Made by hand. Made to last.
A story about boredom, a first lesson, and a love I found late.
I wasn’t looking for a calling, I just wanted something to do with my time.
So I tried pottery. It came out of nowhere. I walked into a beginners course local to me in Kent, and by the end of the very first lesson I knew I loved it.
Growing up, art was something other people did. I found it late, and maybe that is why it means so much. Every time I sit down, I learn something new, and every time I leave a little braver.
At the wheel, the everyday world goes quiet. It is my escape. It is the most therapeutic part of my week. And the studio is full of kind, friendly people, so I am never alone with it for long.
I would rather it was used than admired from a shelf.
I make things for everyday life. A mug should not be too heavy, it should feel just right in your hands on a slow morning. A bowl should be filled, a plate should be eaten from, and a candle holder should be lit.
No two pieces are ever the same. Each one carries its own small imperfections, a wobble here, a glaze that pooled where it wanted to. I love them. They are proof that a person made it.
People kept telling me I was quite good. So I took a few pieces to a Christmas market, and strangers paid for something I had made with my own hands. It was a small moment, and it changed everything.
It is still a hobby, with a side of selling, and I hope it stays that way. Thank you for being here.
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