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Caption: When I first started making my etch cups, I had a vision: organic forms, raw textures, and a sense of fluidity that felt both intentional and spontaneous. But a… more When I first started making my etch cups, I had a vision: organic forms, raw textures, and a sense of fluidity that felt both intentional and spontaneous. But achieving that was a whooole different story. At the beginning, my technique was shaky. Some etchings were too deep, too boring, others too faint. The glaze would pool where I didn’t want it to, or worse—erase details I had spent hours carving. Then came the structural issues: rims too thin, walls too fragile, pieces cracking in the kiln, glazes not fitting right. Every failure felt like a personal setback, like wasted material and wasted effort. I’d get down on myself, questioning if I was even capable of executing what I had in mind. But the thing about ceramics—about any craft—is that progress only happens through repetition, mistakes, and adaptation. Every flawed cup taught me something. I learned how to balance pressure when etching, how different clays responded to my techniques, and how certain glazes enhanced rather than erased the details. Over time, my hands began to understand what my mind envisioned. Now, looking at my etch cups, I see the evolution in every line and curve. The early pieces, full of uncertainty, contrast with the later ones, which hold a quiet confidence. Each misstep led me here. Trial and error wasn’t just part of the process—it was the process. Wasted materials weren’t truly wasted, because they carried lessons that shaped my craft. I still have days where things don’t go as planned, where a kiln disaster or an unexpected flaw makes me want to start over completely. But I remind myself: this is how I grow. My work isn’t about perfection—it’s about persistence. And that, in itself, is its own kind of beauty. less
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