, not everyone has heard about the small country of Georgia.

Douglas Black, an American artist who participated in the symposium earlier this year, noted, “We took a piece of Georgia with us.”

Looking to the future, what are your long-term goals for the Ceramic Park Sculpture Symposium ‘Bird of Paradise’? Are there new initiatives you hope to implement in the coming years?

Lopota Resort is growing fast, adding more territories, so we hope to add new, interesting sculptures every year. The unique collection of outdoor art worldwide will grow and motivate sponsors to support ceramic activities and development throughout Georgia. We hope that Lopota Resort and the White Studio team will be able to host artists for ceramic residencies and conferences in the future.

June 2024

Nato Eristavi is a ceramic artist and founder of the Ceramic Gallery/Studio “White Studio”.

Lopota Lake Resort & Spa is located in the heart of Kakheti region, Georgia. It spreads around the lake and is surrounded by the picturesque Caucasus Mountains. The 60-hectare resort offers guests diverse impressions during all four seasons in a two-hour drive from the capital, Tbilisi.

“White Studio” is an award-winning creative ceramic studio renowned for its contemporary approach to fusing traditional Georgian ceramic making with highly skilled porcelain artistry. Famous for creating signature pieces of pottery in Georgian white clay as well as more commercial lines like “Georgian Souvenirs”, WS designs, and hand paints. “White Studio” produces showstopping pieces for galleries, design collections for hotels and unique ceramics for those looking for something special. “White Studio” was founded in 2013 by two friends: ceramic artist Nato Eristavi and interior designer Nino Kambarashvili.

Interview by Vasi Hirdo, Editor of Ceramics Now.

Ceramics Now is a reader-supported publication. When you join as a member, you become part of a passionate community dedicated to the growth and appreciation of ceramics. Read more about membership and become part of our story!

In the brick vase clay cup jug exhibition at the Art Gallery of New South Wales, Glenn Barkley presents a novel approach to curation. Drawing on the gallery’s online collection database, his selection of artworks is a poetic convergence of randomness and intuition. The resulting exhibition offers a fresh perspective on the connections between seemingly disparate objects. Alongside this, Barkley’s recent release, “Ceramics: An Atlas of Forms,” takes us on a global journey through the history of ceramics, sharing the stories of over 100 clay objects. This interview offers a glimpse into Glenn Barkley’s creative process and explores how blending art, history, and form can tell stories that span time and cultures.

Can you walk us through the inspiration behind using the Art Gallery of New South Wales’ online database as the primary tool for curating the show?

I was approached to curate an exhibition for the Art Gallery of New South Wales in Sydney with a relatively short lead time, which led me to think of something that may have been more intuitive rather than over-intellectualised. I have worked as a curator for more than 20 years, and I have always appreciated the way that gallery storage has its own particular logic. I wanted this logic in some way to guide the ‘who’ but also to create an arbitrary way of creating content. There were, of course, some linkages I wanted to make and that I knew, but I also wanted to see what unexpected links could be made by just using almost arbitrary terms around which to shape the selection.

Were there any surprising or unexpected connections between artworks that emerged through this non-hierarchical approach to selection?

Whenever you bring a group of things together, a conversation starts to take place. This could be about the way things are shaped – from the simple similarity of rims and apertures – to the way marks are made and how that might carry from a three-dimensional surface to two-dimensional. Textures and materials also tether objects together.

I think the great strength of ceramics is its material memory – it holds history and fixes it in a way other art forms may not. There is, for instance, a series of narratives that run through the show that are entirely unintentional, such as the role ceramics have played in trade; or even the preponderance of a particular glaze, like tenmoku, and how that bounces around from the ancient past to the present. Other themes reveal the more prosaic life of ceramics as a building block, like a brick or as raw material extracted from the earth.

I think the best art of curating is bringing artworks together and see what chatter it might create when installed – chatter that may be enabled or enhanced by the space and installation.

Traditional curation often leans on historical context or artistic movements. How did it feel to move away from these conventions and to trust visual and intuitive connections?

I’ve always tried to be intuitive beyond anything else as a curator, but as both a curator and a maker, I feel my way of looking has changed and is done at the tips of my fingers. The great privilege of curating this show was being afforded the opportunity to spend time with objects in a personal way – holding, lifting, turning – and being assisted in this by the amazing curators at the Art Gallery of NSW who have deep and inspiring knowledge of these objects.

The exhibition also includes a new iteration of The Wonder Room. How did the collaboration with the communities of the Shoalhaven come about for this project, and what significance does it hold within the context of the exhibition?

The Wonder Room was created with a group of maker-collaborators based in the Shoalhaven region south of Sydney, which is the place where I grew up. The workshop was facilitated by the team at the Shoalhaven Regional Gallery in Nowra.

The work takes the form of a ‘house’ clad in over 700 terracotta tiles, each tile decorated by a person from the region responding to the idea of what makes the Shoalhaven special to them. Most of the participants are not artists or ceramicists and their responses are moving, funny and direct.

The Shoalhaven region has a long Indigenous history and the First Nations people there were some of the first to encounter the colonisers. I’m proud to say that many of the tiles in the Wonder Room were created by many First Nations groups from older to younger.

This work is one of the first instances where the Art Gallery has brought a work in from a regional gallery, as their touring programs usually takes their exhibitions to the regions. That fact alone makes it significant, but the human responses illustrated on the tiles and the sheer number of the participants have led many people for the first time visiting the galleries in Nowra and Sydney and emphasising these galleries civic and cultural roles within their communities.

How did you envision visitors navigating and experiencing the exhibition, and how did that compare to the reality once the show opened?

I always knew the exhibition, brick vase clay cup jug, would involve more work than a typical Art Gallery hang, but I think audiences always respond well to content. I think the public like seeing things. And why not? If it had been up to me, it would have been denser!

We have been quite light on text as we want people to impose their own logic to the hang. For instance, there are no labels. Rather, things are numbered in a catalogue that is accessible in brochures or through your phone. This is a daring thing for a gallery to do and I know it hasn’t been universally liked.

Do you see this method of curation – based more on serendipity and intuition rather than a fixed theme or concept – influencing future projects?

I can only speak personally, but it is a way I like to work. I appreciate the Art Gallery allowing me to work in this way. I think my role has shifted from first being just curator to now being an artist curator – an important distinction. When you add the word artist all of a sudden other possibilities open up and you can start to bend and break some orthodoxies – from display methodologies to the use of didactics.

In saying that, I also understand that some curators want to do that, but often, the expectations and responsibilities of their roles and the balancing act of public, artist, donors, and art history can weigh you down and tighten you up.

You recently released a new book, Ceramics: An Atlas of Forms, a global cultural study of the history of ceramics, sharing the stories of over 100 objects. With ceramics having such a vast history, how did you decide on the specific objects to include in the book?

My book, Ceramics: An Atlas of Forms, runs parallel to the brick vase clay cup jug exhibition and is another kind of overlay. The book explores the global history of ceramics from the perspective of Australia looking outwards, whereas most global histories tell a European pr or English-centric history shaped by colonial prejudice. For instance, my book includes artists from Australia, the Pacific and First Nations artists from Australia and elsewhere who have been mostly absent from other global histories.

It uses, not exclusively, collections from Australia and New Zealand to tell a global history and often the emphasis is on how that piece ended up here – the ethics of how and why it was collected being an important way to foreground some objects.

Similar to the curatorial approach for the exhibition, I also respond to ceramics as not just a writer but as a maker. There are large format images often showing unexpected details and I respond to things in an emotive and visceral way. I respond to works that are resolutely handmade, where the maker has left an obvious trace, and that are a record of meeting between ideas and material.

Lastly, I have unashamedly brought together a group of artworks that I respond to and that show my personality, and I think it’s important to be upfront about that.

How do you view the evolution of form in ceramics over the ages? Are there distinct patterns or shifts in the language of form that stood out to you during your research?

It’s interesting the way that the hand and eye often return to forms and shapes that to me feel like something the mind knows. Some vessel shapes exist within some deeper recess of the mind that the often feel reassuring. They are part of some deep time muscle memory.

In my own work, which is implicated in any of the work I do as writer and curator, I have an irresistible urge to make something that feels functional. Stranded between function and decoration. I think the strongest and most compelling argument for ceramics is that ambiguity is a useful conceptual and material hook to hang lots of ideas off.

Two things can be true at once, and the work I respond to fits within a band that is both narrow AND expansive that has evolved but still cleaves close to its point of origin. When you start to loosen perceptions such as ‘skill’ or even drawing the raw material of clay into the dialogue around ceramics, the forms endlessly shifting yet always, strangely centred.

How has the advancement of technology, from ancient kilns to modern firing techniques, influenced the forms that artists are making?

I think the advancement of technology is something that is always humming along in any assessment of ceramics across time. How something is made and fired is intrinsically bound up in what it means to the maker and the user.

The current moment, with the rising profile of ceramics in the contemporary art world, is unleashing possibilities in terms of ambitions and scale through the market, injecting capital into the medium. This capital, in turn, drives technology and the infrastructure of and around making. This is further amplified by the other end of the ceramic scale, the amateur maker, whose dalliance may be fleeting but needs ready access to materials and technology that is easy to use and easy to drop in and out of.

The most important thing in terms of contemporary ceramics and technology is that the importance, to some, of a ‘de-skilled’ approach shouldn’t be at the expense of more skilled and more technically driven ways of making and most importantly, teaching. There is such a clear connection between technology and art in ceramics, and it’s important that this is nurtured.

Speaking for myself, I think my technical skills in terms of firing and glazing is rudimentary, but I understand how skilled makers make it easier for someone like me to access technology, use store-bought glazes, and turn on my kiln by just pressing a button.

How do ceramics act as markers of cultural identity, especially when considering their form?

Ceramics have existed for so long and mark all aspects of our lives, from the domestic to the spiritual to the secular. Pots are used to commemorate, to hold, to use, to eat off, to smash. Most human beings have some kind of relationship to the material and ceramics can be culturally specific, deeply personal, and broadly universal. That’s why we people love making with clay, why we can talk about it forever, and why it is so compelling to think about.

brick vase clay cup jug is on view at the Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney, until January 2024.

Glenn Barkley is an artist, writer, curator, and gardener based in Sydney and Berry, NSW, Australia. His work operates between these interests, drawing upon ceramics’ deep history, popular songs, the garden, and conversations about art and the internet. He was previously senior curator at the Museum of Contemporary Art Australia (2008–14) and curator of the University of Wollongong Art Collection (1996–2007). Barkley is co-founder of Kilnit Experimental Ceramics Studio Glebe and Co-Director of The Curators Department, an independent curatorial agency based in Sydney. His work is part of the collections of the Art Gallery of South Australia (Adelaide), the National Gallery of Australia (Canberra), Shepparton Art Museum (Shepparton) and Artbank (Sydney).

Interview by Vasi Hirdo, Editor of Ceramics Now, October 2023

Ceramics Now is a reader-supported publication. When you join as a member, you become part of a passionate community dedicated to the growth and appreciation of ceramics. Read more about membership and become part of our story!

Captions

• Installation views of ‘brick vase clay cup jug’, guest curated by Glenn Barkley at the Art Gallery of New South Wales, photo © Art Gallery of New South Wales, Diana Panuccio
• (image 1) Esther Ngala Kennedy ‘Marsupial Mouse Pot’ 1997, handcoiled terracotta, underglazes, glaze, applied decoration, 46.5 x 31 x 31 cm, Art Gallery of New South Wales, purchased 1997 © Esther Ngale Kennedy, image © Art Gallery of New South Wales
  (image 2) China, Tang dynasty 618 – 907 ‘Ewer with double dragon handles’, stoneware partly covered with transparent lead glaze, 30.7 x 14 cm, Art Gallery of New South Wales, purchased 1988, image © Art Gallery of New South Wales
  (image 3) Iatmul people ‘Damarau (sago storage jar)’ mid 20th century, earthenware, modelled, 78 cm, Art Gallery of New South Wales, purchased 1965, image © Art Gallery of New South Wales
  (image 4) Roy de Maistre ‘Still life (pink dahlias)’ c1955, oil on canvas, 70.5 x 55.5 cm, Art Gallery of New South Wales, bequest of Mrs Winifred Iris Gay 1994 © Estate of Roy de Maistre, image © Art Gallery of New South Wales
  (image 5) Tim McMonagle ‘Plaza’ 2005, oil on linen, 180 x 180 cm, Art Gallery of New South Wales gift of Dakota Corporation Pty Ltd 2014, donated through the Australian Government’s Cultural Gifts Program © Tim McMonagle, image © Art Gallery of New South Wales
  (image 6) Margaret Rose Preston ‘Flowers in jug’ c1929, woodcut, printed in black ink, hand coloured in gouache on thin cream laid Japanese paper, 28 x 20.5 cm, Art Gallery of New South Wales, purchased 1975 © Margaret Rose Preston Estate, image © Art Gallery of New South Wales
  (image 7) Kirsten Coelho “The crossing’ 2019, porcelain, matt glaze, and iron oxide, 25 x 60 x 25 cm, Art Gallery of New South Wales, Vicki Grima Ceramics Fund 2020 © Kirsten Coelho, image © Art Gallery of New South Wales
  (images 8-9) Dean Cross ‘Untitled (self-portrait as water and clay)’ 2015 (video still), single-channel video, colour, silent, duration: 00:04:43 min; aspect ratio: 16:9, collection the artist © Dean Cross
  (image 10) Lloyd Frederic Rees ‘The road to Berry’ 1947, oil on canvas on paperboard, 34.6 x 42.2 cm, Art Gallery of New South Wales, purchased 1947 © A&J Rees, image © Art Gallery of New South Wales
  (image 11) William Yang ‘Tea with the Deputy High Commissioner, London’ from the series ‘miscellaneous obsessions’ 2002, type C photograph, 35.5 x 53.5 cm, Art Gallery of New South Wales, purchased with funds provided by the Photography Collection Benefactors’ Program 2003 © William Yang, image © Art Gallery of New South Wales
  (image 12) Thanakupi ‘Mosquito corroboree’ 1994, stoneware, 32.4 x 34 cm, Art Gallery of New South Wales, Mollie Gowing Acquisition fund for Contemporary Aboriginal art 1995 © Estate of Thancoupie, image © Art Gallery of New South Wales

Can you tell us about the history of the Mediterraneo competition and how it has evolved into a prestigious event today?

The history of the Mediterranean Competition is fascinating since it has existed for over fifty years. Still, today we are “only” at the XXX edition: a long journey with pauses and an evolution always in step with the times. Very briefly:
• The 1970s allowed the city to come into contact with the ceramic “schools” of Italy and the international artistic currents of the time.
• The three editions of the eighties were brief but intense experimentation with exhibitions inserted in the ceramics district.
• The long hiatus of the 1990s ended in 2004 with the resumption and gradual broadening of the horizons of the competition, which today has the ambition to confront itself again with the international scene.

The 30th edition of Mediterraneo marked a significant milestone. How did you celebrate this special occasion, and what can visitors expect from this year’s event?

The XXX edition is characterized by significant participation, especially internationally. The total number of applications has almost doubled, but above all, those applications from all over the globe are synonymous with growing visibility. To celebrate this edition, it was also decided to start a multi-year process aimed at investigating the origins of the competition. This year, the works awarded in the editions of the seventies were selected and set up (starting from Annamaria Maggio’s master’s thesis work): not only the pieces but also the documents of the time, in which the desire for comparison is evident creative. Furthermore, two personal exhibitions were inaugurated during the exhibition period, ex aequo prize of 2022, namely “Solve et coagula” by Elena Cappai and “Provvisorio” by Studio Ortogonale. The two exhibitions are hosted in Palazzo La Sorte, an ancient private building in the historic center of Grottaglie. They present an installation that engages with the place and its specificities.

Could you share some insights into the challenges of organizing an international competition?

The main challenge lies in guaranteeing continuity for an annual event that requires precise timing and high-profile professionalism. I mean that the organization of the competition is successful only if there is a close-knit work team behind it and a straightforward operational program designed with a view to continuous improvement. Another fundamental aspect is the conscious search for a qualified and sector jury, perhaps even international, which can guarantee different but competent opinions on the subject; the choice of a jury also implies coming into contact with Italian and foreign institutions or realities that can bring an enrichment in the dialogue with the local, territorial reality.

Looking back at the previous editions, what personal highlights or memorable moments stand out for you?

The history of the competition is complex, but I can say that the 2014 edition was probably the first time in which there was a female winner (ex aequo) from outside Grottaglie, specifically Marta Palmieri, an extraordinary artist, then as now recognized all over the world. In the following years, there were also other foreign winners, such as Helene Kirchmair or Eva Pelechova, as well as young artists whose potential was recognized, such as Aurora Vantaggiato and others. On an operational level, the difficult 2020 edition, despite the pandemic, was organized by distributing the works on display in many places in the city, creating an ideal path from the Episcope Castle to the former Capuchin Convent, another exhibition and multifunctional venue. On that occasion, the personal exhibition “Ingressi contingentati” by Giorgio Di Palma, winner of the relative prize of the previous year, with frank irony and giving space to voices and a common conscience provided his vision about all the difficulties and attentions of such a particular period.

Grottaglie is often referred to as the ceramics capital of Puglia. How does this beautiful location influence the competition? Does the international competition also play a part in the local ceramics scene?

There is no doubt that Grottaglie is the reference point for ceramics in Puglia, even though there are other centers with significant traditions, such as Cutrofiano and Laterza. The peculiarity of local production is that for centuries, it has been rooted in a specific place, a ravine, originally the ancient bed of a river generated by the erosion of limestone rocks. This “ceramics district” gives life to an economy and an induced of considerable proportions, mostly linked to the everyday objects for the table and the small furnishing accessories. But in addition to an important craft activity, it should be noted the will of many creatives to create unique works and pieces, significant personalities, some of which are now historicized. Many of these have found a stimulus in testing themselves with a competition and then with a jury. The perception of the competition in the neighboring area has changed because if there have been editions in which participation was mostly local, today, the competition has a much wider audience of candidates. The challenge is more complex and, at the same time, more attractive.

How does the Mediterraneo competition differentiate itself from others, and what makes it an attractive platform for artists?

The main difference is that, despite being born in 1971 and having reached the XXX edition, the competition is still “young.” By young, we mean that its current structure results from a long journey that has been refined over the last ten years. The constant development work has led the competition to have a national and international appeal today. Today’s attraction lies in the fact that, despite its position linked to the Mediterranean world, Grottaglie can be a point of reference well beyond the European borders due to its creative vitality.

What are your aspirations and plans for the future of the Mediterraneo competition?

This year, it was announced that, with the next edition, a third prize would be established, “Artist’s Residence,” which completes the first prize “Mediterraneo,” i.e., the acquisition of the municipal heritage, and the second prize, “Personal Exhibition.” It seems to me an important bet and that the commitment made by the current administration is remarkable: an artist’s residence implies substantial burdens, but above all, the willingness of the city community to welcome an artist so that he can come into contact with the vivid local history. Working with so many passionate and competent people has been a pleasure. In these two years in office, I have been able to make some changes, which are nothing more than good practices known and seen in other similar contexts. My wish is that the direction undertaken with so much commitment in recent years will be maintained over time.

August 2023

Marco Maria Polloniato is an art historian, editor and curator.

Three decades later, we had the privilege of sitting down with Torbjørn Kvasbø to delve into the inspiration behind the workshop and his vision for creating the Centre for Ceramic Art, an innovative space where ceramics creativity and exploration knew no bounds. The workshop method implemented in Ringebu, already established in the USA, soon grew into a global movement, leading to outcomes that shaped the trajectory of ceramics not only in Norway but also worldwide.

Beyond its immediate impact, the workshop’s legacy extended far beyond its timeframe, establishing a network of artists that would continue to reap its benefits long into the future. In this interview, we explore the workshop’s role in driving the evolution of Norwegian ceramics over the years. Furthermore, we delve into the establishment of the Centre for Ceramic Art (CCA) in Ringebu, its significance in promoting ceramic art, and how the current exhibition, “Ceramics Ringebu 1993-2023,” captures the trend-setting nature of the meeting between Norwegian ceramists and international artists in 1993.

The Winter Olympics Workshop in Ringebu in 1993 marked a significant milestone for Norwegian ceramics. Can you share the inspiration behind initiating this workshop and your vision for bringing together international ceramicists and Norwegian artists?

In 1992 I took the initiative for a 1993 Winter Olympics Ceramic Workshop in Ringebu in the Gudbrandsdalen Valley, in Norway.

The workshop was part of the cultural program in advance of the Winter Olympics in Lillehammer. In the Olympic spirit, the intention was to gather some of the leading practitioners in the field. So, the funding and support from the Olympics organizers was fundamental. I got inspiration from participating in NCECA conferences and workshops in the US in the 1980s. Very important was also the Oslo International Ceramic Symposium 1990 (OICS). Two of the organizers, Professor Ole Lislerud and Professor Arne Åse, justified the American dominance by pointing out that “the USA is the leading country in ceramics…the Americans have a devil-may-care survival philosophy, they have a raw style, they get things done, are wild and crazy and, while the result is not always wonderful in artistic terms, we can learn a lot from them – we should import their vigor and go-ahead spirit.” (Kunsthåndverk no 4–5, 1990). Workshop Ringebu 1993 followed this thinking, but unlike OICS, it was based on more direct collaboration over a more extended period.

By shaking people together, an energy and power are created that become important for the individual’s further work. And in our professional environment, we learn from each other and combine it into something of our own.

The workshop method you implemented in Ringebu was already established in the US and soon became a global movement. What were some of the key outcomes or discoveries that emerged from this collaborative environment?

A master practitioner demonstrating their methods is a classic form of teaching. This method has developed almost into a kind of performance in parts of the ceramic scene in the USA. How to become good at your craft is not something you can learn from books. It must be learned through practice. It takes ten thousand hours to become a master, claims the sociologist Richard Sennett in his book The Craftsman (2008). By inviting artists who I believed set the standard for ceramics as art, together with other key international practitioners, I wanted to create an arena that would provide mutual inspiration.

The international participants were amazed at the Norwegian ceramics they saw: ‘What we found was impressive: a group of dedicated artists who were finding their own voice, achieving a standard that was international both in its quality and in its ambition,’ said the American gallery owner and collector Garth Clark, on a later occasion. The British writer Peter Dormer stated that ceramic art in Norway was characterized by an ‘anti-industry, anti-playing safe and anti-refinement’ philosophy and was therefore ‘anti-commercial.’

Among other objectives, the workshop aimed to create a network that individual artists could benefit from later. How has the workshop’s impact extended beyond its initial timeframe, and what influence has it had on the artistic practices of the participating artists and the public?

It was based on more direct collaboration over a longer period. In this kind of setting, I hoped that a network would arise that the individual artists would benefit from later. That has turned out to be true: Collaboration projects, exhibitions, and workshops are some of the results. But essential for me was also to show foreign artists what we in Norway were capable of because Norwegian ceramicists were perhaps lacking in self-confidence and ambition compared to the Americans; they had nothing to be ashamed of artistically, in my opinion.

In 2019, you established the Centre for Ceramic Art (CCA) in Ringebu as a permanent exhibition space and a center for dissemination activities. Could you elaborate on the journey of establishing the CCA and its role in promoting ceramic art?

The Center for Ceramic Arts is a newly established arena for innovative projects, artistic exchange, exhibitions and workshops in clay. The center came as a natural manifestation of my experience, network, and, eventually, professional position in the field.

Major events prior to the establishment of CCA – mentor projects by Torbjørn Kvasbø:

1993: The Winter Olympics project ‘Ceramics Ringebu 1993’, funded by the Lillehammer Olympic Organizing Committee.

Ten well-known international ceramicists were invited to work together with ten selected Norwegian ceramicists for five weeks at Ringebu Folk High School. This workshop could not have taken place without the big international ceramics symposium in 1990, Oslo International Ceramic Symposium, OICS. OICS was organized by Professor Arne Åse and Professor Ole Lislerud from the ceramics department at the Norwegian National Academy of Craft and Art Industry in Oslo. The symposium, attended by 500 members of the ceramics community from all over the world, was inspired by the annual (ceramics) NCECA conferences in the USA, a network in which Åse and Lislerud, their students, and Norwegian colleagues became active participants.

1993: The exhibition ‘Mestermøte’ (Meeting with a Master) in connection with the workshop ‘Ceramics Ringebu 1993’.

Norwegian and international contemporary ceramics were shown at the Lillehammer Art Museum in 1993 (ceramic art was exhibited for the first time in this Fine Art Museum), the Museum of Decorative Arts and Design in Oslo (1993), the National Museum of Decorative Arts in Trondheim (1995). This exhibition featured work by all 20 invited participants at the Winter Olympics workshop in 1993. Here, the participants showed selected works from their own studios that had been submitted in advance.

1996: The course ‘Bygging av store former’ (Building large forms) in Ringebu, as part of the Norwegian Association for Arts and Crafts further education courses in ceramics.

The sculpture project was carried out with the help of Ringebu municipality, which generously made vacant industrial premises available.

1997: Kalmar Ceramic Workshop, Sweden

In connection with the 600th anniversary of the Kalmar Union, I was invited by Kyrre Dahl, head of culture in Kalmar municipality, to produce an outdoor on-site sculpture project involving the most prominent artists in the Nordic countries, one from each country, together with 20 students from all the art academies in the Nordic region. Gudny Magnusdottir (Iceland), Pekka Paikkari, Finland, Nina Hole, Denmark, Kennet Williamsson, Sweden, Torbjørn Kvasbø, Norway.

1999: ‘Norwegian Contemporary Ceramics’ (NCC), Amsterdam, in connection with the international Ceramics Millennium Congress, on the initiative of New York gallery owner and art historian Garth Clark.

This exhibition, which presented 30 selected Norwegian ceramicists, was supported by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Norwegian Association for Arts and Crafts. Individuals who contributed to NCC included curator and professor Jorunn Veiteberg and the artists Hanne Heuch, Helene Kortner, Inge Pedersen, Søren Ubisch, Gunilla Åkesson and Kari Skoe Fredriksen, at gallery Arti et Amicitiae in Amsterdam, owned and operated by a visual artist organization.

2010: ‘Le Crut et le Cuit / The Raw and the Cooked’

A presentation of Norwegian contemporary ceramics / ceramicists at Galerie Favardin & de Verneuil, Paris, France, in connection with the International Academy of Ceramics (IAC) congress in Paris. The Norwegian Association for Arts and Crafts and curators Jorunn Veiteberg and Heidi Bjørgan were collaborating partners. Supported by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Norwegian Association for Arts and Crafts, among others.

2011: The project ‘Raw Clay’ in Ringebu municipality

‘Raw Clay’ took place inside and outside an industrial sandblasting hall in Ringebu. The invited artists were Alexandra Engelfriet (NL), Neil Brownsword (UK), and Katrine Køster Holst (DK/NO). Film-maker Marlou van der Berge documented the project in the film ‘Raw Material,’ which premiered at Galleri Format in Oslo in 2012. ‘Raw Clay’ was based on the same model as ‘The British Ceramic Biennial,’ where, in 2009, artist Neil Brownsword led the project ‘Marl Hole’ in Stoke-on-Trent. Alexandra Engelfriet, Pekka Paikkari, and Torbjørn Kvasbø became involved in the initiative of Brownsword and made significant contributions to the project. More information on YouTube: Marl Hole

2015: The Barn Building, Ringebu municipality

In 2015, I entered into a collaboration with Ringebu municipality. It is regulated in a memorandum of understanding stating that the Byre in the Barn Building will be upgraded to suitable premises for exhibitions and storage for works of art that belong to me.

2016: Pre-project for a masterplan for the area comprising Ringebu Vicarage and Ringebu Stave Church

Ringebu municipality purchased the barn building at Ringebu Vicarage from the Norwegian Church Endowment (OVF) in 2011. In 2016, Ringebu municipality prepared together with me a pre-project for a masterplan for the area comprising Ringebu Vicarage and Ringebu Stave Church. A ceramics artist-in-residence programme was one of the main elements of the pre-project. The pre-project was carried out in 2016 with support from Oppland County Authority. The barn building at Ringebu Vicarage was to be upgraded to function as a permanent exhibition space for ceramic art and a center for dissemination activities. In addition to a 120 m2 Monumental Ceramic Studio offering a year-round artist-in-residence program, The Centre for Ceramic Art disposes of 600 m2 of exhibition space and four floors with ceramic activity.

The current exhibition, “Ceramics Ringebu 1993-2023,” reflects on the developments that have taken place in the 30 years since the Winter Olympics Workshop. How does this exhibition capture the trend-setting nature of the meeting between Norwegian ceramicists and international giants in 1993? What can visitors expect to experience through historical & contemporary artworks?

Seven of the participants from 1993 are dead (Harald Solberg, NO, Peter Voulkos, USA, Rudy Autio, USA, Chuck Wissinger, USA, Nina Hole, DK, Janet Mansfield, AU, Jim Leedy, USA). They left behind donated works they made during the weeks at Ringebu in 1993. It’s a unique collection I have taken care of, and it is being shown this summer for the first time.

What should we call ceramic work that has no practical use? That was the question Norway’s National Broadcaster, NRK, asked at the beginning of its report from the international ceramics workshop at Ringebu in 1993, which, 30 years later, is being marked by an exhibition at the Centre for Ceramic Art. The NRK story was broadcast as part of the arts programme Kulturoperatørene on 22 September 1993.

The question can be taken as an indication that things were changing in the ceramic scene in Norway. This change was about ceramicists’ self-perception, their position in relation to the arts in general, and their artistic ambitions. ‘Why are 90% of all ceramics made in a “homely size” of less than 15 kilos and measure 30 x 30 x 30 cm?’ I asked in the craft journal Kunsthåndverk in 1993. In the USA, I met ceramicists who challenged such conventional thinking. They made ceramics that were more like sculptures than utility objects and were characterized more by deconstruction than decoration. As Jim Leedy (1929–2021) told me at Ringebu, for him and his colleague Peter Voulkos (1924–2002), a jar was essentially a point of departure for creating sculpture. And, for that reason, he called himself neither a potter nor a ceramicist: ‘I call myself an artist who works in clay.’ Today, it is easy to smirk at such hair-splitting, but in the early 1990s, there was a lot of debate in Norwegian ceramic circles about what to call something that was so far from the traditional values of pottery.

The workshop in Ringebu could be criticized for being male-dominated, emphasizing large and heavy ceramics. How do you respond to this critique, and does the exhibition address and showcase the diverse range of artistic expressions within ceramics, including smaller-scale works and alternative approaches?

It’s a document of its time and wouldn’t have happened today. It reflects some of the strongest ideals I had at the time. There was a much stronger hero worship; we had role models that we aspired to. It also reflects the information we had internationally at that time, who got the most space in publications. Monumentality was, and maybe still is, masculinity-coded in art. There was, or is, also a tendency to equate scale with value. It is now as natural to recognize and value how demanding it is to convey power through work on a smaller scale. In hindsight, I understand the criticism and have no need to defend myself. It was my project, my selection based on my experience and what and who I thought was important at the time. In addition to being significant artists, several participants were active in several ways within the ceramic network, such as editors of ceramic magazines, producers of residencies, professors, and heads of ceramics departments. This was before we had the internet and social media, and access to information was different than it is now.

It was essential for me through this project to make sure that the dissemination of information was diversified through the participants and maximized. We only had what was presented through ceramic magazines and what we happened to see of these, usually at the ceramics departments at the craft schools in Oslo and Bergen since few of us could afford to subscribe to them. We rarely saw exhibition catalogs, for example.

Norwegian ceramics has undergone significant changes since the workshop in 1993, including internationalization. In what ways have these changes shaped the field, and how does the exhibition at Ringebu reflect and embody the modern trends that have emerged?

Internationalization is a keyword in that context. These changes have a lot to do with what has happened within education. In Norway, you can study ceramics at the art academies in Oslo and Bergen. Students come from all over the world, meaning a much more diverse environment. The study programs have a strong focus on interdisciplinarity and theory nowadays. They don’t read Bernhard Leach’s “A Potter’s Book” as we did in my student days, and the studio craft movement is no longer a significant reference. It is the general art world that students are informed about, and their identity is as artists more than a ceramicist or craft person. In the exhibition, you can see that the younger generations don’t use the vessel or other references from the history of ceramics but are making sculptural or conceptual works about contemporary issues of different kinds. Many art fairs and biennials have now opened for ceramics, and several Norwegian ceramicists are represented in galleries abroad. Norwegian Crafts, which started in 2012, also endeavors to strengthen Norwegian craft’s position internationally through exhibitions, publications, seminars, and visiting programs. The most significant difference is, nonetheless, the access to information and contact offered by the internet and social media. Network Society was an unknown concept in 1993, but it is now the reality we all live in.

Ceramics Ringebu 1993-2023 also explores the accessibility of ceramics as a medium, welcoming many types of artists and styles. How does the exhibition embrace the versatility of ceramics and create a space for dialogue between different artistic practices?

The starting point for the 30th-anniversary exhibition is that all participants, all ceramicists from 1993, including the student assistants, are invited to exhibit together again.

In the summer of 2023, the exhibition at Ringebu offers an opportunity to both look back and take stock of the current status. It is interesting to see what kind of ceramics the artists who took part in the intense weeks of work 30 years ago are making today, large and small works, utility objects and sculptures, visual art and craft: Ceramics has room for them all. Thirty years later, the curation done by Ingunn Svanes Almedal and I is about showing what has happened to each of them during these years. All show works from 1993 and the most recent works from the 2020s.

Development through sharing. CCA in Ringebu offers many opportunities for established practitioners and newly trained ceramicists to come together and share impulses and knowledge. The importance of my artistic network to the Centre for Ceramic Art cannot be exaggerated. With an extensive background in international collaboration, exhibitions, gatherings, conferences and workshops, my focus has been on artist-driven renewal and on developing ceramics, but also on collaboration across continents. It may sound like a correct thing to say, but a culture for sharing, hard work and perseverance really are the key to understanding how individual practitioners and the community as a whole have acquired a high level of skills and knowledge through collective processes.

The artistic infrastructure has already been built over many years of individual practice and collective networks that have matured the Centre’s activities through the facilities it offers today. One significant difference between the Centre for Ceramic Art and other large shared ceramic studios and centers it is natural to compare it with is that great emphasis is put on CCA being artist-run. It reflects many of the most essential undercurrents in ceramics in the last 50 years.

The vicarages (the houses in which vicars live, Ed.) have had a major impact on the development of Norwegian public education, agriculture and building customs. They have been, and are today, the center of power for a versatile cultural enterprise.

Knowledge and teaching were important. Through the operating income, the farms helped to finance the start of higher education in Norway. Prestegården (the Vicarage) was a place of news, impulses, and, for many, a “window to the world” outside the village. In this way, the parsonages played an absolutely central role in many local communities. The vicarages tell an essential story about the people and the village, about the region and the part of the country. The parsonages are historical, cultural carriers that must be protected through continued use.

And here we, the CCA, stand, in the middle of the most important building in our cultural landscape, in the cathedral of agriculture, the red barn.

The exhibition rooms, Trevet and Kjøringa, are traditional Norwegian barn architecture with a completely open wooden beam construction, where all building elements have either a load-bearing or a supported function. This places great demands on the installation of the exhibition, where it is important to cooperate with the rooms as much as possible. There is a close and organic interplay between the architecture and the objects on display, where the space and architecture are utilized for all it is worth. This is a space where the white plinth, visual art’s traditional and alienating way of emphasizing itself and creating distance, does not work at all.

Thus, the diversity is self-evident.

A special thanks to the group around CCA, and this exhibition, Ingunn Svanes Almedal, Kari Sund, Nina Standerholen, Brage Kvasbø, Trude Westby Nordmark, and Marita Eri Mo.

Torbjørn Kvasbø, July 2023

Visit the Centre for Ceramic Art (CCA)’s website and Instagram page.

Visit Torbjørn Kvasbø’s website.

Interview by Vasi Hirdo, publisher & editor of Ceramics Now

Photos by Thomas Tveter

Interview with Lauren Kearns, the founder of IaRex l’Atelier, a ceramics studio and residency program

Lauren Kearns is a ceramic artist and teacher who boldly decided to relocate to the scenic south of France in 2018, where she opened a ceramics studio and residency program. Named IaRex l’Atelier: International Artists Residency Exchange, this creative space welcomes individuals who want to work independently, take private lessons, participate in workshops, or have a pause in travels and simply create in a beautiful environment. In this interview, Kearns takes us on a journey through her inspiring path in the world of ceramics.

Can you tell us about the origins of your residency program? When and why did you decide to start it?

I attended a residency program here in southern France and fell in love with the area. I had been teaching at numerous places where I lived in Colorado. When I came to France, I thought I might like living here, so I received a visa, rented my house, and within three months of being in the area, had the idea to start a flexible residency program with artists or novices who could come and choose the amount of time they wished to stay while having a place to create. Accommodations could be individually arranged depending on budget and degree of comfort. I wanted to contribute, continue to teach, offer what I have learned, and help students.

What are the main characteristics and unique aspects of your flexible residency program?

The studio is centrally located in the center ville and has all sorts of amenities that make living easy. It is very well equipped, and I provide any trips to the stores to purchase any other materials people may need. Clay is stocked at the studio, as well as underglazes and glaze. The central concept is for artists to have an immersion experience. They are not isolated. The train and bus station are centrally located within walking distance from the studio so that artists can easily travel all over the area. The center is located on the Mediterranean Sea, so for outdoor lovers, there are beaches (kayaking, paddle boarding, sailing) and small mountains (by Colorado standards) for hiking and mountain biking.

Who is your residency program primarily designed for? Do you have any feedback from previous participants?

There are programs for all levels. Professional artists can use the time to create and explore. I offer private lessons to all levels, having taught ceramics for over 35 years. I wanted the studio to be where people could meet and make friends from other countries and cultures.

The feedback has been super positive. People think it is beautiful, with lots of light and air, and they are happy with the equipment and the ease of exploration/travel. Everyone has been thrilled with the private lessons that address tips on improving their skill level, as well as the workshops.

Please walk us through the selection process for artists interested in joining your residency program. What criteria do you consider while choosing participants?

I require a CV, a brief (3-5 sentences) letter of intent, images, or a website. I need to know who they are, their interests and background, and their current work and level. This way, I can be of the best assistance to the artist. If they are a beginner? No problem. I suggest a course study or a lesson to help them start their exploration of ceramics. The letter of intent is required to determine if they are clear about what they wish to do/accomplish during their stay. Granted, the intention can change, but the statement provides me with clarity of thought about how I can help and their background.

As an artist and the founder of this residency program, what valuable insights have you gained from embarking on this journey? How has it impacted your own artistic practice?

As you might know, I started the program before covid and had to shut it down. It started very well. Covid has changed everything because the clientele has to travel to get here, and travel is more challenging now. People seem to be accustomed to learning online, and many of the private lessons I have done are for people who have learned online and have not had anyone ‘hold their hand” to help them with the wheel, for example. The workshops have been fantastic when they happen, as I require a minimum of students because I have to pay for the artists teaching fees, airfare, accommodations, and materials. I was an executive director of a ceramic center and know that people don’t like to be ‘nickeled and dime”, so I offer an all-inclusive workshop package with no hidden or extra fees. In my program description, all prices are stated in the beginning; no surprises, which people appreciate. If the teaching workshop artists want to include lunches, I cook the lunches, and people love the food.

As the studio’s creator, I have seen friendships formed, learning, skills and creativity develop, and experience gained from living in another culture for a period of time. The area is safe and friendly. It is not a large intimidating city, nor being isolated in the country. People have time to enjoy the amenities that are accessible. Primarily I am available to help people have a good and positive experience. I do not have enough time for my own work because I am busy promoting the studio. It is ok, there is a time in life for everything, and this is my focus now.

What types of workshops do you plan for this year? How do these workshops contribute to the overall experience of the residents?

Teachers are always welcome to bring their own group to the studio for an immersion experience. One comes to another country not just to work in a studio but to be inspired by their surroundings. I often refer to this, as my own work is inspired by it, as seeds of ideas that one gathers and then takes home to their individual studios to develop and grow. If there is a resident artist during a workshop, they have the pleasure of making friends and participating in external events. For 2023, I have Kirsten Stingle this fall. For 2024, Sue Tirrell, Martha Grover, Jan Edwards, and Natasha Dikavera.

Do you facilitate interaction and collaboration among the artists during their residency?

I facilitate exploration of the area, offer’ field trips’ so to speak, and help people in all ways to enjoy all that the south of France has to offer. I have a list of excursions (near to far) for everyone. The studio is either quiet or full of people talking, exchanging ideas, life stories, and making connections. Artists tend to be very respectful of one another’s work practices.

Looking ahead, what are your goals for the residency program?

I would like this to be a busy program, one for artists and teachers who love to teach, and eventually open a gallery in the center of Saint-Raphaël to exhibit artists’ work.

Find more information about the residency here.

June 12, 2023

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Can you tell us the story behind the founding of the gallery?

The gallery was founded by me and my wife Emma and was the realisation of a project we had both wanted to fulfil for many years. Whilst for Emma, it was a continuation of her career; she trained in Fine Art, worked in public and private galleries and was head of a large corporate art collection; for me, it was a change of direction. While my private passion was enjoying and buying art, my previous career was in corporate consultancy.

We aimed to establish a gallery that had a very determined focus on representing ceramic as an art form and curating its presence alongside paintings and sculpture. To elevate its rightful status if you like. We began representing many of the artists we had collected over 20 years which was a delight. Going from collector to dealer was a wonderful transition, and it allowed us to be very honest and true about how we represented the artists.

A few years after founding the gallery, you embarked on a new journey to represent a fantastic selection of Japanese ceramic artists. Why did you start specializing in contemporary Japanese ceramics?

About two years in, we discussed the idea of showing some contemporary Japanese work. It had been a personal interest of mine, along with all things Japanese, but we really needed to learn how much interest there was in such work in the UK.

Being a keen student of Japanese traditions, I wanted to expose the breadth of work that was emerging from the kilns across Japan. A big challenge but one we were excited about, one which has enabled us to stage some genuinely amazing shows over the last five years. Along that journey, we have shared our passion for Japanese work with thousands of people and been the instigators of new collections for people new to Japanese ceramics. This is what drives us, seeing the lightbulb go on over a client’s head when a rustic, organic, raw piece of Iga Yaki suddenly comes into view as beautiful to them.

How many Japanese ceramic artists do you represent?

Gosh, lots! We represent around 50 Japanese artists, and that continues to grow. We enjoy the ambition of wide representation, the challenges it brings, and the opportunities it gives us. In our last exhibition, “Treasures of Japan II’, we exhibited 23 contemporary artists with nearly 300 pieces of varied and contrasting work. I enjoy people being overwhelmed by the scope of Japanese ceramics today, but I am always on hand to help them navigate a path through what they see!

We have had the pleasure of representing senior artists such as Yamada Kazu and Tanimoto Kei, mid-career artists such as Ichikawa Toru and Inayoshi Osamu, female front runners such as Takahashi Nami and Takemura Yuri, and emerging talents such as Ujiie Kodai. Crossing the seniority spectrum is crucial to us; it enables more people to collect, satisfies established collectors, and enhances the career of younger makers we represent outside of Japan.

You sometimes show Japanese artists that have never exhibited in the UK. What are the challenges of organizing these exhibitions?

I would say the majority of makers we have shown have debuted in the UK by us, and for many, it has been their debut outside of Japan. It is always a pleasure to do it, to display our faith in a maker’s work to the extent that we are prepared to invest in the significant task of organising a collection of their work here. Whilst it’s a complex and expensive task, it always feels worth it once the work is here and our clients are adding it to their collections. The language barrier is an obvious added complexity. Still, I continue to learn to speak, read and write in Japanese and have always been respectful of cultural differences, which I also enjoy learning about.

How do you find new artists? What qualities are essential to you when looking for artists to represent?

I find this difficult to answer. I can’t be definitive, as Japanese ceramics is a daily thought process and conversation in my head. When you have dozens of traditions stretching back centuries, and in some cases millennia, you have subject matter that could easily consume several lifetimes of study. I am always looking and learning. I am aware that my lifetime is limited, and there is so much still to learn and discover, so I naturally come across makers in pursuit of extending my knowledge. I won’t lie; it’s a wonderful job!

You organized dozens of exhibitions over the last few years. Can you share some highlights with us?

Being a gallery that still values putting on exhibitions is central to our ethos and will continue to be. It is an opportunity to be creative with mixed shows and strategic to an artist’s career with solo exhibitions.

Mixed exhibitions allow us to create thoughtful angles into a show such as ‘Generations – Father & Son’ in 2021, which allowed our clients to investigate similarities and divergences between the work of the father versus the work of the son within the same tradition. ‘Kodai Ujiie – Japanese Vanguard’ in July 2022 provided Ujiie san with his first solo show outside of Japan, which was a rapid sellout and has helped his career both at home and internationally. Both these shows were natural highlights for us. Still, an honourable mention must go to our sake ware show in 2019, where we had an extended Nihonshu workshop and tasting before the opening – that was a very merry affair for all in attendance!

Earlier this year, you released your new website, where visitors can buy artwork online. How are online art sales compared to traditional ones? What else has changed since your first show in 2016?

You’re right; we updated our site in early 2022 to improve our customers’ online experience. Again this is important to us as we have clients all over the world. There are large communities of collectors in the USA and Europe, and they tell us they like how we make it easy to learn about and purchase works. We even have clients in Japan!

But nothing beats being in front of a piece of ceramic that you can hold and investigate in person. That is why we have an entire gallery floor dedicated to a permanent collection of imported works from Japan, in addition to our exhibition schedule. On this floor, we display collections of work from a superb array of makers all year round—collections I personally choose from firings and purchase directly from the artist. It means there is always a new treasure to be found, no matter how many times someone visits. But for those unable to visit – I’m glad technology allows us to share what we have and why we love it.

What events are you planning for 2023 and beyond?

I’m currently planning shows into 2025, and it won’t be long until I turn my attention to 2026, but 2023 has some fantastic shows to be excited about. In February, we give Yamaguchi Makoto his first solo show in the UK, in the summer, we will be staging Muta Yoca’s first international solo, and in November, we are beyond proud to be staging a solo for Higashida Shigemasa.

I have also planned debuts and re-introductions of makers scheduled throughout the year on a smaller scale, so there are lots to be excited about and many more phone calls with customs agents to have! I’ll also be spending the first few weeks of January 2023 in Japan on artist visits; no doubt that will spark more ideas for shows yet unthought of!

The Stratford Gallery is based in Broadway, Worcestershire, United Kingdom. Contact information: +44 (0)1386 335 229, art@thestratfordgallery.co.uk

Ceramics Now • December 2022

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First, I want to congratulate you for curating such a beautiful show. What sparked the idea for Handle with Care?

As a curator, one always has a bucket list of subjects on which one would like to develop an exhibition. I have always wanted to do a show on either the hand or the foot. I chose the hand after a scan of our permanent collection of over 45000 works. Hands are the key tool for making ceramics, and they are capable of communicating on so many levels, both intimate and public – through caresses, gestures, and signs. Hands also serve in many metaphors – for ‘handling’ things that come our way!

The exhibition includes a variety of works, from archaeological finds to recent acquisitions of contemporary artworks. Can you explain the show’s theme?

Princessehof has an incredible collection of ceramics from Asia (primarily Chinese), Europe, the Middle and Near East and South America. Our sister museums, the Fries Museum and Resistance Museum, also have collections of ceramics. As my first major exhibition for the Princessehof, it was an opportunity to become (superficially) acquainted with these collections. Historical and contemporary works and installations from all three collections were placed in dialogue with new acquisitions and loans from contemporary artists.

Are all the works in Handle with Care made by hand? Does the exhibition’s theme allude to the ever-expanding use of technology to create art?

Yes, in your question, I sense the commonly held perception that works produced by new technologies exclude the hand. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth!

Many traditionalists love the manual aspect of creating ceramics and are resistant to tools that involve more screen time and less hand time! However, the use of new tools, such as 3-D printers, does not exclude or reduce the importance of the hand. Anyone who has used these tools knows they are very laborious and require permanent observation and lots of manual input!

In recognition of this space of contention within the ceramics world, I included an installation of a manual 3D printer by Dutch designer Daniel de Bruyn. The work is powered by manually winding up a rotary mechanism and requires lots of handling with care!

Do you think contemporary ceramics is handled and cared for differently than other media?

Within a museum context, contemporary ceramic requires a moderate amount of care! Obviously, ceramics are relatively fragile when compared to, say, a bronze sculpture, but they have many other wonderful qualities! They will endure for at least 30 000 years and not degrade like many modern materials, including plastics. They don’t require special maintenance like many metals that oxidize, tarnish and corrode. And, in a period where everyone is watching energy bills in museums, ceramics do not require climate control for storage or display, unlike works on paper, items made of organic materials or fiber, etc.

Handle with Care includes work by artists from countries not necessarily associated with contemporary ceramics, such as Nigeria, Surinam, Peru, or Dagestan (Russia). How did you make the selection?

Handle with Care includes both historical and contemporary works from across the globe. Ceramics are found in most cultures and epochs. As an art medium, it truly celebrates cultural diversity. One of the aims of the exhibition is to highlight the fact that ceramics is a practice that forms a part of our collective DNA. It is possibly the most global of all art forms.

The show’s opening featured a performance by Neha Kudchadkar, whose work, Handjob, is also part of the show. Can you tell us more about her performance?

Neha wrote the following about her performance. ‘How does one accept self-care and find moments of intimacy with oneself when the mind is numb and stifled with the happenings of the world? A bullet through a sister, the release of rapists, the hacking of the earth, the swallowing of the ocean, drowning of children. Could the greatest act of resistance be to be myself? To nurture, serve, decorate and love my being for being? Using the thumri as a starting point, I claim my ground and be.’ Using poetry, song, and dance, Neha’s performance explored self-care as expressed through the ritual of self-adornment.

What are the highlights of Handle with Care? How should visitors read and experience the show?

While each visitor will have their own personal reading or experience, I hope that the visitor is amazed and awe-struck by the design of the exhibition and the quality of the works! I also hope visitors feel respected and handled with care!

An important but relatively discreet development in this exhibition is formulating a new format for the labels that describe exhibits. We blended templates traditionally used to describe the two types of art found in this museum, namely ‘heritage’ objects, and fine art. The new labels acknowledge the numerous unknown makers of works from distant times and lands.

Like most museums in Europe, the majority of the objects in our collection were collected in the context of colonial and neo-colonial projects, a period when due diligence about provenance was not a priority. Having my roots in South Africa, I can attest to the widespread practice of collectors, who chose not to record the name of an artist as a way of controlling the market. It means others cannot collect or research similar works, and the maker cannot sell to other collectors. An acknowledgment of this history of unequal relationships is reflected in the use of the term ‘unidentified artist’ instead of ‘anonymous’ or ‘unknown’ artist.

Handle with Care is on view at the Princessehof National Museum of Ceramics, Leeuwarden, until October 20, 2023.

Ceramics Now • December 2022

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Irit Ovadia Rosenberg would be the first to tell you that she never imagined establishing a ceramic practice amongst the towering pines of New York State’s Catskills mountains, far from the madding crowd of her native New York City. Nestled between the conifers and surrounded by wild fern, her studio barn and cottage gallery provide a serene backdrop that lend her substantive, tactile assemblages an even greater sense of expanded space and time.

In her latest assemblage series, the artist hangs draped ceramic forms alongside the brutalist, rusted remains of farm machinery from bygone days, creating an uneasy yet harmonious co-existence. I sat down with Irit to discuss the nature and evolution of these unique groupings.

Let’s start with your ceramic oeuvre. Both your functional and sculptural forms have always been defined by a conscious desire to show the creator’s hand and celebrate the imperfect – you embrace the cracks, the runny glazes and even the warping!

I’ve always enjoyed bending the rules and seeing how far I can go in manipulating the clay. That’s probably why I prefer hand building to wheel throwing. I love the infinite possibilities of a freshly rolled slab. I get so much enjoyment texturizing and printing on slabs even before shaping them into a form. I think the lack of formal training allowed me to experiment with clay from the very beginning. I sort of fell into ceramics while I was teaching art at the American School in Israel. The school wanted to offer a clay elective and aside from some rudimentary training, I learned about clay as I went along. The purist, pristine aesthetic never appealed to me. Some of my failed experiments were my favorite pieces!

You have accumulated decades worth of experimental ceramic fragments as well as components from past series and exhibitions. What inspired you to re-purpose these items and combine them with pieces from your ever-expanding collection of rusted metal and weathered wood artifacts?

Those ceramic pieces still hold meaning for me – they were created with my own hands. They represent a point along the continuum of my ceramic education. I find many of them beautiful and want to give them a new home, a new lease on life, if you will. It’s like sending your kid out into the world again! I enjoy the symbolic transformation of a solitary, random object when it becomes part of a bigger picture. Similarly, I’m drawn to old scavenged and found objects because of their history. They are also deserving of a second chance. Aesthetically, the build up of rust and texture on these corroded objects are reminiscent of the iron oxide and iron glazes I am fond of using. I like the fact that even though my hand built ceramic pieces are vulnerable to breakage, the clay fragments may well last longer than the machinery-produced elements. The rusted artifacts scream ‘Don’t touch’ whereas the smooth surfaces of my draped ceramics are an invitation to caress. There’s a dialogue that develops between the discordant elements – sometimes it’s loud and sometimes it’s quiet.

What is the origin and significance of your draped forms? Is there a story behind them?

Years ago, I was visiting a museum in New York and I was struck by the expressive folds of the garments on the Greek and Roman sculptures. Fabric is an integral part of human civilization and plays a significant role in all aspects of our lives – from the soft fabric you swaddle a baby in, to the sheet that one is buried in according to Jewish tradition. But creating a facsimile of draped fabric out of clay is extremely challenging. I usually start out with texturizing or silkscreen printing on a slab before carefully forming the folds and letting the piece dry very, very slowly. During the firing (cone 10), the piece has to lie flat in the kiln so unfortunately I often lose the fullness of the folds and they develop cracks as they sag. Even allowing for imperfections, my breakage rate for these draped forms is about sixty percent!

Walk me through your assemblage process – do you begin with one foundational piece that sets the tone for each assemblage? How do you know when they are complete?

I’ve loved the art of assemblage ever since being introduced to Picasso’s early assemblages. Jasper Johns is also a great inspiration. I usually start from the top down with the horizontal element that will support the hanging components. I get excited when I find a piece that is full of character and interesting detail. I hang it on a blank wall of my gallery and then I start picking through my collection of ceramic works and metal or wooden objects. I customize the hanging hardware either out of old chain or twisted wires. It’s a very physical process and one that is painstakingly slow. I arrange and re-arrange constantly – I can very much relate to Oscar Wilde’s famous quote: “I spent all morning taking out a comma and all afternoon putting it back!” I get a distinct feeling in my gut when the piece comes together in a harmonious composition. Like the pieces of a puzzle. It’s a great feeling but I might come back to it weeks later and start substituting or adding elements. I consider these assemblages as works in progress.

Could you see creating these assemblages without ceramics?

I can’t imagine not using some element made of clay in my work. Clay is such a remarkable material. Working with clay engages the four elements of matter: Earth, Water, Air and Fire. The ceramic pieces play off the found objects in terms of material, texture, history and design.

How has moving out of the city to the country impacted your work?

It was a difficult transition. When I lived in New York City I had access to some of the most innovative art being produced. I worried at first about what I was missing out on but now I appreciate the quiet and serenity of the Catskills and its history as an agricultural community. I source almost all of my found objects from this area. I think my love of forgotten and abandoned farm implements stems from my time in Israel, a country so ancient that you need only scratch the dirt to find a two-thousand-year-old shard of pottery!

What do you want the viewer to take away from these mixed media assemblages? Do you have a message?

I don’t create my assemblages with a particular concept in mind. I am more focused on the relationship between the disparate elements and creating a balanced harmony. I create them primarily for myself and when they’re ready to be seen, they can act as repositories for any number of meanings. Aside from wanting my viewers to appreciate the tactile and visual nature of the works, I urge them to question and to find their own narrative. I love that art is open for interpretation.

Irit Rosenberg

Irit Ovadia Rosenberg was born in Israel and raised in the US. She studied at Jerusalem’s Bezalel School of Art and Design and earned her undergraduate degrees in art from New York’s School of Visual Art and Hunter College. She taught Art and Ceramics at the American International School from 1994 to 2014. She currently lives in upstate New York with her husband.

When living and working in Israel she was inspired to explore the controversial issue of fences, walls and borders. It was then that she began incorporating found objects and corroded metal fragments. Her mixed media works form a sculpture of many voices. She draws inspiration from clay, its versatility, its texture and its amazing transformations.

Visit Irit Rosenberg’s website and Instagram page.

Lilianne Milgrom

Lilianne Milgrom is a multimedia artist, ceramicist and published author. Her articles have appeared in Ceramics Now, Ceramics Monthly and Ceramics Art and Perception.

You can see Lilianne’s artwork on her website or Instagram page and find out more about her writing here.

Photo captions

• Boxed woman, High Fired Stoneware, silkscreen, found materials, 21x15x3
• Korea, High Fired Stoneware, silkscreened, found materials, 11x6x5
• Mapped Fence, High Fired Stoneware, silkscreened, found materials, 22x22x3
• Mother and Son, High Fired Stoneware, silkscreen, found objects, 20x17x
• Platter, High fired stoneware, silkscreen, 24
• Woman Alone, High Fired Stoneware, silkscreen, found objects, 24x22x3

This interview is about Mary’s latest book, My Life as a Potter, and about her Legacy Project.

Part memoir, part coming-of-age story and part handbook for ceramicists, this full-colour coffee table book celebrates the art of one of Canada’s finest potters, Mary Fox. My Life as a Potter, a gorgeous full-colour coffee table book, recounts Mary Fox’s long journey to the peak of her craft and expresses the passion she feels for her work and the joy she has found in living the life of a studio potter.

A potter since the early 1970s, Fox is recognized for creating exquisite forms and distinctive textured glazes. She has shown her works internationally and at galleries across Canada. In this book she shares her plans to leave behind a legacy of support and mentorship for young artists, in the form of an artist-in-residence program steered by the Mary Fox Legacy Project Society. Royalties from this book will benefit the project.

Readers with an interest in the technical aspect of Fox’s work will especially appreciate the richly illustrated chapters on technique and artistic process. This book is for anyone who has ever been curious about the life of a professional potter, anyone hoping to become a potter themselves and anyone who believes that art has the power to guide us through life’s myriad challenges and hardships.

About the Legacy Project

Shortly before she passed away, Mary Fox’s partner, Heather Vaughan, planted an idea by asking the question, “what would have made things easier for you?”

Vaughan was touching on the idea of how to help young potters who are starting out. Fox knew the answer was to provide a place for artists to create—a place to live with a studio and a display room for selling the work.

Fox has created the Legacy Project—an artist residency that will operate out of her home and studio after she passes away. She hopes that it will offer the opportunity to young, emerging ceramic artists to develop their skills and live the life of a studio potter with financial support. Selected artists in residence will have full access to the house and studio—complete with equipment such as the Blaauw kiln and a pugmill—and the opportunity to sell the work they produce through the gallery. By the end of their residencies, they should know whether they are destined for a career as a studio potter. Hopefully, time spent at Mary Fox Pottery will enable emerging artists to save some money toward starting their own studios.

The program will offer a two-year residency with the option to extend for a third year. The Mary Fox Legacy Project Society will be responsible for maintaining the building, grounds, equipment, taxes and insurance. In addition, the society will appoint a guardian to monitor the pottery and ensure that the resident artists are living up to their obligations. Resident artists will be responsible for their own supplies, utility costs and ensuring that the pottery is open to the public. They will be expected to maintain the gallery, creation room and living space in good condition.

Click here for more information, including details on how to support the Legacy Project.

Interview with Mary Fox

How did you decide to become a potter?

It was 1973. I was starting grade eight at Central Junior High in Victoria, BC, and ceramics was the only elective that had any space. It was literally love at first touch. I had never been good at drawing, but with clay that didn’t matter, as my hands could make what I couldn’t draw. For the first time in my life I felt there was something I might be good at, and I loved it.

In 1989, you and your partner both developed myalgic encephalomyelitis (me) and you were forced to take five years away from your work. What was it like for you to come back? How did living with a disability change the way you looked at your craft?

Although I had been working at my craft for sixteen years when I became ill and had to stop, at that point I was still growing into myself as an artist, unsure about my style and looking outside myself for inspiration. When I started to work again, it was as if there had been no break in my creative path. I hadn’t been thinking about my work for all those years—that would have been too depressing—and yet, it was as if no time had gone by. Creatively, I picked up where I had left off, and I still find this amazing. It was as if I had been walking along a forest path, sat down for a moment’s rest, then got up and continued on my way.

But the experiences of the last five years had changed me. My approach to my life and work was fundamentally different, though in a good way. From this point on I resolved to produce only work that I felt deeply connected to. That meant that my approach to functional work needed to shift. I had continued doing brushwork on my functional work until I stopped working in ’89. Now I decided to drop the brushwork and go back to what I had liked as a young potter—solid colours that accentuated the form of the piece. I would no longer compromise my work over concerns about how well it would sell. Being able to return to my craft was a huge gift, and I wasn’t going to squander one moment of it. Immediately my energy began to change and creating functional ware became a joy again.

You say in the dedication that your partner Heather Vaughan’s love and unwavering support helped you grow into the person you are today. What role did she play in the conceptualization of the Legacy Project, in particular?

During Heather’s final weeks, I lugged one of my sculptures into the care home for her to see. I’ll never forget that evening. I got her transferred from her bed to an easy chair, then went and found a bed table on wheels to put the sculpture on. She ran her hands over the leather hard piece, exclaiming about its sensuous feel and flowing lines. It was an intimate moment of beauty, a sweet break from the reality of life.

I wanted to get her mind away from all the suffering, so instead of changing the subject when she started talking about her care needs, I suggested we talk about creativity and living the life of an artist for the first part of our visit, and then if she needed, we could talk about whatever else was on her mind. As we chatted, one of the subjects that came up was the difficulty inherent in a young artist’s life, and she wondered aloud what would have made life easier for me as a young artist. The main challenge for me had always been finding a place to live where I could also have a studio and a display room for selling my work. We also talked about how limiting my present studio was, especially now that I was starting to sculpt again. Our house was on a half-lot, so there was no room to expand out. That’s when the idea came to me of lifting the house to get more space. If I did that, I would be able to add eighty-five square metres, which would provide plenty of room for a studio and gallery. Heather thought this was a fantastic idea. My greatest supporter was leaving me, but before she did, we shared a vision of what my home and studio could become.

When she asked me “What would have made things easier for you?” her question planted another seed, as well, because we had touched on the idea of how to help young potters starting out. As a result, I began to think of a new studio/gallery not just as a space for me, but as a residency for potters when my time on this earth is over. This was the beginning of the Legacy Project.

What advice would you give to potters who are starting out in their careers?

There are so many things I wish I had known as a baby potter. At the top of that list would be understanding the toll that repetitive work takes on the body. Over the years I have had problems with my back, wrists and arms, though overall my body has held up fairly well considering how many tons of clay my hands have pulled up.

This is a very physical job, and for the beginning potter I cannot stress enough the importance of good body mechanics. Having a good physiotherapist can make a huge difference. I don’t think I would be in nearly as good condition had I not done regular body work over the years and heeded the advice of my physio on how to improve my work habits.

Another piece of advice has to do with sales. Most potters don’t exactly light up when the topic of selling arises. Let’s face it, most of us are artists first, and selling our work is not a favourite pastime. Who wouldn’t prefer to spend time at the wheel rather than pricing, invoicing and shipping? But, after the creation of the work, this is the most important part of our job.

What have been some of the things that have kept you going during challenging times in your career?

There are certain threads throughout my life that haven’t changed much, the main one being my constant quest for beauty. Beauty, in all its forms, has shaped my life. It has influenced every nook and cranny of my work, personal relationships, gardens, home, food, everything. If you asked me the greatest lesson I have learned over the years, it would be that beauty is everywhere in our lives; we just need to see it. Even in our darkest times it is there holding out a branch to us.

Everyone’s life has challenges, and mine has been no exception. How we approach those challenges, how we see them, the choices we make to resolve them—this is what sets people apart. I chose the life of a potter at an early age, and though it was a struggle to learn my craft and earn a living, I always felt that no matter what hardships I faced, this was the right fit for me. I didn’t mind if I had to live frugally at first because my day to day happiness has always been most important to me. I was driven by my need to create beautiful vessels to enrich and inspire, and in doing so, beauty has permeated my life, spreading through it like a lovely vine, shaping and influencing not just my creations but everything about how I live.

In what ways does being a potter differ from working in other creative disciplines?

In most other creative fields, artists spend weeks or months working on a single piece until it is done. They experience the emotional ups and downs that come while creating that piece and then the flood of feelings that comes when they step back and behold the finished work. Potters spend weeks creating several pieces simultaneously, and then they are all finished together in one firing.

When a firing is completed, I take a dozen or more finished pieces out of the kiln at once. Each one packs an emotional wallop. I find it can be almost too much as I become overwhelmed by the beauty of one piece after another. It’s a good problem to have, but it can be intense. I am often so overcome unloading the kiln that I have to pause and go for a short walk or sit in the garden until I can bring myself back down to earth. I have never done hard drugs, but I wonder if the high one experiences is similar? The feelings of euphoria racing through my body can be extreme and take their own kind of toll. This is not something I ever imagined having to find ways to deal with. Who needs to find ways to manage their happiness?

Do you have a favourite form?

The chalice is one of my favourite forms to throw and I have created many interpretations over the years. All my chalices are designed to enhance and inspire everyday life with their beauty and to invite contemplation and reflection.

How does function enter into your work?

Though I could make my living solely from my decorative works, I can’t imagine a day when I would stop creating functional wares. To me, there is nothing more satisfying than eating and drinking from beautiful, handcrafted vessels. When creating my tableware dishes, I derive great pleasure from knowing that, through the subtle intimacy that grows from their everyday use, these pieces will become treasures in other people’s lives.

Sections of this book can be used as a handbook for potters—and you even give away your secrets about how you achieve the glazes you are so well-know for. How important have the technical aspects of pottery been in your career?

If you had told me years ago that I would be writing a technical section for a book, I would have dismissed it as a ridiculous notion! I have only the most basic understanding when it comes to glazes and kilns. It’s not that I haven’t studied enough. I have read and re read many books on glazes and firing over the years, but for whatever reason I don’t seem to retain much of it. I have come to accept my cognitive limitations and keep plugging on, trusting that eventually I will get there. I am a visual and intuitive learner, and I suspect there are many people like me who give up on learning the more technical aspects of pottery because they find it too difficult. I hope that if you are one of these types, I will inspire you to keep at it. Consider adopting my motto: “It’s okay to make mistakes while learning, and we are always learning.”

Interview by Harbour Publishing

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