The Trials and Tribulations of Being a Potter

Behind every smooth, glossy bowl and perfectly poured mug lies a world of cracked pots, glaze mishaps, and kiln catastrophes. Pottery might look serene from the outside — all gentle wheel-spinning and rhythmic trimming — but those of us who live with the dust and the drama know better. At Village Ceramics & Crafts, we’ve had our fair share of triumphs and disasters, and we wouldn’t trade either for anything.

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A raku vessel fresh from the kiln — proof that even unpredictable glazes can yield something beautiful when the fire behaves.

There’s a saying among potters that clay has a memory. It remembers every knock, every wobble on the wheel, every time you thought “that’ll do” instead of trimming just a bit more. But if clay has a memory, then potters must have short ones — because we keep coming back for more, no matter how many times the kiln humbles us.

Being a potter is a strange blend of chemistry, patience, and a willingness to accept that things don’t always go according to plan. For every smooth, perfectly glazed bowl that emerges from the kiln, there are the quiet disasters — cracked rims, bloated bases, fused shelves — that never make it to the shop.

Take the infamous “raku incident.” In a moment of misplaced efficiency, a raku piece went into the gas kiln before it had been bisque fired. The logic at the time was simple: why not save a step and get straight to the glaze firing? The result was an almighty bang, a cloud of clay dust, and a molten mess that welded itself to the kiln shelf. Repairs were made, lessons were learned, and a new rule was added to the studio wall: “Bisque first. Always.”

Even when you do follow the rules, pottery has its ways of testing you. Glazes that ran like honey down the sides of bowls, welding themselves to the kiln shelves, have claimed more than one promising piece. Crackling noises during cooling can stop your heart mid-tea-break. Then there are the moments when a piece comes out looking nothing like what you imagined — that carefully planned turquoise fade now a muddy brown, the delicate slip work lost beneath an overly enthusiastic coat of glaze.

Kiln experiments can feel like a scientific gamble. We tweak firing schedules, try new oxides, substitute frits, or sneak in a new glaze recipe we found online. Sometimes the results are magical — shimmering surfaces, subtle reactions, unexpected beauty. Other times, you’re left chiselling fused fragments off a shelf and wondering why you ever thought cobalt and copper would play nicely together.

Inside the raku kiln — the moment when fire, glaze, and chance combine to transform ordinary clay into something extraordinary.

And yet, this unpredictability is what makes the craft addictive. Pottery is a dance between control and surrender — you do everything right, and then you hand it over to the fire. What comes back isn’t just a vessel; it’s a record of that collaboration between maker, material, and flame.

Of course, the trials of being a potter don’t end at the kiln. There’s the perpetual question of pricing — one that can tie you in knots faster than a tangled ball of yarn. How do you put a price on time, skill, and creative labour?

People often see a handmade mug and compare it to one from the supermarket. “Why is this £30 when I can get one for £3?” The answer lies in what isn’t visible. That mug has likely been through multiple firings, perhaps six or eight hours on the wheel, trimming, bisque, glazing, and a full 24 hours cooling before it could even be handled. Add in materials, electricity, glazes, tools, and that shelf that now bears the scar of a runaway glaze — and it quickly becomes clear that the price tag isn’t inflated; it’s honest.

From smooth success to smoky surprises — every pot tells its own story of fire, form, and the lessons learned along the way.

But in this age of instant gratification — next-day delivery, mass production, and everything available at the tap of a screen — the patience and process behind handmade work are easy to overlook. Handmade items carry time, touch, and intention. They’re not perfect, nor are they meant to be. That slight variation in shape or tone is what makes each one unique — a quiet rebellion against uniformity.

Sometimes, though, it can feel disheartening. You pour days into making a batch of bowls, only for someone to glance at them and say, “Oh, I could get one cheaper at IKEA.” And maybe they could. But they wouldn’t get this one — the one that’s been shaped by human hands, fired in real flame, with a glaze that caught the light in just the right way to reveal a hint of copper blush.

The truth is, being a potter means living with both triumph and frustration in equal measure. It’s learning to accept that failure is part of the journey. Every exploded pot, every collapsed handle, every mis-fired glaze teaches something. You learn resilience, patience, and maybe a touch of humour — because if you can’t laugh at a raku pot turned hand-grenade, you’re in the wrong business.

And yet, when you open the kiln and see a row of pieces glowing with colour and life — that quiet moment of wonder makes it all worthwhile. Those pieces represent persistence, craft, and care. They may not be perfect, but they’re ours — shaped by human imperfection and the unpredictable beauty of fire.

A trio of characterful tealights — each shaped by hand, fired with care, and carrying the quiet individuality that only handmade ceramics can hold.

So, yes — pottery will break your heart and your kiln shelves. But it will also fill your studio (and your soul) with something profoundly satisfying: the knowledge that, in a world of shortcuts and quick clicks, you’ve made something that can’t be rushed.