Finding Artistic Expression in Unexpected Places
By late 2024, I had become something of a studio nomad in Bend, trying out ceramic spaces like someone searching for the perfect apartment—each one offering something valuable, but none quite fitting the specific needs of my artistic practice. Three different studios, three sets of good people, three environments that taught me important lessons about what I needed to create my best work. The problem wasn't the studios themselves but a fundamental mismatch between production-oriented spaces and my approach to making art.
Each studio I tried was filled with dedicated ceramists creating beautiful work, but the underlying philosophy was consistently production-focused. These were spaces where success was measured in finished pieces per week, where efficiency was prized over experimentation, where the rhythms were designed around churning out inventory for shows, shops, and sales. The potters working in these environments were skilled and committed, but they were operating from a completely different creative paradigm than mine.
I slowly realized that I'm not a production potter—I'm a sculptor who happens to work in clay. I'm a piece-builder who thinks in terms of individual works rather than series. I'm an artist whose process includes long periods of contemplation, failed experiments, and the kind of meandering exploration that doesn't translate well to studio rental fees calculated by productivity metrics.
This understanding was simultaneously frustrating and liberating. Frustrating because finding the right creative environment seemed more challenging than anticipated. Liberating because it clarified exactly what kind of artist I am and what kind of space I need to do my best work.
The search for a permanent studio became a meditation on artistic identity. What did I actually need to create work that felt authentic and sustainable? How much space? What kind of equipment access? What sort of community? How much solitude versus collaboration? These weren't just practical questions but fundamental inquiries about how I worked best and what environments supported my particular blend of technical skill and creative vision.
The production studios taught me about efficiency and community, but they also made clear that my process requires different rhythms. I need space for pieces to sit unfinished while I consider next steps. I need flexibility to shift between different scales and techniques without feeling pressure to maximize kiln usage. I need an environment where failed experiments are seen as valuable research rather than wasted resources.
While searching for the perfect ceramic studio fit, my creative practice took an entirely unexpected turn: moss wall art. This new direction emerged organically from my interiorscape work and deepening understanding of biophilic design, but it represented a dramatic shift in both medium and scale that caught even me by surprise.
Where my ceramic work tends toward intimate, detailed pieces that invite close examination, the moss wall art operates at architectural scale—large installations designed to transform entire rooms or building spaces. The contrast between creating small, precise ceramic forms with my hands and designing expansive living walls that span multiple feet was initially disorienting, then increasingly exciting.
Working with preserved moss opened up entirely new possibilities for artistic expression. Unlike clay, which requires firing to achieve permanence, moss art achieves longevity through careful preservation techniques that maintain the natural beauty and texture while stopping the biological processes that would otherwise lead to decay. The medium offers the visual and tactile qualities of living plant material with the stability needed for permanent installations.
The color variations in preserved moss are subtle but remarkably diverse—dozens of shades of green, plus natural variations that include touches of yellow, brown, and even deep purple. Creating large-scale compositions with these natural palettes feels like painting with living materials, building landscapes that bring the calm and restoration of forest environments into interior spaces.
The move to large-scale moss art represents more than just a medium change—it's a philosophical shift toward thinking about art as environmental intervention rather than object creation. These pieces don't just occupy wall space; they transform the entire atmosphere of rooms, creating microclimates of calm that affect everyone who enters the space.
There's something profoundly satisfying about working at this scale after years of intimate ceramic pieces. Where pottery requires careful attention to detail and precision in small spaces, moss wall art allows for gestural, landscape-scale thinking. I can step back and see the entire composition, make adjustments that affect the overall impact, create visual rhythms that work across expansive surfaces.
The contrast between my ceramic and moss work has become one of the most interesting aspects of my current practice. Small ceramic pieces require intense focus, technical precision, and patience with processes that unfold over weeks or months. Large moss installations demand spatial thinking, compositional skills, and the ability to envision how different elements will work together across significant square footage.
Yet both mediums serve similar purposes in terms of biophilic design—they bring natural beauty and organic texture into human environments in ways that enhance well-being and connection to natural systems. The ceramic pieces work at the scale of individual interaction, objects that can be held and examined closely. The moss walls work at the scale of environmental experience, installations that surround and embrace viewers.
Working with moss has also helped clarify what I need in a ceramic studio. The large-scale installations require significant workspace for layout and assembly, but they don't need kilns or wheels or the traditional pottery infrastructure. This has made me realize that my ideal ceramic space might be smaller and more specialized than I originally thought—a place focused on hand-building and glazing rather than production volume.
The moss work can be done in spaces that wouldn't work for ceramics—areas where natural light is important for color accuracy, where ventilation needs are different, where the rhythms of work follow design timelines rather than firing schedules. This medium flexibility is reshaping how I think about workspace and creative infrastructure.
The combination of small-scale ceramics and large-scale moss work is teaching me something important about artistic identity. Rather than needing to choose a single medium or scale, I'm discovering that the contrast between different approaches can enhance both. The precision required for ceramic work sharpens my attention to detail in moss compositions. The expansive thinking needed for large installations brings new perspective to smaller ceramic pieces.
The studio search continues, but with greater clarity about what I'm actually looking for. I need a space that supports contemplative, individual work rather than efficient production. I need an environment where different scales and mediums can coexist. I need a creative home that honors both the intimate craft of hand-building ceramics and the environmental scope of large-scale moss installations.
Most importantly, I'm learning that being a sculptor, a piece-builder, an artist isn't a limitation to overcome but an identity to honor. The right studio will support that identity rather than asking me to adapt to someone else's vision of what ceramic work should look like.
