When the Work Sells Itself

Friday night I sat in the handbuilding room at the Potters Guild with a sheet of price stickers and boxes of my ceramics. It was the night before the annual half price sale. Jen and Mack sat with me while I sorted through pieces I'd made over the years—many from before I became a member, when I was still figuring out how to work the clay. Heavy bottoms. Bowls that were more oval than round. A dish with a spec of kiln wash baked into the surface where it had fallen from the shelf above. Glaze that had dripped from someone else's piece onto mine mid-firing.

I gave some pieces AS IS stickers. A few others got "not food safe" labels—pieces with gold luster or thick cobalt oxide that I wouldn't feel right selling without saying something. Easier to let the sticker do the talking.

We talked about how uncomfortable pricing is. How strange it is to make things you'd have to save up for yourself. It's half a joke—we spend hours producing work that lives outside our own budgets. I want what I make to be accessible, but I'm not interested in making things that feel effortless, mass produced. There's a tension there that doesn't really resolve.

Saturday morning I got in early to help with whatever still needed doing. Whitney brought most excellent baked goods. Gochujang and scallion swirls. Black currant morning buns. Rice Krispie and Corn Pops treats.

Just before the doors opened we did what I think of as the secret shop—this is when trades are made. I wanted everything but tried to practice restraint. In the end I grabbed pieces from Jen, Whitney, and Phillip. Three of mine went with them. Then I ate a morning bun with salted butter and waited for the doors to open. There was already a line outside.

I took a position between the main gallery and the handbuilding room, directing people toward the checkout, letting them know boxes were available. I could see people gathered around my table from where I was standing.

There's something about watching strangers pick up your work. They turn it over, check the bottom, hold it up to the light. They decide for themselves whether it needs to come home with them, without you having to say anything. When I saw someone carrying one of my pieces I'd tell them I made it. They invariably said something kind, "your work is beautiful," or "I love this." I wasn't fishing, but I wanted them to be able to connect the thing in their hands with the person who made it. It’s more special.

Half an hour in, the crowd was still thick and the checkout line was long. I took a moment to walk over to my table. It was starting to look bare.

I helped out at the wrapping table after that, watching people leave with their finds. I occasionally let people know when they had something of mine among their pieces. One woman had a considerable haul. I overheard her explaining how she intended to display everything—she had a commercial space and they would be up where people could see them. I was just thinking how nice that was—that more people might see my work—when she said, "not these, though," gesturing to mine, "these are coming home with me." I melted.

I left at noon to walk Frisket. I went back to the studio a few days later. Just two pieces left out of everything I'd brought. One was a surprise. A fancy fox bowl with 22k gold luster—I remember it got a lot of attention at the winter market. Some things need the right person.

Either way, I'll need to rebuild. There's a lot to make.