My father is a carpenter.  As a kid I wanted to be a carpenter too.  I worked for him on school breaks and summer vacations, eventually moving on to full time work after high school. Gradually I learned a craft.  The things we built were useful and practical, fulfilling specific roles in peoples’ everyday lives.  A finished project could be pleasing to look at, especially when a distinct variety of wood was left unpainted, but it was not art.  It simply filled a need.  Beyond the satisfying smooth feel of a handrail or the effortless click of a closing door, we as makers were certainly not celebrated.

Years later, after a period of introspection that included trading my pickup truck for an accounting degree, I stumbled upon a handmade pot in a friend’s kitchen.  Immediately I saw a familiar routine embedded in a new material.  With little in the way of questioning how or wondering why, I set out to learn a new craft.  Naturally my pots today are imbued with the same qualities as good carpentry: they are calm, comfortable, and unabashedly domestic.  Their purpose is to be in use and appreciated for the service they quietly perform in everyday life.