Bums, Lips and Tums

I always encourage new makers to look to the past. Historic work still does a great deal of teaching on its own.

Looking closely at historic pots has shaped my understanding of form more than any single technique. Certain vessels stay with me - pots encountered through books, museums, and long periods of looking. Some resurface unexpectedly, reminding me of particular places, people, or stages of my own practice. Others prompt a quieter response: recognition, curiosity, or a sense of something unresolved.

That way of learning felt particularly present when I visited The Journey of Things, an exhibition of work by Magdalene Odundo at The Hepworth Wakefield. What stood out wasn’t just the vessels themselves, but how ideas - observed, felt, and lived - are absorbed and translated into material form over time.

Historic pots have long influenced how I think, even if that influence isn’t always named explicitly. In this instance, the exhibition prompted a more direct response - a way of testing what looking might offer when brought back into the studio.

As a follow-up to that visit, we ran a workshop that began with archetypal forms and the anatomy of pots. Working in miniature, we observed profiles and negotiated shoulders, bellies, necks, lips, and feet. This isn’t a prescriptive approach we take in every class, but a way of responding to a particular moment of looking and reflection.

The pieces weren’t intended as historical replicas. They were assembled from parts, deconstructed rather than copied. To follow historic processes faithfully would take weeks, if not years. Instead, the focus was on developing material sensitivity - learning how form is held, how weight is distributed, and how clay responds.

We often talk about clay in bodily terms. It records touch, reflects movement, and responds to pressure. As people learn to work with it, they also become more aware of their own bodies - balance, reach, and limits. That awareness is as much a part of learning as any technique.

Exhibitions like The Journey of Things offer a reminder that making well is rarely about invention alone. It grows out of sustained looking, careful attention, and a willingness to stay close to material over time.