The first time I sat down at the pottery wheel, I felt like an imposter. I’ve always prided myself on my artistic abilities. But as I sat hunched over a spinning mound of clay, hands slipping and palms caked in mud, I realized something: I had no idea what I was doing.

As an artist, I’ve always believed that the magic of creation lies in the medium: the hues of watercolor, the texture of a charcoal sketch, the chicken scratch of a pencil, the smooth sweep of a brushstroke. But in the fall of 2024, I decided to challenge myself in a whole new way— one that would stretch not just my artistic skills, but my patience: wheel-throwing pottery.

How it started

Though no student outside of the art school can use the pottery wheel, my boyfriend Ethan was able to get me in because he is a sculpting minor. His access to the studio made my introduction to ceramics possible. But when I finally sat at the wheel, I felt completely unprepared.

I glanced around at the talented 3-D artists effortlessly swirling in neutral tones with movements so fluid it was like they’d been born with clay-covered hands. Meanwhile, there I was, awkwardly frozen in place at the wheel, desperately hoping I didn’t somehow broadcast “Look at me, I have no idea what I’m doing!” in neon lights above my head. In reality, no one was looking.

I had come to appreciate the art of ceramics through Ethan, who was completing a set of cups and bowls in the studio for his sculpting minor. Watching him shape his pieces with ease was inspiring and humbling. My natural instinct was to jump right in and make something beautiful too. How hard could it be? After all, I had a deep love for 2-D art, and surely translating that sense of design into three dimensions wouldn’t be too difficult.

Boy, was I wrong. After three hours of making nothing but small, sad, deformed mounds of clay that all clumped together on a wooden slab, I was ready to throw in the towel. The wheel became an uncooperative partner. My hands slipped and slid across the wet surface, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to keep the clay centered. My frustration mounted.

Ethan, seeing my struggle, smiled and offered some gentle advice: “It’s a challenge for every beginner. It takes time.” 

And just like that, the seed of determination was planted. I wasn’t ready to quit yet—I wanted to try again, this time with more focus and an open mind. I decided that my goal would be simple: I wanted to create a pot I had fun making and could be proud of, even if it wasn’t perfect.

So, I did a bunch of research. I learned to use the speed petal for wheel throwing by gently pressing it with my foot to gradually increase the wheel’s speed, allowing for faster shaping and centering of the clay. I also watched beginner 30-minute wheel-throwing videos and took a bunch of notes to look back on. 

I found all of the basics I would need to start the clay shaping process, then returned to the wheel after a couple of weeks, ready to give it another shot. From centering the clay, pulling up the walls and managing to begin shaping something, I learned, in the end, a lot more than just making a bowl.

Getting Centered: the Foundation of Every Piece

One of the first and most critical steps in wheel-throwing is centering the clay. Sounds easy, right? It’s deceptively tricky.

The process started with a lump of clay, which I roughly shaped into a fist-sized ball using a wire cutter. I then kneaded the clay and divided it into smaller portions, each one without a single air bubble to prevent cracking later on. Even when kneading, I had to use a specific motion with my hands so I wouldn’t add more air bubbles than there already were. I had to push down and out, by using my palms repeatedly on the clay.

After placing a bat on the wheel and wetting it down, I slammed the clay into the center of the wheel’s spinning surface with a firm, confident push. The bat is a flat, circular platform that sits on top of the potter’s wheel. It serves as a base for throwing clay, allowing the potter to easily remove the finished piece from the wheel once it’s formed.

From there, I used my left hand to stabilize the clay, gently rounding the edges. My right hand, fingers pressed together, pinched and nudged the clay into a perfect cylinder. It took time for the clay to stop wobbling, but slowly, the shape began to take form.

I was cautioned by an instructor that if the clay starts to stick to the wheel, you need to keep it lubricated, using a damp sponge to ensure the surface stays slick and malleable.

Peter Johnson, an associate professor in Ceramics at Kent State, explained to me the techniques and mindset needed when starting pottery for the first time.

“Most of learning how to throw has to do with learning how to be still,” Johnson said. “So, in order to be still, you need to anchor your whole body, so that when the clay is spinning, it’s bouncing off of you and being redirected.”

The more pressure I applied, the more I could shape it with steady hands. The key was to center it on the wheel’s axis, which, when done correctly, gives the entire pot balance.

To help me out more, Johnson gave me a good example he always uses when teaching his beginner students.

“The metaphor I use in class is to imagine walking through a river and you don’t anchor your whole body, you just get swept downstream,” he said. “But, you’re using all your muscles to stiffen your body, so that the water flows around you.”

Building up the Walls: Patience in Motion

Once my clay was centered, the next step was to pull the walls up. This, too, was more challenging than it seemed.

I started by pressing my thumbs gently into the center of the clay. With my left hand supporting the sides, my right thumb and index finger would work to slowly push the clay outward and upward, stretching the walls. But it wasn’t just about pulling it up–there was a balance between applying just enough pressure to expand the walls, without distorting the form.

One of the most important lessons I learned during this phase was the role of touch. I had to be gentle to avoid digging my fingers into the base, lest I create a weak spot that could later crack. To prevent this, I focused on pulling with my fingertips, which created more control and stability.

The trick was to keep the clay moist, constantly spraying it with water to avoid friction, which can lead to cracks.

When Johnson told me more about the process of building up the walls, I didn’t realize the speed of the wheel also played into effect.

“It’s a matter of being controlled and you can never move faster than the wheel spinning,” Johnson said. “So, if you move faster than the wheel spinning you create a spiral on the outside and you’re not really effectively changing it.”

Pulling the walls higher: From wobble to precision

As I repeated the process of adding pressure and slowly drawing the clay up with my hands, the walls began to rise. I folded back my right pointer finger and used the side of my knuckle to create a groove near the base. This allowed me to press in the knuckle for more control, pulling the clay higher and further shaping the piece. 

This phase, to me, is what separates the skilled potter from the beginner. When my halfway-completed pots collapsed during my practice, it was during this step. Each pull required a deep concentration. You must trust the process and not rush it, applying steady pressure at the right moments.

Final touches

Once I was satisfied with the height and shape of my pot, though definitely not perfect, the final step was to refine the details. I used a small potter’s needle to trim the rim, giving it a clean, even finish. A damp sponge helped smooth the inside of the pot, removing any excess water and softening the rim. I gently ran the sponge across the surface, ensuring it was even and rounded. 

The most satisfying part of the entire process was when I slid the taut wire underneath the pot to remove it from the wheel after it dried for a bit. The final detachment, although small, felt like a triumph. Holding the pot in my hands for the first time, I could finally see all of my hard work take shape. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine.

The art of Letting go

By the end of my session, my pot was tall and uneven—its walls rising gracefully but not perfectly straight. The rim, while circular, had a slight curve to it, betraying my inexperience, yet there was something about its imperfection that felt just right. It wasn’t a flawless, symmetrical masterpiece, but it was a real reflection of where I was at that moment—still learning and growing.

Even though I never got the chance to glaze my piece or see it fired in the kiln due to the time constraints of learning such an in-depth skill, the fact that I had shaped something with my hands in just a few weeks felt like an achievement in itself.

The process of learning isn’t just about reaching an end goal. It’s about embracing the struggle, accepting the messiness and finding beauty in the imperfections. My first piece wasn’t extraordinary by any standard, but it was real.

Johnson shared stories of his struggles, which made me realize that every artist, no matter how skilled, has faced moments of failure. He told me once about the time he was working late into the night, pushing himself to create a pot bigger than anything he’d ever made. 

“It was like midnight,” he recalled, a smile creeping up at the memory. “And I stood up and I tripped over the potter’s wheel and it turned on full speed and threw it across the whole studio. I had one of those silent screams. I remember being really proud of it…until I destroyed it.”

I laughed, but it made me think—maybe we all have that moment. The one where you’re so invested in the result, only to watch it crumble before you. But it was also in that failure that Johnson found the strength to keep going. It was a reminder that there’s a kind of art in letting go of perfection and trusting the process.

I had set out hoping to make a pot, something I could proudly show off. But in the end, I realized the true victory wasn’t in the pot at all—it was in the moments when I let go of my expectations and embraced the imperfection. In that messy, imperfect piece, I was finally able to just breathe, relax and forget about the harsh stresses around me.

If art can do that, perhaps it’s a refuge we all need—a space where worries fade, burdens lift and only the quiet joy of creation remains.

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