Hand-braided neon cord pull | Oregon clay
Water runs through everything I make, and I think it always will. I grew up a California girl, and the best days were the ones where my mom told us to put our swimsuits on underneath our church clothes. That was the tell. It meant a long, sandy, sun-soaked Sunday was coming, that we'd be peeling off our nice clothes the second church let out and running straight for the Pacific. I've been chasing that feeling of water ever since, first along those California beaches, later along the rocky shores of Lake Huron, where my Michigan roots run deep.
That's the motif I keep carving into every piece in this collection. Sometimes it reads as rain on a window. Sometimes as the glint of sun on a moving current. Sometimes as the quiet peaks and valleys of something just beneath the surface, the kind of texture you only notice when the light hits it right.
All four vessels are wheel-thrown from the same dark chocolate stoneware body, my favorite for the way it lets glaze pool and break at the edges of every carved line. Each one is its own creature, with different proportions, different depths of carving, different watery glazes. But they belong to each other. Same clay. Same hands. Same restlessness.
Every lid is finished with a hand-braided neon cord pull, a small jolt of color against all that quiet blue-grey.
Lidded vessels, made for holding whatever needs holding — tea, salt, trinkets, small treasures pulled from a pocket at the end of a long sandy day.
One of a kind. Each vessel below is its own piece — this exact carving, this exact glaze break, exists only once.
Hand-braided neon cord pull | Oregon clay
Water runs through everything I make, and I think it always will. I grew up a California girl, and the best days were the ones where my mom told us to put our swimsuits on underneath our church clothes. That was the tell. It meant a long, sandy, sun-soaked Sunday was coming, that we'd be peeling off our nice clothes the second church let out and running straight for the Pacific. I've been chasing that feeling of water ever since, first along those California beaches, later along the rocky shores of Lake Huron, where my Michigan roots run deep.
That's the motif I keep carving into every piece in this collection. Sometimes it reads as rain on a window. Sometimes as the glint of sun on a moving current. Sometimes as the quiet peaks and valleys of something just beneath the surface, the kind of texture you only notice when the light hits it right.
All four vessels are wheel-thrown from the same dark chocolate stoneware body, my favorite for the way it lets glaze pool and break at the edges of every carved line. Each one is its own creature, with different proportions, different depths of carving, different watery glazes. But they belong to each other. Same clay. Same hands. Same restlessness.
Every lid is finished with a hand-braided neon cord pull, a small jolt of color against all that quiet blue-grey.
Lidded vessels, made for holding whatever needs holding — tea, salt, trinkets, small treasures pulled from a pocket at the end of a long sandy day.
One of a kind. Each vessel below is its own piece — this exact carving, this exact glaze break, exists only once.
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