The Weight of Clay

The old, handmade kiln dolly that a mentor gave me comes in handy on clay-buying day.

By the time I unload the trunk—two hundred pounds of clay—and haul it up the deck steps to the threshold, I’m grateful to have something to roll it the final leg of the journey: forty feet down the hallway from the front door to “the office,” a 10x10 room in our single-wide trailer that serves as my studio.

Surprisingly, the dolly doesn’t squeak, but it does lilt to the left or right, resisting the direction I choose for it. As I push the load, the floor flexes slightly beneath the weight, the wheels clicking over the raised joints of faux farm-wood patterned vinyl plank. Bent low, I feel the strain in my back—but also in my chest—a reminder of what it takes to keep making pottery on my own terms.

Every bag of clay feels like a small promise, the start of something not yet formed. I don’t have a large studio or fancy equipment. And somehow, that feels okay for now. My work has never been about perfect conditions; it’s about showing up with what I have and making it work.

There’s a rhythm to this ritual—the lifting, the hauling, the slow roll down the hall. It’s almost meditative if I let it be. The effort roots me in my body, reminding me that creativity isn’t just an idea. It’s physical. Sometimes heavy, sometimes awkward, but deeply real.

Maybe that’s the quiet truth of making art in small spaces: it teaches you how to carry weight without resentment. We’re all just moving our own version of two hundred pounds, trying to bring something from where it started to where it belongs.

The dolly clicks to a stop at the studio door. I rest a moment before storing it under the wedging table.

Studio Note

This clay will is in the process of becoming my inventory for the next few sales I am participating in. Please check events to see where I will be selling in the near future.