I began working with ceramics while studying at the University of Ulster in the 1990s. After completing my degree, I moved to Japan where, following a period teaching English, I was fortunate to study pottery under three different teachers. When I returned to the UK, I went on to complete a Masters at the Royal College of Art. Since then, I’ve run my own practice – first in London and now in Buckinghamshire. Alongside this, I’ve taught ceramics at various universities and currently teach at Clay College in Stoke-on-Trent. 

Japan was pivotal in shaping my understanding of ceramics. Beyond the technical skills I gained there, the most valuable lesson was learning to appreciate useful objects – recognising that they deserve our respect and attention. In Japan, when people look at a pot, the question isn’t “Do I like it?” but rather “How does it make me feel?” 

That question has become the foundation of my own practice: how do the pots make me feel, and how might they make others feel? Through my work, I hope to encourage people to slow down and appreciate these quiet companions in our lives – to notice how they inhabit space, and how they can help us reflect, remember, and be mindful. 

I would say that I’m interested in connections, the idea of navigation, and the cyclical nature of life. Human beings are connected to their environments, and in some way, to the things that surround them. We all have to learn how to navigate through spaces and through life itself. Sometimes we acknowledge this, but mostly we don’t – we don’t take the time to see it. 

Pottery has a quiet presence. It lives alongside us – used, touched, held. It grounds us, offering comfort in its familiarity, much like the ebb and flow of the tides or the waxing and waning of the moon. The moon, the ocean, and the coastline have always captivated me. My father was a sailor and taught me how vital the night sky is for navigation, and how the moon commands the tides. To me, that balance, where each element relies on the other for harmony, is profound. 

My favourite place to watch the sky is from the shore, where the horizon brushes the sea and the moon fades and returns. I hope my work reflects these influences – not literally, but in essence. 

“Control” is a curious word. I never really feel in control of what I’m making. A few years ago, I watched the renowned potter Shozo Michikawa give a demonstration. He said something that perfectly captures how I feel about making: the trick is to leave room both for yourself and for the pot – to let it become what it wants to be. 

Process helps me find that balance. Many of my bowls are both press-moulded and thrown – the mould representing control, the thrown section spontaneity. Because I can’t see the base while I’m throwing, each piece develops its own rhythm and identity, only revealing itself when released from the mould. 

The firing process also plays a key role. Porcelain has a remarkable ‘memory’ – it remembers every movement made while soft and tries to return to those forms in the kiln. This can be challenging to tame, but in recent years I’ve learned to celebrate that movement. Because of this clay memory, no two pieces are ever the same – much like two faces or two pebbles: similar, yet unique. 

The most meditative part of my process is observing the finished, fired pieces. They often surprise me. I like to stand back and take the time to really see them – to experience how they make me feel. They rarely emerge exactly as I had planned, so the act of looking becomes its own mindful practice. 

I often leave the pots around my kitchen so I can see them throughout the day, at different times and in different light. This quiet, ongoing observation – the gradual understanding of a piece’s energy – is what keeps the work alive for me and inspires future creations.