Handcoiled pots slowly built in order to control the shape of the clay. Average size about 40x60x50cm.
Ground is shaking. Earth is moving. I am on the edge with my pots. My pots… please spare my pots… My pots and I are above an iron mine. A mine that is growing. I build my pots slowly and hope they will stand the shaking from down under. I move my studio when the mine expands too near. I look down into the pit but I can not see that far. My mind continues the journey further down. I know there are beautiful things found down there beside the iron ore: stones ugly on the outside but with a divine beauty hidden inside. But the beauty is not the treasure in an iron mine, the beauty is not profitable. Neither are my pots, they only possess beauty. Is that enough? I look down into the pot and right there I could die in the beauty of one single breath…