My pottery studio is up two flights of stairs in a strange warehouse/apartment hybrid building, the kind of place you’d only find on a random street in Brooklyn. Every time I heave open the sturdy metal door and step into the space, my sense of time shifts. I find myself in respite from the eager, persistent energy of my city. I fall into a rhythm - my hands wedging the clay, the wheel spinning round and round and round, the consistent dip of a mugs into a bucket of drippy glaze. Everything feels slow and lovely and gentle while my hands work.
POTTERY IS FOR slowing down.
POTTERY IS FOR slowing down.
POTTERY IS FOR slowing down.
My pottery studio is up two flights of stairs in a strange warehouse/apartment hybrid building, the kind of place you’d only find on a random street in Brooklyn. Every time I heave open the sturdy metal door and step into the space, my sense of time shifts. I find myself in respite from the eager, persistent energy of my city. I fall into a rhythm - my hands wedging the clay, the wheel spinning round and round and round, the consistent dip of a mugs into a bucket of drippy glaze. Everything feels slow and lovely and gentle while my hands work.