成形 | Seikei — Forming
Most people imagine that this is where potters spend most of their time.
In our studio, the forming stage usually lasts about five to seven days during each month-long production cycle. During this time, approximately 200 pieces begin to take physical form.
Even during these days, however, we are not working with clay from morning until night. The studio is also a business. Customer communication, orders, office work, materials, and the everyday responsibilities of running the studio continue while production is underway.
Thomas primarily works on the potter’s wheel, while Kathy specializes in handbuilding. We often work side by side, but our processes and rhythms are different.
Forming is also much more than making the initial shape.
Clay is constantly changing as it loses moisture. A piece that is too soft in the morning may be ready to trim that afternoon. A slab may need time to stiffen before it can be assembled. Handles, feet, cuts, alterations, and joined sections all have their own ideal timing.
Much of this stage is therefore a conversation with the material.
We shape the clay, but we also wait for it.
Knowing when to work—and when not to touch the clay—is one of the most important skills in forming pottery.
Our Process
Overview of process
Our Forming Cycle
what these 5–7 days actually look like
Our forming cycle usually lasts about five to seven days, but the work does not move in a straight line.
The first work of the morning is often yesterday’s pottery, not today’s clay.
Thomas begins by checking the pieces thrown the previous day. Some may be ready to trim immediately. Others are still too soft and need more time. A piece that feels perfect at 8:00 in the morning may already be getting too dry by the afternoon, so the order of work changes according to the condition of the clay.
Kathy works with a similar rhythm in handbuilding. Pieces made the day before may need their edges cleaned, corners refined, surfaces compressed, sections joined, or details added. Slabs prepared earlier may now be firm enough to assemble, while newly rolled slabs need time to stiffen before they can be handled.
Once yesterday’s work is taken care of, we prepare for the new work.
Thomas wedges clay and begins throwing the forms scheduled for that day. Kathy prepares slabs, templates, molds, and components for the next group of handbuilt pieces.
By the end of the day, another generation of unfinished pottery is waiting for us.
The next morning, the cycle begins again.
This creates an overlapping rhythm:
make → wait → refine → make again
Different pieces are always at different stages. Some have just been formed. Some are becoming leather-hard. Some are ready for trimming or assembly. Others are nearly finished and beginning their final drying.
Weather also changes the rhythm. Warm, dry days can move the work forward surprisingly quickly. Cool or humid conditions may slow everything down. Large forms, thick sections, handles, joined pieces, and complicated handbuilt work all dry at different rates.
For that reason, our production schedule gives us a plan, but the clay ultimately determines the exact timing.
We also continue running the studio during these production days. Customer emails, orders, paperwork, materials, and other office work do not stop simply because we are making pottery. We move back and forth between those responsibilities and the clay throughout the day.
After several days, the amount of new forming gradually tapers down. More of our time shifts toward trimming, assembly, cleanup, and helping the remaining pieces dry evenly.
By the end of the forming cycle, approximately 200 pieces may be moving through the studio at different stages of drying.
They began as quantities on a production spreadsheet.
Now they have become objects that each need to be watched individually.
The schedule tells us what to make. The clay tells us when we can make the next move.
Preparing the Clay
Half of good forming happens before the forming begins
Before clay reaches the wheel or workbench, its condition has to be right for the work we are about to ask it to do.
For me, I would say that almost half of throwing performance comes from how well the clay has been wedged.
Wedging
I use the ram’s-head wedging technique.
There are several different ways to wedge clay, and I do not think one technique is necessarily superior to another. What matters much more is the quality of the wedging.
And that quality comes largely from repetition.
I wedged clay every day during my first several years as a potter. At the time, I thought I was doing it well enough because I could make pots with the clay I prepared.
Around my fourth year, however, I suddenly noticed that my wedging had become very good.
It takes time for the hands to become sensitive enough to recognize the difference.
As my throwing improved, I became more particular about wedging because I could feel more clearly how the quality of the preparation affected everything that followed—centering, opening, pulling the wall, and the overall response of the clay.
The interesting thing is that improvement is not always obvious while it is happening.
You reach a point where it feels as though your wedging has stopped getting better. Then several years later you suddenly realize: Oh. This is much better than what I was doing before.
Like many pottery skills, progress can happen quietly.
There may be different wedging techniques, but ultimately I think the biggest difference comes from how many bags of clay a potter has wedged over a career.
Preparing Clay for Throwing
For our regular forms, I weigh the clay for every piece.
Consistent clay weight is important not only because it helps keep finished pieces within the same family. It also gives me a way to evaluate my own throwing.
There are good throwing days and bad throwing days.
The clay may be softer than ideal, the weather may be different, or I may simply not be performing as well that day. But professional production does not stop every time conditions are less than perfect. I still have to make the work.
Knowing exactly how much clay I started with gives me a reference.
If I finish the form with more excess clay remaining than usual, I know I am throwing efficiently that day. If I need more of the original clay to reach the same dimensions, it may tell me that the clay is unusually soft or that my throwing is not quite as efficient.
The weight of the clay therefore becomes a kind of performance gauge.
It does not tell me whether a pot is good. My hands and eyes still have to make that judgment.
But it gives me another piece of information.
Before I begin an afternoon of throwing, I prepare the clay for the entire session. Each portion is weighed, wedged, numbered, and wrapped in plastic.
After spending the effort to make all of the clay consistent, I do not want sunlight, wind, or dry studio air to begin changing it before I reach the last piece. Keeping the prepared clay wrapped helps every portion remain as close as possible to the same condition throughout the throwing session.
The goal is to remove unnecessary variables.
Then, when something feels different at the wheel, I have a better chance of knowing whether the difference is coming from the clay—or from me.
Learning to Feel the Clay
At first, many differences in clay condition are difficult to recognize.
A beginning potter may think of clay in only three conditions: soft, medium, and hard.
With enough repetition, the hands begin to recognize much finer differences. After years of working with clay, those three categories may become five, six, or seven different levels of softness and firmness.
And moisture is only one part of what we feel.
Clay can feel fresh or aged. It can be long and plastic, or short and less willing to stretch. Two clay bodies at the same apparent softness may respond completely differently on the wheel or workbench.
Over time, we begin to remember the character of each clay body almost like the personality of a family member.
One clay may move easily but need more support. Another may be strong but less forgiving. One may respond beautifully to a particular form, while another asks us to approach the same shape differently.
We do not expect every clay to behave the same way.
Instead, we plan around its character.
The clay body influences which forms we choose to make, how soft or firm we prepare it, how we approach throwing or handbuilding, and sometimes even the sequence of the work itself.
After working with the same materials for years, much of this judgment becomes intuitive.
We recognize the clay not only by its name, but by its personality.
Preparing Slabs
Kathy’s handbuilding process begins differently.
She usually prepares enough slabs for the entire following day’s production.
The thickness is not always the same. Kathy changes the slab thickness according to the size of the piece, its shape, and its function. A larger form may need additional structural strength, while another piece may need a thinner wall to achieve the right proportion and weight.
After rolling, the slabs are placed between plasterboard or drywall boards to condition them.
The boards gradually absorb moisture from the clay and help bring the slab to the condition needed for forming.
How long a slab stays between the boards depends on the size and shape of the piece, the thickness of the slab, and how soft the clay was when she started.
This timing is critical.
If a slab is too soft, it may stretch, sag, distort, or lose a crisp edge during construction. If it becomes too dry, it may resist bending or crack when joined.
So just as wedging strongly affects the quality of Thomas’s wheel-thrown work, slab conditioning strongly affects the quality of Kathy’s handbuilt work.
In both cases, much of the success of forming is decided before the form itself is made.
Preparation Makes Judgment Possible
Throwing and handbuilding are the visible parts of pottery making.
Clay preparation is much less visible.
But consistent preparation gives us a stable starting point. When the amount, moisture, and condition of the clay are controlled as well as possible, we can concentrate on the variables that should remain human: pressure, movement, proportion, balance, timing, and judgment.
Saying Hello to the Clay
For us, preparing clay is also a way of saying hello to it.
When I begin wedging, or when Kathy begins rolling and conditioning slabs, we immediately start receiving information. The clay tells us through resistance, softness, plasticity, moisture, and movement what kind of approach it will require.
The answer is not given in words, of course. Clay has no mind or intention. When we talk about a clay's “personality,” we are really describing the material characteristics we have learned to recognize after working with it for many years.
But the conversation is real in another sense.
Preparing clay also prepares us.
Earlier I said that there are good throwing days and bad throwing days. I am not sure that is completely true.
Some days my mind is too busy. Sometimes I am impatient or overly ambitious. Sometimes I am thinking about the result I want instead of paying attention to the clay that is actually in front of me.
When that happens, the result is usually obvious.
The clay did not suddenly become difficult. Often, what I see as difficulty or imperfection is simply a reflection of how I approached the work that day.
The largest variable may not be the clay at all.
It may be the mind of the maker—and that is often the hardest variable to control.
Wedging gives me a few minutes to settle into the work. Rolling and conditioning slabs does something similar for Kathy. Before the final form exists, we are already beginning to make the pot in our minds.
We feel the material. We adjust our expectations. We become more realistic about what the clay can do that day and what we should ask of it.
Ideally, when forming begins, there is less attention on ourselves and less attachment to what we imagined the pot should become.
There is simply the clay in front of us, and the question:
How can we help this material reach its potential?
Good clay preparation does not eliminate variation. It helps us understand where the variation is coming from.
Throwing
Repetition without becoming mechanical
By the time I sit down at the wheel, many decisions have already been made.
The production plan tells me which forms I am making and how many. The clay has been weighed, wedged, numbered, and prepared for the afternoon. The dimensions and proportions are recorded, and the tonbo or other gauge is ready beside the wheel.
At this point, I do not want to spend much attention deciding what to make.
I want to concentrate on how the clay is moving under my hands.
Centering
Throwing begins with centering, but centering is more than placing the clay physically in the middle of the wheel.
It is the first moment when I learn how that particular piece of clay is behaving.
How much resistance does it have?
How quickly does it respond to pressure?
Is it softer than the previous piece?
How much support will it need as the wall becomes thinner?
Because the clay has already been carefully prepared, unexpected differences become easier to recognize.
Centering also sets the tone for everything that follows. If I rush this stage or begin fighting the clay, that tension often continues through the rest of the pot.
Opening and Establishing the Form
Once centered, I open the clay and establish the floor and basic proportions of the piece.
For regular forms, I already know the dimensions I am aiming for.
But measurements alone do not make the form.
A bowl can have the correct diameter and height and still feel wrong. The curve may begin too early. The wall may be too straight. The rim may feel heavy. The relationship between the foot, body, and opening may not have the balance I am looking for.
This is where the recorded specification and the maker's judgment work together.
The gauge tells me where I am.
My eyes and hands tell me whether the pot is right.
Pulling the Wall
Each pull changes the clay.
The wall becomes thinner, taller, and more responsive, but also more vulnerable. The amount of pressure that worked during the first pull may be too much during the next one.
Throwing therefore becomes a continuous series of small adjustments.
Pressure, wheel speed, water, finger position, hand position, and timing all change according to what the clay is doing.
With experience, many of these adjustments happen without conscious thought. The hands respond before there is time to put the problem into words.
That does not mean the process has become automatic.
It means years of repetition have moved some decisions from conscious thought into physical memory.
The Tonbo Is a Reference, Not the Pot
For many regular forms, I use a tonbo to check height and diameter.
Its purpose is consistency.
A tonbo preserves dimensions we already established during the design process. It helps each piece remain within the same family and allows me to recognize when my throwing begins to drift during a long production session.
But the tonbo does not determine the quality of the curve, the tension of the wall, the rim, the balance, or the feeling of the finished form.
Those still depend on the maker.
I can hit every measurement perfectly and still make a bad pot.
Troubleshooting
Look one step backward
One useful thing about throwing is that the cause of a problem is often found in the step immediately before it.
If centering is unusually difficult, I first question the clay preparation.
Was the clay wedged thoroughly?
Is the moisture even?
Is it softer or firmer than I expected?
If pulling the wall becomes difficult, I look back at the centering and opening.
Was the clay truly centered?
Was the opening even?
Was the wall established properly before I began pulling?
A problem that appears late in the process often began earlier.
This is why I try not to immediately fight a pot when something starts going wrong. Instead, I ask:
Where did the problem actually begin?
Over time, troubleshooting becomes less about correcting mistakes and more about recognizing them earlier.
The sooner I understand the cause, the smaller the correction usually needs to be.
Strategy
There is more than one way to arrive at a form
Throwing is not one fixed sequence of steps that works equally well for every pot.
Different forms, sizes, and clay conditions require different strategies.
For example, when I throw a tall form—particularly something over about twelve inches—I sometimes open the clay relatively wide and begin with a tapered pull. The wider lower section gives the clay more stability during the early pulls and can reduce twisting in the middle or lower portion of the cylinder.
For a large bowl, I may do almost the opposite of what the final form suggests.
Instead of opening immediately to the finished diameter, I may first throw a smaller-diameter, taller bowl and then gradually open it outward.
Clay is generally much easier to make wider than it is to make narrow again. Keeping the form relatively upright during the early stages gives me strength and control before I commit to the final width.
These strategies add steps.
Sometimes those extra steps are necessary.
Other times, because of the particular clay, size, or form, I can safely skip several steps.
Experience gives you more choices.
The more techniques, finger positions, hand positions, and forming strategies you accumulate, the more options you can pull out when you encounter a different form or an unexpected piece of clay.
There is rarely only one correct way to throw something.
The important question is:
What is the most appropriate way to make this form, with this clay, today?
Finding the Workflow
When I am going to make twenty, thirty, or fifty pieces of the same form and clay, I usually treat the first few pots as part of the setup.
The first three pieces are often where I work out the most efficient strategy for that particular session.
I pay attention to the clay condition, how many pulls are necessary, where I need water, which finger position works best, when a tool should be used, and whether any step can be removed without compromising the form.
By the fourth or fifth piece, the workflow usually begins to settle.
This becomes especially obvious with small work.
When throwing small pieces off the hump, several separate operations can begin to merge into one continuous movement.
While centering, I may already begin opening.
While opening, I begin pulling.
One movement naturally flows into the next.
A small bowl under about five inches may take only a couple of minutes to throw. At that scale, a surprising percentage of the total time can be spent doing things that do not shape the pot at all—wiping my hands, reaching for a tool, finding the cutting wire, putting something down, or picking it back up.
So I pay a great deal of attention to strategy and workflow.
Where are my tools?
Which hand will be free?
Can one movement naturally lead into the next?
Good workflow does not mean rushing.
It means removing movements that contribute nothing to the pot.
The goal is not simply to make a piece faster.
It is to create a rhythm in which my concentration is interrupted as little as possible.
Repetition as a Teacher
During production, I may throw the same form many times in succession.
This kind of repetition is sometimes misunderstood as the opposite of creativity.
For me, it is one of the ways I learn a form most deeply.
The first piece tells me something.
The fifth tells me something else.
By the twentieth piece, I may notice a very small movement in the curve, rim, or proportion that I did not see at the beginning of the afternoon.
Repetition makes small differences visible.
It also exposes the maker.
If I become impatient, distracted, tired, overly ambitious, or overly confident, the pots usually show it.
There is nowhere to hide when the same form is sitting in front of you again and again.
Consistency and Variation
Our goal is not to make every pot identical.
We want enough consistency that a customer can recognize the form, replace a piece later, or use several pieces together. Size, proportion, capacity, and function need to stay within a useful range.
But each piece is still made individually.
The clay responds slightly differently.
My pressure changes slightly.
A rim may move a little more.
A curve may become slightly fuller or quieter.
Those differences are not necessarily mistakes.
Part of professional judgment is knowing which differences are natural variation and which differences mean the pot has moved too far away from the form it is supposed to be.
Tight and Loose
I think a great deal about the difference between tight work and loose work.
Tight work can demonstrate extraordinary skill.
The dimensions are precise. The curves repeat. The rims land where they are supposed to. Twenty pieces sitting together clearly belong to the same form.
There is beauty in that control.
But there is another quality I value in pottery:
looseness.
Looseness can preserve movement.
A small change in pressure, wheel speed, the movement of a finger, or the moment when the hand leaves the clay can remain permanently visible in the finished piece.
I sometimes think of tight and loose throwing like scripted and impromptu speech.
A carefully written speech can be precise, polished, and beautifully constructed.
A great impromptu speaker may be less perfectly controlled, but something happens in that particular moment between the speaker and the audience. It feels alive.
The difficult part is that good looseness requires tremendous control.
Careless work is not loose work.
You first need enough technique to understand what you are allowing to happen.
A Moment Made Permanent
Earlier, when talking about preparing clay, I wrote that the condition of the maker's mind can appear in the work.
Throwing makes that idea almost literal.
The body is moving continuously—hands, fingers, arms, breath, pressure, timing, wheel speed.
For a few minutes, throwing is almost a performing art.
A dancer makes a movement and then it disappears.
But clay records movement.
A finger passes over the wall and leaves a line. A change in pressure alters the curve. The speed of a hand changes the rim.
Then the clay dries and passes through the kiln.
Movement that lasted only a moment becomes a permanent object.
This is one reason I value a certain amount of looseness.
Sometimes people describe visible irregularity in handmade pottery as wabi-sabi. I hesitate to use the term that simply.
For me, what is interesting is not imperfection for its own sake.
It is impermanence.
The potter is also impermanent.
Our hands change.
Our skill develops.
Our bodies age.
Our interests change.
Our confidence changes.
Even when I make the same form for twenty years, the person making it is never exactly the same.
A very tightly controlled form can sometimes conceal that change.
A slightly looser form can allow some of that particular moment to remain visible.
Perhaps that is what I am looking for—not an intentional imperfection, but evidence that this pot was made by this person, from this clay, at this particular moment.
Tomorrow, I may make it differently.
Professional Throwing
Professional throwing does not mean waiting for perfect clay, the perfect mood, or the perfect day.
Production continues.
There are days when the clay is softer than I would prefer. There are days when my body or concentration is not at its best. There are forms that require a different strategy than the one I expected.
The goal is not to pretend those variables do not exist.
It is to recognize them and respond.
This is one reason we control as many other variables as possible before throwing begins: clay weight, moisture, wedging, specifications, gauges, tools, quantities, and workflow.
The fewer unnecessary decisions I have to make, the more attention I can give to the variables that cannot—and perhaps should not—be standardized.
After enough years, throwing becomes a balance between two things that may seem contradictory:
Repeat the form faithfully, and respond to the individual piece in front of you.
That is where I think hand production lives.
Not in making every piece different.
And not in making every piece identical.
But in knowing what should remain constant—and where the hand should still be allowed to speak.
Handbuilding
Kathy
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Trimming, Altering & Assembly
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