What Clay Taught Me About the World We Live In

This is a reflection on working with the hands, and on a world that leaves less and less room for slowness.

I came to ceramics almost by accident.
But today I know it had been calling me long before I was able to recognize it.

As a child, I was surrounded by ceramic objects my grandmother brought back from her travels — Pueblo-style wall plates, cobalt-painted porcelain cups, small porcelain figurines. Objects without labels, but with weight and presence. They carried traces of hands, places, and time.

When I later entered formal art education, I didn’t have a clear idea of what my calling would be. I only knew it had to be something I could do with my hands — something that required slowness and attention, and allowed emotions and the unconscious to surface.

In ceramics, I found what I needed. The rhythm of process. Repetition. Consistency.

I was drawn to the potter’s wheel and functional ceramics, and to the ongoing search for balance between function, the perspective of the end user, and aesthetics. I have always tried to weave artistic thought into my work quietly, without dominance, returning again and again to what feels essential to me — applied art.

After years of learning and working in other studios, with different people, I slowly built my own independent ceramic studio. A world based on process, not speed.

I have always tried to stay outside external narratives over which I have no real control. But every time I step outside my inner circle, I feel the pressure of contemporary life becoming harder to breathe in. Cities feel tired. Small crafts and independent forms of work struggle to survive in systems that value volume, speed, and profit, while slowness and care are pushed aside.

Many people today work within structures they do not feel belong to them. Not because they want to, but because they have to.

The reasons differ — for some it is the fear of falling into scarcity, for others an attachment to high incomes. Some remain exhausted and without real choice, others trapped in cycles of work and consumption that fail to bring genuine satisfaction.

December only amplifies this feeling. The year is closing, a new cycle is approaching, and the pace accelerates to the edge of endurance. We are told to think positively. Optimism is expected. Shopping, glitter, and a performance of joy. And only later, when everything quiets down, exhaustion arrives.

In those moments, I often ask myself how we collectively agreed to such a rhythm. And how we forgot that winter months are meant for slowing down and retreating inward.

Working with clay and porcelain is both meditative and demanding. It requires presence and constant focus. It does not tolerate absence, haste, or nervous thoughts. It teaches me that every process has a beginning and an end. Every cycle has its own duration and logic. If a step is skipped or rushed, the material remembers.

Just as in human relationships — problems do not disappear when pushed under the rug. Consequences always exist. In ceramics, it is a cracked piece. In society, the cracking of much larger structures.

I believe deeply in small, recurring rituals. In things we do several times a day, almost mechanically — eating, drinking, reaching for food without thinking. It is precisely there that I see space for change. Not in grand decisions, but in small acts that are always present, quietly reminding us why we are here and how we might use our time more gently.

In choosing quality ingredients and taking time to prepare them. In carefully made bowls we eat from. In a beautiful cup for coffee or tea. Not because this is luxury, but because these moments shape us daily. Food served from a beautiful vessel does not change the taste, but it changes the relationship. It invites us to slow down, to be present, to stop moving through our own days absent-mindedly.

These are small, repeating rituals with the power to bring us back to ourselves. Not because they change reality, but because they change how we participate in it.

Through my work, I try to pass that feeling on — as a reminder that slowing down is not a luxury, but a necessity. That beauty does not need to be loud. That handmade objects carry a different rhythm, one that is not quickly consumed.

Perhaps it is enough to surround ourselves with people we love, with laughter, music, nature, and movement. To follow our breath. To light a candle in the evening and watch the flame while a simple cake bakes in the oven and soft music plays in the background. To allow scent, dim light, and a slower rhythm to restore balance.

We are surrounded by aesthetics that are easy to consume, but difficult to remember — aesthetics that imitate beauty, but rarely carry experience.

Clay, by contrast, asks for presence.

It asks for attention.

It asks for time.

In that process, a part of me remains — a quiet energy the object carries forward, one that may brighten at least a single moment in someone else’s day.