The portal in the Tower of the Castle sizzles as you step out into the study. Through the gothic windows, you see soft afternoon light of a dying summer out over the wild grasses of the Bog. The desk has been cleared of clutter and there doesn't seem to be anyone here, but then you hear a conspicuous thud and quiet scraping.

You look for the source of the sounds, and there, at the closed door that leads to the stairway, you notice a small off-white creature, scrambling to its feet. It jumps against the door, seemingly trying to reach the door handle, not realising the futility of its pursuit, what with it being no more than a hand's length tall.

It notices you as you approach, and turns to face you. It has no discernible features, only a bowl on top of its little legs. And yet, as it turns from you back to the door handle, the message is evident.

The creature drums its little toes against the wooden floor impatiently as you open the door, and zooms straight down the stairs. You hear commotion and laughter coming from below and follow the little bowl to the Common Room.

You find joyful chaos in the comfortably furnished hall. There's dozens of little bowl creatures scuttling around, bringing snacks and delighting the lounging guests. While some are trying to hold still and not spill dip sauces, others have no intentions of being useful as they chase each other over the carpets and floor pillows. You watch as one, bowl-deep in large snack tray, scoops up as much as it can carry before jumping out and running over to a giggling guest.

"Greetings, ! I see you've found a stray one. They're not easy to keep track of, you can imagine," I say, standing on a wooden stool at the far end and getting one of the creatures off from the top of a bookshelf, "I don't even know how this one got up here! But please, make yourself at home. I'm sure if you put one of the playful ones to work, we'll soon be settled and ready."
You stop one of the running bowls with your hand, and request something from the snack cabinet. It nods and runs off - little wooden stairs, like those for cats, have been put up against the cabinet. You smile and shake your head and make yourself comfy.

Soon enough, the bowls are all busy with holding things and the chatter grows quiet. The lights dim and an image is projected onto the wall.

I am a prolific maker ...of one thing. I love making One Thing. You get an idea, do a bit of research, get the materials, and figure the rest out as you go. And at the end, you get One Thing, as a treat! And the Thing, oh, what a thing. It is artisanal, hand-made, just for you, just like you wanted it! Imagine that. And you never make it again. After all, you already have the One Thing. Why make copies?

So when I say I’ve made tables, bags, lamps… what I actually mean is that I’ve made a table, a bag, a lamp. I dread having to make copies. I fear being stuck, having to make Same Thing over and over again. I'm a process slut. Once I've figured it out, the novelty is gone, and following the same steps to get the same result feels unnecessary. I already did it. It's been done. Next!

Luckily, there are certain areas of craft where getting the same result by following the same steps is never guaranteed. And even a lifetime spent honing one's skills can only minimise unpredictability, but never eliminate it.

Welcome to ceramics.

The premise is simple. Primitive, even. We’re just playing with mud, right?

Ha. Haha.

The field of playing with mud is endless in every direction - history, types of mud, techniques of working with it, variables to be tweaked - any amount of research will cause a Category 5 rabbithole to open up before you and swallow, chew and spit you out, dazed, in awe of the power of human hyperfixations.

This is why I haven’t pursued it up until now. It amazes and scares me. I say, “okay, when I’m old and bored, then I’ll go into ceramics. It'll keep me occupied for a few decades.” Well, apparently old and bored arrived sooner than expected.

Okay, but why is it complicated? First off, you're not in charge. The environment is in charge. You're just strategically intervening. Air humidity, airflow, chemical composition of the clay, how wet it is, the heat of the kiln, the air circulation inside, the other pieces in the near vicinity, etc, etc. These things will affect the result more than you can account for.
Secondly, it takes time. Clay pieces take days, weeks to dry, then the kiln takes days to heat up and cool down (baking something at 1250°C is no joke), then the same process again, only with the pieces covered in glass powder that melts in extreme heat to make that shiny finish.
Thirdly, you need equipment. While clay is relatively cheap, a kiln is not. And it's a fuel guzzler, be that electricity or gas. People usually pool resources on this, through shared studios or open workshops.
And fourthly, it's dangerous. Fumes, high temperatures, the very real risk of explosions and, well, I did say powdered glass... not something you can do from your kitchen.

But enough gatekeeping, let's address the little creatures in the room.

Enter… the OG. Originally from Egypt, this shy 5500-year-old creature currently lives at the Met, and the people there have kindly photographed him from all angles, capturing his shy nature and, since archeologists have no certainty of his purpose, mysterious allure. Ever since I first saw him (many, many years ago), I’ve wanted one.

And, since I was already hanging out at the Ceramics Lab at uni for unrelated reasons, I decided it’s finally time.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t the feet that were the most difficult part! See, with enough time and tinkering, I could sculpt a decent pair of feet (whether or not they were the same size is beside the point), but bowls were another matter.

There’s a lot of ways one can make a bowl. So many ways, actually. (I went through them, so now you can too, sans the frustration.) The simplest would be coiling and pinching: you roll out a long sausage of clay, and begin to coil it in a spiral and then pinch up, consolidating the sausage into a single mass to make a somewhat flat plane. Good for that handmade-look, but good luck trying to make it look uniform. Then there’s piracy - you take an existing bowl and drape a slab of clay over it (or inside it), patting and caressing the clay until it’s convinced of its new shape. Selecting the right model of bowl is the tricky part here, as many have flattened bottoms. (You could use a sphere of some sort, but come on now. Not everyone has a loose sphere laying around.) Then there’s gypsum mould-making and slip casting. I won’t go into that one because making a mould is another rabbithole and I’m actually just here to play with mud? Okay, there’s also slab-building - you assemble the bowl from cutouts of a flat slab of clay - kinda like a gingerbread house. This is good for accuracy and geometric shapes - I even have paper patterns for some things I had to make *shudders* copies of. But look up at the Little Guy again. There is not a corner on him. Clearly geometric is not our look.

Before I get into the simplest and winning strategy, let me tell you, I did try all of the above techniques. Anything but the simplest way forward, right? All avenues have to be explored before we go straight ahead.

One technique obviously missing from the lengthy list above is throwing the bowls on a potter’s wheel. It’s what it’s for! That’s how it’s been done for centuries. But it scared me. It spins very fast and you have to be very strong and firm and gentle at the same time. You have to “get a feel for it.” I don’t want feels, I want hard facts, damnit!

But, that was it. Having exhausted all other options, I fortified myself with a half-dozen tutorials, sat down and followed what I’d heard. Center the clay, make a rough bowl, pinch upwards. Lots of water. Sponge.

Unfortunately, the clay I had was so viciously opposed to being on the potter’s wheel, it bit me!

See, early in my ceramics journey I came into some free clay. I didn’t care about it before, but it had a lot of “grog” in it (that’s smashed up bits of clay that’s already been fired. Think of it like old-timers coming in to show newbies how it’s done. Gives the clay an idea of how pottery is supposed to behave, thereby making it more stable, hence easier to sculpt.)
But this grit is not microscopic, it’s more like sugar grains (at least in my clay.) So imagine trying to make anything out of that on the wheel. If the image you’re getting is something like trying to squeeze a rapidly spinning chunk of wet sandpaper, you’ll be completely right.

I was so offended by this (I have never stuck with any hobby that required calluses on my hands), my ceramics passion came to a complete halt for several weeks, some of which I spent complaining to people who know more than me. Which is how I found out there’s actually buckets and buckets of free reclaim tray at the Lab that I could just appropriate.

And with clay that didn’t bite back, turns out working on the potter’s wheel is kinda fun! I still had to start over many times, and sometimes I’d have too many feet and too few bowls (this is how “incense stands” are born), but I managed to make a whole quartet at the end. A bowl-bershop quartet. A marching band. You get it.

All the ones here have already gone to good homes, and it brings me immense joy to be able to say that. Seems this is the first thing I don’t mind making copies of. Actually, I think I’ll make more! If you want one, tell me! Everyone needs a little guy in their lives. I might even make them different colours!

The lights come back on, and you look down at the little creature next to you. It is hopelessly covered in cheesy dip, and looks up at you. If it had eyes, you swear they’d be puppy-like.