July 2026
w/c 29 June 2026
When the Work Matters
I have come to the conclusion that my latest large contour vessel simply wasn't meant to be. During the build I discovered numerous small metal inclusions within the clay body. Looking back, I probably should have abandoned the piece at that point, but hindsight is a wonderful thing. Instead, I carried on, determined to see it through.
Once the vessel had reached its leather-hard stage, I carefully transported it to university ready for firing. On arriving in Preston, I unwrapped it to discover a large, very clean crack running through the form. Whether this was caused by the piece drying more quickly than I had realised during last week's heatwave, or simply down to my own craftsmanship, I honestly don't know.
I have repaired the crack as sympathetically as I can and the vessel is now drying slowly under a loose cover. Whether it survives, only time will tell. Whatever the outcome, I have already decided that I need to remake this vessel. This time it will be built entirely at university, removing the risk of transporting such a large leather-hard piece.
What surprised me most, however, was not the crack itself, but my reaction to it.
For several days I found it difficult to settle back into the studio. The disappointment lingered far longer than I expected and seemed to unsettle both my concentration and my momentum. Reflecting on this afterwards, I realised that perhaps the strength of my reaction had very little to do with the damaged vessel itself. Instead, it revealed just how deeply connected I had become to this particular body of work. During the making of the piece I had experienced that quiet sense of connection I have been searching for over the last year, and losing the vessel felt, for a while, like losing part of that momentum.
The more contour vessels I make, the more I find myself wanting to continue exploring them. They feel increasingly aligned with both my Memories of Place methodology and with the way I want to communicate through clay. The contour of Sawbridge informs the beginning of each form, but no longer dictates it, allowing memory, rhythm and emotional response to shape the work alongside the landscape itself.
This series also reminds me of the quiet restraint found in the work of the Italian ceramic artist Paola Paronetto, whose ceramics I have admired for many years. Not because I wish to emulate her work, but because I recognise a similar belief that subtlety can often communicate more powerfully than decoration. Increasingly, I find myself wanting my own work to whisper these connections to place rather than explain them. Whether this is the beginning of finding my own voice, I cannot yet say, but it certainly feels as though I am moving closer to it.
Wanting to keep momentum with my self-imposed timetable for the degree show, I also began a new sculptural form this week. This develops one of the earlier pieces from my Winter Series. Although this form does not begin with a contour-informed base, I am still trying to capture the flow and rhythm of the landscape within the overall movement of the piece. Like much of the work at the moment, it remains very much an exploration.
Back in my home studio I have already begun preparing clay for the fourth vessel in the graduated contour series. In an attempt to streamline the process of reclaiming and mixing clay, I have been experimenting with a Drytomita bath mat, which has become something of a phenomenon on social media for drying clay remarkably quickly. Time will tell whether it lives up to the hype.
Looking back over the week, I have begun to realise that disappointment and excitement are perhaps much closer companions than I had appreciated. The crack in the contour vessel was undeniably disheartening, yet it also confirmed something I had not fully acknowledged before: this work really matters to me.
Perhaps that is why the disappointment felt so profound.
Piece by piece, the vision continues to emerge.
w/c 6 July 2026
Recognising the Path
A mixed week in the studio, trying to balance productivity with something that has become increasingly important to me over the last few months - staying connected to the work.
This week I finally sat down and wrote a list. It sounds terribly methodical, but I needed to see, in black and white, exactly what I hope to achieve before the end of August. With our final firing date on 28 August, we are now counting the remaining weeks in single figures. Seven weeks to complete, dry and fire everything for the degree show.
Seeing the list written down was a little daunting.
There are eighteen pieces on it. Two are finished, three are marked as only if time allows, five are currently making their way through the various firing stages, leaving eight pieces that I feel are essential to complete before September. When I look at it like that, it seems almost impossible. I used to think I worked well with deadlines, but ceramics has taught me that there are no shortcuts. Clay has its own timescale. The work simply takes as long as the work takes.
Perhaps more importantly, I also realised that although eighteen pieces would be wonderful, there are really only ten that truly matter. The others are supporting the story.
A conversation with a friend this week unexpectedly made me stop and reflect on the journey I have been on over the last two years. She asked me how I thought I had changed as an artist during the course. I laughed and replied that it had taken me nearly two years to produce a collection of wobbly pots.
On one level that is true.
Yet those "wobbly pots" now hold something I couldn't have imagined when I began this Masters. They carry my memories of Sawbridge, my emotional responses to landscape, and the quiet rhythms of a place that has become deeply embedded in my life. I find it surprisingly difficult to talk about them without becoming emotional, not because they are technically accomplished, but because they have become so closely connected to my own experience.
Throughout my life I have always been excited by new projects, new techniques and the challenge of learning something unfamiliar. This feels entirely different. It reaches much deeper than simply learning how to make. It has become a way of understanding why I make.
Over the last two years I have repeatedly asked myself difficult questions.
Why am I making this?
Does this really say what I want it to say?
Is this authentic?
Why don't I feel connected to the work?
Only recently have I begun to realise that perhaps I wasn't searching for answers quite as much as I was learning to recognise them.
Looking back now, I don't think I have suddenly found my voice.
It feels more truthful to say that I have begun to recognise my own language.
The contour no longer dictates the form, but quietly informs it. The vessels are carriers of memory rather than objects of function. The making has become slower, more intuitive and more connected to my lived experience of place. Piece by piece, the work has begun to feel like an honest expression of who I am as an artist. Perhaps the greatest thing this Masters has taught me is not how to make ceramics, but how to recognise my own practice.
The biggest surprise is that this realisation has brought with it not only excitement, but also an unexpected sense of calm. There is still an enormous amount of work to do before September and I know the pieces will continue to evolve long after the degree show. But, for the first time, I can see a path stretching ahead of me.
When I began this course nearly two years ago, I remember thinking that I had nothing to say.
How wrong I was.
w/c 13 July 2026
Moving Forward, One Piece at a Time
I don’t know why I do it, and I suspect I’m not alone, but I always seem to believe I can achieve far more than is actually possible within a given timeframe. While the work in the studio is progressing well, it certainly isn’t moving at quite the pace I had imagined. Clay has an uncanny way of reminding you that it refuses to be rushed. So, I find myself asking whether to laugh or cry. . . the truth is, I’ve done a little of both this week.
Four long days in the university studio, almost forty hours in total, have left little time for reflection. Most of my energy has been spent simply making, trying to bring ideas into reality before our final firing deadline. There was, however, one day when my confidence seemed to disappear completely. I think, at this stage of the course, with only six weeks remaining, it is impossible not to feel the weight of wanting the work to become everything you hope it can be. Fortunately, those moments pass, and the next day it was back into the studio to continue.
A quieter but rather significant moment came when we took our work to the photography studios to be photographed for the poster accompanying our final degree show. Huge thanks to photography student Josh Elliott, whose patience and guidance were invaluable throughout the session.
There is something strangely revealing about seeing your work through the lens of a camera. Somehow it separates the work from the maker. It no longer feels like something you have been endlessly adjusting, questioning and living alongside in the studio, but an object occupying its own space. For a brief moment, I was able to look at the work as though I were seeing it for the first time. It also offered a glimpse of how others might experience the pieces, independent of my explanations or intentions. That shift in perspective felt surprisingly important.
Conversation amongst the final-year students has naturally begun to turn towards what comes next. Where will we make? How will we continue producing work? Which exhibitions will we apply for? How do we hope our practices will develop beyond September? They are exciting questions, but also slightly daunting ones. With only six weeks remaining, I suppose it is inevitable that our thoughts are beginning to look beyond the degree show itself.
Just a few weeks ago, those conversations might have filled me with uncertainty. Now, while there is still much to make and much to learn, they feel different. I may not know exactly where this path will lead, but I do feel that I have begun to recognise it. For now, that feels more than enough reason to keep making, one piece at a time.
