From a block of clay to a Finished Sculpture

When people see one of my sculptures, they usually see only the final moment. A quiet figure, a gesture, an expression frozen in clay. What remains invisible is everything that happened before.

The ceramic sculpture process is a long journey filled with uncertainty. Unlike painting, where a mistake can often be corrected, clay remembers every decision. Every stage depends on the previous one, and a single crack or hidden air pocket can undo months of work in a matter of hours.

It all begins with an idea.

Sometimes it arrives suddenly. Sometimes it stays with me for weeks before I even touch the clay. I sketch, I look for references, I think about posture, movement, balance and emotion. For me, the concept always comes before the technique. I don’t want to sculpt a body; I want to sculpt a feeling.

Once the idea becomes clear, the construction begins.

Because my sculptures are often large, I cannot simply model a solid figure. Clay is heavy. Gravity constantly tries to deform what I am creating. Every arm, every shoulder, every extended leg requires careful planning.

Inside the sculpture there is usually a temporary support that allows the clay to stand while I work. It is not part of the artwork itself, but it gives me enough time to build the form before removing it.

Then comes the slow process of modelling.

This is where the sculpture gradually starts to breathe.

Tiny changes of a few millimetres can completely transform an expression. A slightly lower eyelid may create melancholy. A different angle of the neck can suggest strength, vulnerability or peace.

I spend countless hours simply observing.

Sometimes I stop sculpting for a while and just walk around the piece, looking at it from every angle. The sculpture often tells me what it needs before I realise it myself.

When the modelling is finished, the real challenge begins.

Large ceramic sculptures cannot remain solid. They must be hollow.

This means cutting the sculpture into multiple sections, carefully removing the clay from the inside until the walls have an even thickness, and then joining everything together again.

This is probably the most stressful stage.

After investing weeks or even months into a sculpture, I have to take a knife and deliberately cut it apart.

Every joint must fit perfectly. Every connection has to be rebuilt by hand. If something is misaligned by only a few millimetres, it can create stress inside the clay that may later appear as a crack during drying or firing.

Then comes drying.

This sounds simple, but it isn’t.

Clay shrinks as it loses water. Thick areas dry more slowly than thin ones. Different drying speeds create tension, and tension creates cracks.

Sometimes a sculpture spends several weeks wrapped in plastic while I slowly allow the moisture to leave at a controlled pace.

Patience becomes another tool.

Only when the sculpture is completely dry is it ready for the kiln.

This is the stage that every ceramic artist fears.

The kiln reaches temperatures above one thousand degrees Celsius. During those long hours the clay transforms forever.

You cannot open the kiln.

You cannot intervene.

You can only wait.

Even after years of experience, every firing still carries uncertainty. Sometimes everything works beautifully. Sometimes a hidden weakness appears only after twelve or fifteen hours inside the kiln.

Opening the kiln is always an emotional moment.

Relief.

Excitement.

Occasionally disappointment.

But mostly gratitude.

If the sculpture survives, another process begins: refining the surface, applying cold finishes, experimenting with subtle layers of colour, adjusting textures and deciding how much to reveal and how much to leave to the imagination.

For me, colour is never there simply to imitate reality.

It exists to support the emotion of the piece.

Sometimes that means using soft whites that resemble worn marble.

Sometimes darker clays remain visible beneath translucent layers, allowing light and shadow to become part of the sculpture itself.

Only after all these stages is the work finally finished.

Or perhaps not.

Even then I often spend days simply looking at it before deciding that nothing more needs to change.

People often ask me how long a sculpture takes.

The honest answer is that I don’t really know.

I measure my work less by time and more by the number of decisions, corrections, failures, discoveries and quiet conversations I have with the clay.

Every finished sculpture is, in some way, the visible record of hundreds of invisible choices.

Thank you for stepping inside my studio and allowing me to share a little of that journey with you.