Artist Statement
My work is rooted in flow, interconnectedness, and reciprocity. Through clay, I explore the relationships between hand and material, fire and surface, form and environment, intention and surrender. Clay is not passive in my practice. It responds, resists, remembers, and transforms. I am drawn to this responsiveness because it creates a true collaboration between my body, the material, and the forces that complete the work.
Nature is a deep well of inspiration in my studio practice, but I do not see nature as a subject to simply depict. I am interested in how natural systems move, divide, repeat, bloom, and sustain one another. Plants grow around a central axis. Leaves, stems, petals, seed pods, shells, rivers, fungi, and underwater forms all reveal structures of rhythm and interdependence. A seed pod holds the essence of what it is becoming. In a similar way, clay holds possibility before form appears. My work is a constant attempt to express this interconnectedness: the visible and invisible systems that bind matter, growth, breath, and spirit.
The potter’s wheel is central to my understanding of flow. The spinning force of the wheel draws the clay upward and outward, allowing form to emerge through rhythm, pressure, and imagination. The spiral movement of thrown clay echoes growth patterns in nature, from unfurling plants to the helix-like structures of life itself. When I am throwing, I do not feel that I am controlling the clay as much as collaborating with it. Flow is both a visual quality and a state of being. It is the moment when attention, touch, breath, and material begin moving together. I throw forms, combine them, then add hand-built structures that integrate into a system.
Repetition is one of the ways I enter this state. Repeated throwing builds muscle memory and technical fluency, but it also opens a deeper way of seeing. Repeated lines and structures on my sculptural forms create visual rhythm, like a field of ferns, a stand of trees, or the branching arms of flora moving together. I am interested in the subtle individuality that exists within repetition. Even when forms echo one another, each remains distinct. The space between lines becomes as important as the lines themselves, like the space between breaths.
Surface is essential to my work because it carries the record of movement, atmosphere, and time. I rhythmically build glaze in areas where I anticipate flow, imagining how the viewer’s eye will travel around the piece and how the surface will change in the firing. In atmospheric and anagama wood firing, the kiln becomes a collaborator. Flame moves around the form, ash gathers, melts, and fuses into the surface, and the path of fire is made visible. The flame’s movement becomes a kind of drawing, a dance between heat and clay. What emerges from the kiln is not something I could create alone.
I am drawn to anagama firing because of this transformation. Over time, wood ash builds a multidimensional surface with depth, variation, and aura. The process requires presence, patience, labor, and acceptance. Wood firing is an act of tending: preparing wood, stoking, watching, waiting, and listening to the rhythm of the kiln. I give thanks to the trees whose ash becomes glaze, and I understand the firing process as one of reciprocity rather than control. Fire, ash, atmosphere, chance, and time all contribute to the finished work. The ancient single chamber anagama kiln allows for the placement of my works to collaborate with all of these elements.
Robin Wall Kimmerer’s idea that “all flourishing is mutual” resonates deeply with the way I understand making. In my studio, reciprocity means giving presence to the clay and receiving its responsiveness. It means respecting materials, reclaiming clay, firing with intention, and remaining open to what the process gives back. Beauty, for me, is connected to responsibility. To make something beautiful is also to honor the moment, the material, and the relationships that allow the work to exist.
My finished pieces invite slow looking. I want viewers to feel as though they are witnessing an unfurling plant, a stream running freely, or an uninterrupted visual becoming. The crystalline, jewel-like surfaces, carved lines, atmospheric markings, and flowing glazes ask the eye to travel around the object and notice what has gathered over time. Each piece is an individual form, but also part of a larger ecosystem of forms. Together, they reflect my belief that nothing exists in isolation. The hand touches clay, clay receives fire, fire records movement, and the work returns an experience of beauty, discipline, and flow.
Teaching Philosophy
My teaching philosophy is rooted in the belief that students do their bravest and most meaningful creative work when they feel supported, challenged, and worthy of belonging in the studio. I bring warmth, patience, high energy, and deep technical care into the classroom. My goal is to create an environment where students can let down their guard, take creative risks, and discover that they are capable of far more than they may have imagined. I believe there is no wrong way to begin in art. There is only the willingness to practice, to look closely, to risk failure, and to return to the work with curiosity.
Clay is an especially powerful material for this kind of learning because it is immediate, tactile, and responsive. It records touch, pressure, rhythm, hesitation, and confidence. On the wheel, students learn quickly that they cannot force the material; they have to move with it. Clay asks students to slow down, center themselves, and listen through their hands. When a form collapses, cracks, or fails in the firing, I teach students that this is not a failure of creativity. It is information. It is only clay, and we can make another one.
My own life was changed in a ceramics classroom at Penn State. As a left-handed student, I remember the moment my wheel direction was changed and the material suddenly made sense in a new way. The studio became the place I wanted to be until dawn’s light. Studying with Chris Staley taught me not only how to work with clay, but how to see. He taught me to follow the line around a pot, to look deeply at form, and to understand repetition as a path toward fluency. Throwing one or two cylinders may introduce a skill, but throwing eight or ten begins to build muscle memory, rhythm, discernment, and trust.
I carry that lesson into my own teaching. I give students enough structure to feel grounded and enough freedom to make discoveries on their own. My classes begin with clear, practical demonstrations in wheel-throwing, or hand-building. Later, surface development with glazing, and firing processes are introduced. I teach at a gentle pace, with stories and references along the way. I move through the room to work with students individually. When a student becomes frustrated, I give them my full attention. Sometimes this means talking through the problem; sometimes it means guiding their hands so they can physically feel what centering, pulling, balance, or pressure requires. I want students to understand that technique is not separate from creativity. Technique is one of the ways creative freedom becomes possible.
I see nurturing as an essential part of rigorous teaching. Nurturing does not mean lowering expectations. It means creating the conditions in which students are willing to meet high expectations. Students are more open to critique, experimentation, and persistence when they know the studio is not a place of judgment, but a place of serious inquiry and support. I want beginning students to feel that they should be there, that they are worthy of being there, and that creativity is not reserved for a select few. Everyone has the ability to be creative; the tools simply require time, patience, and practice. With advanced students, I enjoy shifting into a more refined conversation about proportion, balance, aesthetics, surface, and the subtle decisions that move work to the next level.
My teaching balances structure with play. I believe students need clear parameters, safe habits, and repeated practice in order to build confidence with materials and tools. At the same time, I value the moments when students are allowed to experiment without the pressure of a perfect result. One lesson I carry from my own education is the importance of leaving room at the end of class for play, exploration, and surprise. Those ten minutes can become the place where a student discovers a new gesture, combines forms unexpectedly, or begins to understand their own voice.
Critique is central to this process. I approach critique through questions rather than judgment. I ask students what they intended, where they see the work succeeding, what choices are still unresolved, and how material, form, surface, and concept are working together. I also teach students that art is perception. The audience may have an experience that differs from the artist’s intention, and that difference is not a problem to be corrected. It is part of what makes art alive. Through small-group discussions, full-class critiques, written proposals, and one-on-one check-ins, students learn to speak about their own work and to look carefully, generously, and critically at the work of others.
An inclusive ceramics studio is one in which every student understands that they have a place, a responsibility, and a voice. I make a point of looking students in the eye, learning how they work, and meeting them where they are. I use slide lectures, demonstrations, reference books, historical examples, and contemporary artists to widen the lens through which students understand ceramics. Clay belongs to every culture. From vessels for water, food, storage, ritual, beauty, and daily life to contemporary sculptural, functional, experimental, and performative practices, ceramics carries ancient roots and contemporary urgency. I want students to understand themselves as part of this long, diverse, and evolving field.
Because ceramics is a shared material practice, I also teach students to care for the studio as a community. Safety, cleanliness, and sustainability are not secondary concerns; they are part of the ethics of working in clay. I emphasize dust safety, proper cleanup, reclaiming clay, respecting tools and equipment, responsible glaze handling, safe disposal practices, and efficient kiln loading. A clean, well-cared-for studio creates the conditions for creativity to flow. It also teaches students that access to facilities, kilns, materials, and shared equipment is a privilege that carries responsibility.
Ultimately, I want students to leave my classroom with stronger technical skills, sharper eyes, and greater trust in their creative capacity. I want them to know how to practice, how to look, how to speak about their work, how to recover from failure, and how to contribute to a studio community. Penn State gave me a sense of purpose, belonging, and belief in what could be created from a lump of clay. It would be deeply meaningful to return that energy to the next generation of students: to help them feel at home in the studio, to guide them toward discipline and discovery, and to support them as they find their own voices through clay.