The Anatomy of Stillness

Studio Yun is tucked away in Orewa. Before we dive into the making of the Volute mug, can you please tell us about the atmosphere of your space? What is the first thing you see, hear, or feel when you open the studio doors to begin a day of making?

The space is calm and quiet. Because the studio faces north, it is filled with natural light throughout the day, creating a warm and peaceful atmosphere.
The first thing I see when I open the doors is the work itself: the pieces I left from the previous day, still waiting in their unfinished state, and the finished forms resting on the table. Seeing them again helps me reconnect with where I left off and gently brings me back into the rhythm of making.

Looking at the work coming out of Studio Yun today, how has your relationship with clay changed since you first began? What are the ultimate aspirations that drive you to keep pushing the boundaries of your studio work?

My relationship with clay has changed profoundly over time. My practice evolved from a therapeutic, somatic practice into a refined ceramic inquiry. In the beginning, clay was a way of reconnecting with myself through touch and making. Gradually, it became a medium for exploring deeper questions around material, form, and the relationship between the maker and the object.

What continues to push me forward is curiosity. I don't see ceramics as something to be mastered, but as a lifelong conversation. Every firing, every form, and even every failure reveals something new and expands my understanding of the material. My aspiration is not to arrive at a final style, but to remain open, and to keep discovering what clay can teach me and where the process of making can lead.

The Volute features a very specific, deliberate body shape, a quiet tulip flare resting on a small foot. How does the raw earth feel in your hands when you are trying to guide it into such a precise, gentle silhouette?

The Volute's form isn't created through force; it emerges through careful attention. Clay is incredibly sensitive, it records every touch, every shift in pressure, every hesitation. When I'm shaping the mug, my hands are constantly listening as much as they are guiding. The body learns to recognise subtle changes in moisture, resistance, and balance long before the mind puts them into words. 

For me, precision isn't about controlling the material. It's about developing enough sensitivity to move with it. The gentle silhouette of the Volute comes from that dialogue between intention and the clay's own character. 

Joining a hand-coiled handle to a thrown body creates immense tension in the clay as it dries. What is the physical sensation of working with this shape?

The spiral handle is one of the most delicate parts of making the Volute. Because the handle is hand-coiled while the body is wheel-thrown, they naturally want to behave differently as they dry. My job isn't to force them together, but to help them reach the same rhythm.

When I'm shaping the spiral, my fingers are constantly feeling for balance rather than measuring it. There's a point where the curve holds its own energy: neither too tight nor too relaxed. If I continue beyond that point, the clay begins to push back. I can feel more resistance in my fingertips, and the surface starts to tell me it's reached its limit.

Over time, that understanding becomes less about sight and more about touch. My hands recognise subtle shifts in moisture, elasticity, and weight almost instinctively. It's a form of embodied knowledge that has developed through repetition, patience, and paying close attention to the material.

Can you take us behind the scenes of the clay testing process? What specific visual and structural qualities were you looking for in the raw clay body?

I needed a clay body that could support both precision and softness. I tested several stoneware bodies, paying close attention not only to their working properties but also to how they behaved throughout drying and firing.

Visually, I was looking for a warm, quiet surface that wouldn't distract from the silhouette. Structurally, the clay needed enough strength to support the hand-coiled spiral handle while remaining responsive enough to preserve subtle curves and fine details. It also needed to dry evenly, as the thrown body and hand-built handle naturally shrink at slightly different rates.

The final finish we chose is a soft, nuanced cream. Finding the exact right shade requires meticulous glaze trials. How did you navigate the testing of different glazes?

The glaze testing process was an exercise in restraint. We weren't looking for a colour that stood out; instead, we were looking for one that allowed the form to breathe.

Each test tile revealed subtle differences in warmth, opacity, surface texture, and the way light moved across the curves of the mug. Some glazes felt too bright, others flattened the form or obscured the details of the spiral handle. The soft cream glaze was ultimately chosen because it enhances rather than competes with the design.

What is the soundscape of Studio Yun when you are in the flow of throwing a small batch like the Volute?

There's usually music playing in the studio, but it depends on both the mood of the day and the kind of work I'm doing. If I'm focused on more repetitive production, I might listen to music and podcasts. But when the work calls for creativity or careful decision making, I often choose ambient music, or simply the ambient sounds around me.

The steady rhythm of the wheel, the subtle sounds of clay and water, and the quiet atmosphere of the studio help me settle into the process. Rather than filling every moment with sound, I like to leave space for concentration. Those quieter moments often allow the work to find its own rhythm.

Because the complex handle creates so much tension, the failure rate in the kiln is high. Visually, what is it like to open the kiln after a final firing, and how do you process the contrast between warped pieces and those that survive?

Opening the kiln is always a moment of anticipation. No matter how carefully each mug has been made, the firing is the final stage of the process, and it's the one part I can never completely control.

When I see a cracked handle or a warped form, I don't think of it simply as failure. It's often the result of the delicate balance between the wheel-thrown body and the hand-coiled handle, two different ways of making that have to move and shrink together. Those pieces become part of the learning process, revealing where the material asked for something different. 

The mugs that emerge intact feel quietly rewarding, not because they are perfect, but because they have successfully carried that entire journey: from soft clay to finished ceramic. Each one represents a series of careful decisions, patience, and a little trust in the kiln. Over time, I've learned that making ceramics is less about eliminating uncertainty than about understanding it and working alongside it.