I do think each pot has its own quiet story, like a small play on a stone stage. The most dramatic moment for me is when the clay finally slips from the wheel, the tension of the spin releasing and the shape emerging from the raw mass. It’s the instant where all the waiting, the patience, and the hands’ memory all come together in a single, gentle breath. That is the heart of my craft.

I’m drawn to the simple bowl. Its curve is quiet but strong, like a soft sigh that carries a whole story. It’s the most familiar voice I hear when the wheel stops.