Carved Away from Solid

Early 2021 brought a return to familiar territory with an entirely new approach. As my divorce proceedings stretched on with the persistence of a California drought, my hands found their way back to making dishes—but these weren't the white-on-white pieces of my pre-diagnosis innocence, nor the delicate sculptural vessels of my treatment period. These were bold, geometric forms carved from solid blocks of red and black clay, each one a study in the ancient Japanese technique of Kurinuki, each one a meditation on what remains when everything else is carved away.

Kurinuki, literally meaning "to hollow out," became my new language of creation. Instead of building up from nothing, I started with solid blocks of clay and carved inward, removing material to reveal the vessel hidden within. There's something profoundly satisfying about this subtractive process—it mirrors the way life strips away what you thought you needed to reveal what you actually require to survive.

Working exclusively with red and black clay bodies, then covering them in stark white glaze, created a dramatic contrast that felt appropriate for this period of my life. The dark clay spoke to the weight I was carrying through the divorce proceedings, while the white glaze suggested the clarity I was seeking, the clean slate I hoped to create for myself and my children.

Everything became square or cube-shaped. Platters emerged as perfect squares, their edges sharp and definitive. Vessels took the form of cubes, their geometric precision a stark departure from the organic curves that had characterized my earlier work. This shift toward geometry wasn't accidental—in a life that felt increasingly chaotic and unpredictable, there was comfort in creating forms with clear boundaries, defined edges, predictable angles.

The square platters required careful planning. Each one began as a thick slab that I would methodically hollow from beneath, leaving just enough clay to maintain structural integrity while creating the shallow depression that would hold food, objects, or simply space itself. The cube vessels were even more challenging, demanding that I hollow out perfect geometric voids while maintaining the crispness of their exterior lines.

The choice to work with red and black clay bodies was deliberate. These weren't the neutral, forgiving clays I had worked with before, but bold, earthy materials that demanded confidence in handling. Red clay brought warmth and earthiness, connecting me to the ground beneath my feet during a time when everything else felt unstable. Black clay was dramatic and unforgiving, showing every fingerprint and tool mark, requiring precision and commitment.

The white glaze over these dark bodies created something magical—a luminous surface that glowed with inner depth. Where the glaze was thin, hints of the clay body would show through, creating subtle variations in tone that made each piece unique. The contrast was striking: dark foundations revealed through bright surfaces, hidden depths made visible through transparent coverage.

When the Sunset Center announced their first post-COVID Open Studio event, I knew this was my moment. The studio where I had processed cancer, navigated loss, and rebuilt my artistic voice was ready to welcome the public back, and I was ready to share what I had been creating in isolation.

The response exceeded every expectation. The tennis ball rattles, with their irresistible tactile appeal, drew people in immediately. But the Kurinuki pieces commanded attention in a different way. Visitors would run their fingers along the sharp edges of the square platters, peer into the geometric voids of the cube vessels, marvel at the precision required to carve such clean forms from solid clay.

Sales happened naturally. People understood these pieces instinctively—they were functional but sculptural, familiar yet surprising, bold without being aggressive. The white-glazed surfaces caught and reflected the gallery lights, making each piece seem to glow from within. They were objects that could enhance any table, any shelf, any space that needed a touch of architectural elegance.

Standing in that familiar underground space, watching people discover and purchase my work, should have felt like triumph. And it did, but it was a bittersweet victory. The success of the show confirmed that I had found my voice as an artist, that years of working through crisis had resulted in work that spoke to others. But it also felt like completion, like the end of a chapter rather than the beginning of one.

The Central Coast had been my sanctuary during the hardest years of my life. The studio beneath the Sunset Center had been my refuge, my classroom, my therapy office. But as I watched visitors examine my geometric vessels and shake my tennis ball rattles, I felt a longing I hadn't expected—a pull toward somewhere new, somewhere that didn't hold the weight of everything I had been through.

The Kurinuki technique became a metaphor for what I was ready to do with my life. I wanted to take the solid block of my existence and carefully carve away everything that no longer served—the marriage that had failed, the assumptions that had proven false, the geography that held too many difficult memories. Like the vessels I was creating, I wanted to hollow out space for something new while maintaining the structural integrity of who I had become.

Each square platter and cube vessel was practice for this larger project of life renovation. They taught me that you could remove enormous amounts of material and still create something beautiful, something functional, something that could hold whatever you chose to put in it. They showed me that clean lines and defined edges could coexist with warmth and utility.

As early 2021 progressed and my divorce slowly ground toward resolution, these geometric vessels became symbols of the order I was creating from chaos, the clarity I was carving from confusion. They were proof that I could take something solid and heavy and transform it into something light-filled and useful. They were preparation for the fresh start I was beginning to crave, practice for the clean lines I wanted to draw around my future.

The success at the Open Studio was gratifying, but it was also a kind of graduation. I had proven I could create work that resonated with others, work that sold, work that brought beauty into people's lives. Now I was ready to take that confidence somewhere new, to carve out space for the next chapter in a place that didn't know my whole story yet.