I grew up in a household where there was a tremendous respect for things handmade. Furniture, books, paintings and pottery all helped to transform our house into a home. They radiated warmth, a life, a history, a beauty, and a strength which enriched our lives. They provided solace, were used in celebration, contemplation and sometimes broken in anger. When I go home to visit, they hold rich memories of thirty plus years of use. It is my hope that my pots provide for their users in a similar manner, and in so doing become an intimate part of the daily rhythm of life.
I remember Czech novelist Milan Kundera's words. "There is a secret bond between slowness and memory, between speed and forgetting". I would like to think that I make work which takes time to discover. The dark nuanced surfaces are a quiet background to celebrate food and drink. Perhaps after each use one notices something different, a subtle gesture or mark that involves one to such a degree that for a moment the user is compelled to pause and slow down.
I am comforted by the place that pots occupy in the home. They reside in bookshelves and on desks, behind closed cupboards waiting to be chosen, and on countertops ready for use. Though pottery may stir in the recesses of our domestic clutter, it remains an integral part of why home can be such a grounding force in our lives.
Even after ten years of un-stacking wood kilns, I find there are endless surprises. Opening the kiln door always gives me an adrenalin rush: successful pots that are too few in numbers, pots that need more developing, pots that were complete mistakes. I go back to the studio rejuvenated, and the cycle of making and firing starts again.