Second day at the pop-up shop in the bustling streets of Paris. The city outside moved quickly—traffic lights changing, conversations spilling onto the streets, the rush of people with somewhere else to be. Inside the shop, time felt slower, though no less full. My table of pots sat like a small island in the current.
Most visitors asked the expected questions: How do you make them? How long does it take? What’s the price? Do you deliver? Important, of course, and part of the rhythm of presenting work in a marketplace. But then—unexpectedly—someone leaned in and asked me what inspired this collection. It startled me, in the best way. That question pulled me out of the transactional space and placed me elsewhere—back in my studio, back in the silence of clay dust and kiln heat, back in the intimate why behind the making.
Inspiration is not a lightning bolt. It is sediment, a slow layering of experiences—humanitarian work, resilience seen and lived, the memory of scars that become part of form. Clay itself is my teacher. It insists on patience, honesty, surrender. Saggar firing especially is an exercise in humility; I may tuck in seaweed, copper, or cloth, but in the end, fire decides the outcome. So when someone asks about inspiration, the answer is never simple. It’s not only about aesthetics—it’s about living.
The day itself was full of tiny stories. One passerby, a neighbour with kind eyes, noticed I hadn’t eaten and left a small bag of chouquettes , whispering “for you, to get through the day.” That gesture carried me more than the sugar did—it was community in its purest form. Others lingered, sharing their own stories: memories of grandparents’ kitchens, the weight of cups that reminded them of home. These moments felt like a quiet thread stitching me into the larger fabric of the city.
Of course, not everyone was gentle. There were the brusque visitors who picked up a cup without looking, asked the price, and scoffed before walking away. Or the ones who bargained aggressively, as if what lay before them was a mere commodity rather than hours of breath, failure, learning, and persistence shaped into form. Those moments stung—but they also reminded me that this craft is not for everyone, and it does not need to be.
This artisan life is full of paradoxes. The joy: clay softening under my hands, the hush before opening a kiln, the way fire leaves ghostly marks like memories on porcelain. The struggle: the cost of materials and energy, the toll on the body, the long hours of solitude, the vulnerability of putting work on display for strangers. Yet even in the chaos of Paris, I felt grateful. The pots themselves hold both my persistence and my fragility. They carry evidence of survival, of beauty found in imperfection, of stories layered into glaze and smoke.
So when I was asked about inspiration, I realised the truest answer is this: my work is less about what I look at and more about what I carry inside. Clay and fire mirror back the stories I cannot otherwise tell.
And on that second day in Paris—between chouquettes, strangers’ stories, dismissive glances, and one unexpected question—I remembered why I chose this life. Not because it is easy, but because it is honest.