Advice I’d Give My Younger Self in the Studio

If I could step back into the studio years ago — when centering still felt unpredictable and every glaze result felt like a surprise — I don’t think I’d give myself a long technical lecture.

I wouldn’t start with kiln schedules or clay body chemistry.

I’d say something simpler.

Slow down.

Early on, I wanted progress to show quickly. I wanted the work to look “finished.” I wanted pieces that felt impressive instead of just competent. Every firing felt like a test of whether I was becoming a real potter or not.

That pressure wasn’t helpful.

I rushed trimming because I wanted to see the final form. I accepted handles that were “fine” instead of pulling them again. I got distracted by glaze effects before I had fully understood form.

If I could talk to that version of myself, I’d say: spend more time on the basics than you think you need to.

Compression matters. Thickness matters. The way a foot meets the table matters more than a dramatic surface ever will.

I’d also say this: don’t chase what gets attention.

It’s easy to look around and think you need brighter glazes, bigger statements, faster output. It’s easy to mistake visibility for direction.

But the work that lasts isn’t loud.

It’s consistent.

I would tell myself that cone 10 isn’t just a temperature — it’s a commitment. That salt firing isn’t a novelty — it’s a relationship. That wild clay won’t cooperate just because I want it to.

I would explain that failure is part of the apprenticeship, not evidence that I don’t belong.

There were moments when a bad firing felt personal. A cracked pot felt like a verdict. I didn’t yet understand that every serious potter has shelves full of things that didn’t make it.

Failure doesn’t mean stop.

It means pay attention.

And maybe most importantly, I’d say this:

Build slowly.

Don’t rush the kiln you’ll eventually want. Don’t skip steps because you’re eager to arrive somewhere. The studio you’re building — physically and mentally — will shape you as much as you shape it.

The younger version of me wanted clarity immediately.

The version writing this understands that clarity comes from repetition.

Throw the form again. Trim it again. Fire again. Test again.

The direction reveals itself over time.

If I could go back, I wouldn’t try to shortcut the struggle.

I’d just remind myself that the struggle is part of becoming.

Trying to become the potter I once needed advice from.
— Adam Corbridge
Follow the journey at adamcorbridgepottery.com