When I first started throwing pottery, every finished piece felt like a small victory. After managing to center the clay, raise the walls, and end up with a shape that could stand on its own, it was hard to imagine that a vase might not deserve a place on a shelf.
Over time, something changed.
That change didn’t happen all at once. It crept in gradually, almost quietly. These days, I sometimes look at a vase that seemed successful right off the wheel and realize, a few days later, that something isn’t quite working.
Sometimes the form lacks presence. The foot looks ordinary. The proportions don’t create the visual tension I was hoping for. Other times, it’s a later step that causes the problem. A carving that seemed promising ends up weighing the piece down instead of enhancing it. A detail draws the eye to the wrong place. An intention that felt right in the moment doesn’t hold up once I step back.
There are also the more direct accidents. A base accidentally pierced during trimming. A wall left too fragile. A piece that reveals a weakness I hadn’t noticed before.
In the past, I probably would have kept most of these vases. Now, quite a few end up in the recycling bin instead.
It’s not that the pieces have gotten worse. Often it’s the opposite.
The eye changes faster than the hands.
As you improve, you start noticing things that used to slip by unseen. The flaws aren’t necessarily more numerous. They simply become more visible.
For a long time I believed that improving meant succeeding with more pieces. Now I’m discovering that part of progress is also learning to recognize, more quickly, the ones that no longer match what I’m aiming for.
That doesn’t always make the decisions easy. Destroying a piece means time, energy, and sometimes a certain attachment. But every vase set aside also makes room for the next one.
In the end, learning to create is also learning to let go.
