An Ode to the Studio; house of Clay

In one instance, the heat of the sun is beating down on the wet clay, drying and rapidly cracking its surface whilst baking your own skin.

Next, a swift change to visceral thunderstorms rattling the roof shackles as the wind whips its way around the studio picking up loose sheets of paper and tousling the calico curtains.

In the chaos you are centred, on the wheel wrestling with your own battle of the elements; safe, calm and strong, firmly plonked on your stool, legs wrapped closely to the wheel. The studio acts as your cocoon.