wooceramics

I almost didn't go.

Mom brain had a whole list of reasons. But my friend texted, and something in my chest said yes.

So I went. A chance to admire the MoMA at night. For a Marcel Duchamp party. And standing in those rooms: light low, art breathing differently after hours, I felt it. That rare thing... belonging.

Duchamp gave permission to be irreverent. To refuse the rules and ask the question instead of performing the answer. I've been asking a lot of questions lately. And I got to do it next to a woman who has known every version of me.

Old friendship doesn't feel nostalgic. It feels confirming.
I forget that play is part of the practice. That showing up, getting dressed, laughing loudly in a museum at night — that's not a break from the work.

That is the work.

The Divine Feminine was in every room ✨️

So. This happened.

I opened the kiln and found one of my pieces for "protect my peace" in fragments. A kiln explosion. The kind that doesn't care how many hours you spent coiling, smoothing, whispering prayers into wet clay.

Here's what nobody tells you about ceramics: the fire has the final say. Always. You can do everything right and still. The kiln decides.

I sat with the pieces for a while. Not gonna lie, I cried a little. Then I laughed. Because isn't this the whole thing? You make something with your hands and your heart and you surrender it to the flame and you wait. And sometimes the flame says NO.

Resilience isn't optional if you're a potter. It's the first material. Before the clay. Before the glaze. Before the water. You have to be willing to lose the thing you love and start again. And again. And again.

This is the practice. Not the perfect piece that comes out gleaming. The practice is the breaking. The practice is the next morning when you sit down and make again anyway.

New work to be shared for "protect my peace."

Opening April 11 at TOLK Gallery, 286 Stanhope Street, Brooklyn.

Come see what survived the fire!