I handbuild in stoneware clays - white, black, red, glinting or groggy.

Pebbles become forms on which to build. Buoys found on the beach generate kinetic, rock-able shapes that seem pleasingly unanchored. Chance vessels emerge and evolve.

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I leave awkward forms unglazed to reveal strata and stripe, while slender vessels undergo distortion by hand, as if wind-whipped. Rough bowls are honed smooth.

Layered glazes  suggest the shallows where the kelp begins and the light plays tricks. Foraged sea-glass  journeys under fire into ebb and flow.

Blacks are stark and matt. They remind me of heather after muirburn, or a cormorant glimpsed from a distance, preening. 

Reds stay earthy and ferrous, like the metallic burns that run the rough ground near my Wester Ross home.

Bone-matt white glaze makes me think of the exposed chalk figures cut into the South Downs.  Delicate nerikomi work proposes something deeper: fossils cached in ancient rocks.

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