On the wheel

“The wheel weaves as the wheel wills, and we are only the thread of the pattern”

The wheel weaves as the wheel wills, and we are only the thread of the pattern

In working with clay, what draws me the most is that ceramics, as a discipline within applied art, exists at the intersection of science, technique, and craft. Every material asks for skill. Clay is no exception.

Each project begins with an idea. From that idea, the material is chosen — the one that can best carry it. The technique follows. The glaze is adapted to the body beneath it. Every project becomes its own story, with its own challenges. This applies to both sculptural work and tableware; the latter has drawn me in from the very beginning

Among all ceramic techniques, the wheel captivated me first. It holds something no other way of working with clay does. It demands skill and precision, but it also imposes rotation — and with it, a kind of strictness.

Pieces made on the wheel carry a particular presence. No two can ever be identical. Not because the maker cannot repeat dimensions or forms, but because the moment of making is never the same. The result depends on the state of the body, the feeling in the hands, the quiet focus that cannot be repeated — just as no moment can ever be repeated.

The wheel asks for devotion. In my case, it reached the edge of obsession. For the first few years, I spent hours each day at the wheel, until my muscles were exhausted. I thought about the process before sleep, dreamed about it at night, and returned the next day trying to translate those thoughts into form. If you allow it — if you surrender to it — the wheel can bring you into a meditative state of deep calm, where the outside world fades away. I noticed that whenever tension builds in my work or personal life, the wheel restores balance.

Only years later did I learn that the wheel has long been used for therapeutic purposes — as if it were an outer lesson in inner balance.

Clay clearly reflects what the body already knows. When I am tense, scattered, or overly controlling, the form loses its center. Only when I slow down, align breath and movement, and allow rhythm to lead, does the clay settle.

 At the same time, progress — especially toward larger forms — demands commitment similar to that of professional athletes. Daily practice, presence, and strength training for joints and hands are part of the work. If you miss the right moment, everything you’ve done can collapse. If focus slips, the piece can fall. If the body is neglected, tendons and ligaments begin to ache.

These demands are why ceramics remains a hobby for many, and a lifelong profession for few. And yet, despite the stress, the physical exhaustion, and the psychological weight of working with a material that never fully obeys — despite the uncertainty of opening the kiln and never knowing what the firing gods may have done — I would never choose another path.

And in repetition — in that quiet concentration — the body remembers what balance feels like.