I’ve described my paintings as my fingerprints that I will leave in the world after I’m gone. I used to do acrylic finger paintings when I lived in Charlotte. Nowadays, I don’t leave my physical fingerprints in paint.

When they cleaned 500 years of smoke and grime off of the interior of the Sistine Chapel, they found the print of the heel of a hand in the fresco. They surmised that it might be the hand of Michelangelo himself.

Clay accepts my fingerprints, and I see this as part of the process.

If you see slight dimples on the bottom of a clay pot, you could assume that fingertips were used to lift the wet pot off of the bat. It’s a clue as to how the pot was made.

I don’t ask my clay pieces to be perfect. I want to see that they were made by hand. I am a beginner, and my hands are clumsy. With each piece, I learn something new. It’s not always something I can write about, or even be aware of, but every minute I spend at the wheel, my fingers become better acquainted with the clay. I learn how far I can I can go before the clay crumples, and I start again.

Every time I make something that stands on its own, I am excited. Even if the walls are a bit thick or the rim isn’t completely flat.

My favorite part is when I pick up the stylus and draw into the surface of the leather hard clay. The fish swim out, the way they swim from a pen onto paper, and even with a new medium I feel at home.