What Kind of Potter I’m Trying to Become
Some potters chase perfection, some chase volume, some chase novelty. For a while I was not sure which way I was heading.
I want to be the kind of potter whose work feels steady: earth tones, depth instead of shine, quiet forms that feel good in the hand before they impress the eye. That means saying no to trends, committing to high fire, building a salt kiln and testing wild clay, and refining instead of reinventing.
- Early in clay, it is easy to get pulled in ten directions at once
- The work I admire most is refined over years, not constantly reinvented
- I want a mug to still make sense ten years from now
There are a lot of ways to be a potter. Some chase perfection. Some chase volume. Some chase novelty, with new forms, new surfaces and new statements every season. For a while, I was not sure which direction I was heading.
Ten directions at once
When you are early in clay, everything feels possible. You try different glazes, different firing temperatures, different styles. You scroll through work online and wonder what your version should look like. It is easy to get pulled in ten directions at once. I have felt that. There were moments I thought maybe I should lean into brighter surfaces, make more decorative work, simplify the process and stay where it is easier.
What clarified
But the longer I have stayed with clay here in Logan, the more something has clarified. I do not want to be the kind of potter who chases trends. I do not want to make work that looks good for a season and then feels dated. I want my work to feel steady.
That means slower surfaces. Earth tones. Depth instead of shine. Forms that are quiet but intentional. Pieces that feel good in your hands before they impress you visually. It means building toward a salt kiln not because it is dramatic, but because it lines up with the surfaces I respect. It means testing wild clay not because it is romantic, but because it connects the work to this place.
Refined, not reinvented
There is a temptation in ceramics to always be reinventing. But I am starting to think the work I admire most is not constantly reinvented. It is refined. A cup that gets better each year. A glaze that gets deeper, not louder. A kiln that becomes better understood with every firing.
The kind of pottery I want to make in Logan is not flashy. It is grounded. I want someone to pick up one of my mugs ten years from now and feel like it still makes sense. Like it was not chasing anything. Like it belonged to a steady hand.
Moving slowly on purpose
That kind of consistency takes time. It takes saying no to certain directions. It takes committing to high fire even when it is harder. It takes building infrastructure instead of looking for shortcuts. I am not there yet. But I know what I am moving toward: work that feels rooted, durable and honest, shaped by fire and place more than by trend. And I am willing to move slowly to get there.
Pick one form you make often, like a mug or a small bowl, and keep the best one from each season on a shelf. Lined up after a few years, they show you exactly what you have refined and what you keep getting wrong.
Still trying to make sense of the world and what I should make next. The answer keeps turning out to be the same pots, made a little better.
