A few weeks ago, I blew up my biggest pot… my biggest ever! Not a small crack, nor a snag. A real explosion, like an unexpected firework in the kiln. When I opened the lid, there was that internal silence, that blank space where you realize it didn't go as planned.
It was a new shape, larger, more ambitious than usual. I was super excited about trying something different. I put time, attention, and a lot of love into it. And in hindsight, I know I put it in the kiln too soon. It wasn't ready, not dry enough at all. But I wanted to believe in it, wanted it to work. So I told myself: "It should be fine." Spoiler: it was not!
This experience reminded me that changing formats isn't just a question of size or ideas. It also involves rethinking my entire studio, my habits, my rhythm. That pot didn't have the safe space to dry slowly. My studio isn't ready yet to accommodate very large pieces. It’s a fact I have to accept, and one I’m working on.
We tend to idealize new things, imagining them as simple, fluid, and obvious. In reality, they require trials, adjustments... and often failures. I felt a bit of sadness, even some shame, because I "knew" better. But that’s also what working with clay is: constantly learning, often making mistakes, always starting over.
Today, I try to see these failures as conversations. Each broken piece speaks to me. It tells me about my rhythm, my expectations, my limits. And often, it pushes me to slow down, to step back, to return with more gentleness. These moments are essential, not because they are pleasant—they aren’t—but because they bring us back to the essentials: why we do what we do.
For me, pottery is not a quest for perfection, but a way of inhabiting the world differently: with more attention, more humility, more humanity.
I didn't keep the pieces, but I kept the lesson. And above all, I want to make that pot again. Better. More slowly. With the space it deserves. This time, I will take the time it needs.
