Late night thoughts

he studio is quiet. The city is quiet. My neighborhood is quiet. The only thing breaking the silence is the low hum of the kiln and fans. It's late—somewhere between "I should have gone to bed hours ago" and "the sun will be up soon." This is my witching hour, the time I dedicate to the fiery transformation of clay into ceramic. As the heat builds inside the kiln, I sit and wait. It's really a safety thing.

This is the part of the process that’s a little like a stakeout. I have to stay up to make sure everything's going according to plan. My body is tired, but my mind is going between sleepy and wide awake, buzzing with a strange mix of creativity and exhaustion.

Sometimes I grab my sketchbook. The ideas I have at 2 a.m. are often used. Lines turn into shapes, and shapes turn into pottery I haven't even imagined yet. There’s a freedom in sketching without the pressure of a deadline or a client. It's just me and the paper, lost in the quiet glow of my night lights.

Other times, I open a new document and start to write. The words flow differently in the dead of night. There’s no editor, no audience, just a stream of consciousness spilling onto the page. These late-night thoughts often turn into the most honest and raw blog posts. It’s a chance to process the day, to think about my work, and to just be—without the noise of the outside world.

And then, of course, there's the social media scroll. I see countless videos of people doing incredible things—beautiful glazes, intricate carving techniques, and mind-blowing studio setups. I save some, thinking, "I'll try that!" I have a whole folder of these saved videos. It's a gold mine of inspiration, but let's be honest, I'll probably never get to them. And that's okay, because in those late-night moments of scrolling, I’m not just procrastinating; I'm feeding my imagination, seeing where some techniques could fit into my world.

So here I am, in the quiet hum of the night, waiting for the kiln to finish its magic. It's a time for reflection, a time for creation, and a time for those beautifully disorganized late-night thoughts. This solitude is an essential part of the artistic process—the quiet before the storm that is glazing.