Not Everything Belongs in My Kiln
I don't fire everything I make. Some pieces stop on the ware board, and that's on purpose.
Time spent on a pot doesn't earn it a place in the kiln. If a piece feels off balance, has a rim a fraction too thick, a foot that doesn't sit clean, or a handle that pulls the form sideways, it stops there. Salt and high fire don't fix weak form. They expose it.
- Editing is part of functional pottery: refuse to decorate your way out of a structural problem
- Pieces get reclaimed at leather hard, and sometimes a bisqued pot gets smashed
- What leaves the studio carries my name permanently, so it has to meet the standard
Not every pot earns the kiln
I don't fire everything I make. That surprises people. There's an assumption that once a pot is formed, trimmed and dried, the time invested earns it a glaze and a spot in the kiln. It doesn't. Some pieces stop on the ware board.
In functional work, mugs, bowls and vases, restraint matters more than variety. It's easy to experiment endlessly with new handles, altered rims, decorative additions and surfaces that shout. Social media rewards novelty. Markets reward color. That isn't what I'm building.
Where the line is
If a mug feels slightly off balance when I lift it, it doesn't go forward. If the rim is a fraction too thick. If the foot ring doesn't sit clean and quiet on a flat surface. If the handle pulls the form sideways instead of supporting it. It doesn't matter how interesting the glaze might look later. It stops there.
There's a discipline in functional pottery that doesn't get talked about much: editing. Cutting back. Refusing to decorate your way out of a structural weakness.
Salt doesn't fix proportion
A strong surface can hide a weak form, at least visually. Especially at high fire, especially in salt, flame and vapor create variation that feels alive. It's tempting to let the kiln do the heavy lifting.
But salt doesn't fix proportion. It doesn't correct weight distribution or an awkward transition between wall and base. If anything, atmospheric firing exaggerates those problems. The more honest the firing, the more exposed the form.
What I refuse
So I refuse certain things. I don't chase bright color because it's popular. I don't add texture to cover a shape that isn't resolved. I don't keep pieces that technically worked but feel unsettled in the hand. Sometimes that means reclaiming clay at the leather-hard stage. Sometimes it means smashing a bisque piece that survived the first firing but didn't earn the second. That doesn't feel dramatic anymore. It feels necessary.
At cone 10 the clay matures fully. There's no hiding behind softness. The structure is right or it isn't. That's one reason I'm drawn to high fire. It forces honesty.
Variation is not carelessness
The goal isn't perfection. Handmade work should still feel human: a slight variation in thickness, a subtle shift in flame. Those are part of the language. But sloppiness is different from variation, and carelessness is different from character. I can tell the difference, and over time, so can the people who use the work.
The kiln isn't a finishing machine. Once something goes through a full firing, it carries my name permanently. The mugs that sit evenly, the bowls that feel grounded, the rims that resolve cleanly, those are the pieces I stand behind. I don't sell work I wouldn't use myself every day.
If you're learning, set a rule: before a pot goes into the bisque, pick it up with your eyes closed. If something bothers your hand, reclaim it. It feels wasteful for a month, and then your work gets noticeably better.
If it doesn't hold up, it doesn't leave. What does make it out of the kiln is meant for real kitchens and real routines.
