Clay is a body. Soft when held, shaped by touch, it remembers every pressure. It moves and stretches like skin, breathing with water, yielding to hands. Then it transforms, fired into something firm, weight-bearing, enduring. Porous yet watertight, fragile yet unbreakably itself. Like a human body, it holds opposites: vulnerability and strength, sensuality and structure.
Glaze is a second skin, a surface that both protects and reveals. It catches light, pools in folds, highlights every gesture. Each vessel carries the trace of touch, not as decoration but as memory. It is an imprint of presence, of a body shaping and being shaped in return.
The female body has long been politicised, claimed, framed and constrained. By working with clay as an extension of the flesh, by folding, undressing, holding, these forms reclaim softness as strength. They are not metaphors for bodies. They are bodies. Vessels of resistance, tenderness and desire.
