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Everything behind you survived two ovens. What didn't survive, you won't see—it went into the trash.

You need a piece of fabric to hand so you can remove the finished product without scratching it. It's a small detail I wasn't taught right away.

The most honest series I've ever shot. It shows how many times a form changes before it becomes the one.

I'm showing the defective ones too. A third goes into the trash—and that's a pretty good month.

I get asked this every week. I answer honestly: I count the time, the clay, the oven, and the defects.

One thousand two hundred degrees and twelve hours of waiting. You can't open it any sooner—it'll all crack at once.

I draw shapes that then mold themselves. Half of my cups started not with clay, but with a pencil on a bench.

There is no order and there never will be. There is only one rule: tools are washed immediately; clay can't wait.

Two weeks of work, and a crack in the bottom. I'll explain why it's my fault, not the stove's.

Circle, dryer, mascara by the window. Between the first and last shots, there's a week and a half, of which my hands are busy for about three hours.