It all happens in one room.

We make the clay
before the pot.

Three stonewares, pugged together in-house and cut with iron sand—the freckles you'll find in the glaze start here, weeks before the kiln. Each batch is wedged by hand and rested seven days. Rushed clay warps. Rested clay doesn't.

One body runs through all twelve forms, so a shelf collected over years still matches—same speckle, same warmth, same honest weight in the hand.

The molds aren't broken.
There aren't any.

Every form starts as a weighed two-to-four-pound lump and a wet sponge. We throw in series—a dozen mugs in a sitting—so a set shares one rhythm, then trim each foot the next day at leather-hard.

Handles are pulled from the same clay, not glued on: a coil stretched until gravity draws it into a strap. That's why yours takes three fingers without being asked.

The last word goes
to the kiln.

Cone 10 reduction is controlled starvation: at 1,000 °C we choke the burners, and the flame goes hunting for oxygen—straight into the glazes. Iron blushes into celadon's grey-green; tenmoku breaks orange at every edge.

We hold at peak until cone 10 bends—a clay witness in the spy-hole that melts at exactly the heatwork we need. No two firings agree, and we've stopped asking them to.

Come in and
pick things up.

The showroom shares a wall with the kiln shed; some weeks the shelves are still warm. Blue Line to Maverick, seven minutes up Bennington on foot—and yes, you're supposed to handle everything.