Letting Clay Find
Its Own Form

For many years, I have been thinking about a simple question: how much should an artist control a material, and how much should we allow the material to become itself?

A fluid structure

Clay is often understood as a material that receives form. We press it, throw it, carve it and cast it, expecting it to follow our intentions. In my own practice, I gradually became interested in another possibility. Instead of deciding exactly what the final form should be, I began to create conditions in which clay could move, bend, stretch, collapse and eventually find its own form.

This way of working developed slowly through my experience with clay, memory, textiles, architecture and the unpredictable transformations of firing. Over time, these threads came together as what I now think of as a fluid structure: a structure that exists, but is never completely fixed.

From fabric to clay

Some of my earliest memories are connected with textiles. I grew up in Jiangsu, in the Jiangnan region of China, where cloth and everyday handwork were once part of domestic life. In my grandparents’ generation, cotton was grown, spun into thread and woven into fabric. As a child, I never thought of these things as art. They simply belonged to life.

In 2018, during a visit to Spain, I encountered Antoni Gaudí’s architecture in Barcelona. The Sagrada Família and the rooftop structures of Casa Milà revealed how architecture could behave almost like a living organism. Hard structures seemed capable of movement; stone appeared soft; surfaces folded, grew and twisted.

Back in the studio, I began cutting and sewing fabric to construct an initial framework, then combining it with specially prepared porcelain slip. Sewing establishes folds, tensions and volumes, but does not determine the final form. Once saturated with slip, the structure responds to the weight and fluidity of clay. Gravity pulls on different areas, folds deepen, edges stretch and surfaces shift as the work dries.

“I create the conditions, and then I let the clay find its own form.”

The kiln as part of the making

The process continues inside the kiln. My works are fired to approximately 1320°C in a reduction atmosphere. At this temperature, the porcelain body begins to soften and deform. Thin areas respond more readily to heat and gravity, while thicker or structurally stronger areas remain relatively stable. The form that enters the kiln is therefore never exactly the form that comes out.

Firing is not simply the final technical stage; it is another stage of making. The clay composition, slip density, sewn construction, thickness, drying process, firing curve and atmosphere all influence the result. Experience allows me to guide the material while leaving room for change. I think of this balance as controlled contingency: chance is present, but not completely uncontrolled.

What time leaves behind

Time appears repeatedly in the titles of my works: Castle in Time, Baroque in Time, Folding in Time, Walking in Time and many others. At first, time was closely connected with memory, architecture, fragments and landscapes that seemed to carry traces of something that had already happened.

Gradually, I realized that time was not only the subject of the work; it was physically present in making. Every application of slip requires time. Drying requires time. Gravity needs time to alter a surface. The kiln has its own duration, and deformation becomes a record of time acting upon matter.

In Baroque in Time, the folds and edges retain movement after firing. The porcelain remains largely unglazed, with selected edges emphasized in gold, allowing light, shadow and the rhythm of the folds to become visible. The work appears soft, yet it has passed through extreme heat: softness created through fire, movement preserved within something solid.

From constructing form to discovering it

My earlier works often referred to architecture and landscape—castles, mountains, folded structures and imagined cities. In more recent works, the forms have become more open. In Folding in Time, interior and exterior continuously exchange positions. In Walking in Time, the structure extends through space rather than remaining centered. In Rhythm in Time, movement itself has become more important than the image of any specific thing.

I no longer ask first, “What does this form represent?” Instead, I ask, “What is happening inside this form?” Compression, suspension, folding, gravity, tension, collapse and growth have become part of my visual language. Porcelain’s whiteness can hold shadow; its hardness can remember softness; its stillness can preserve movement.

Respecting the material

Traditional ceramic training teaches us to understand material through control, and that knowledge remains essential. Yet mastery is not about conquering a material. It is about knowing it deeply enough to respect its nature—and knowing when to leave space for it to become itself.

The cutting and sewing are deliberate. The structure, slip preparation, thickness, drying and firing are informed by experience. Within this carefully constructed process, however, I leave space for gravity, heat and the material itself to act. I guide the material, but I also listen to it.

Every firing contains something I already know and something I have never seen before. When I open the kiln, I encounter the result of a process that I initiated but did not completely control. For me, this is where the work becomes alive. I do not want to force clay to imitate life. I want to understand it, respect it and create the conditions in which, for a brief moment, it can behave as if it has a life of its own.