As with most things, Kintsugi –– the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold –– is harder than it looks. I signed up for a three-day course because cracks are an inevitable part of my work and I wanted to learn how to repair them. What I didn’t realize is what a long and laborious process Kintsugi is, and how much precision and patience it requires. Hands must be gloved. Tools immaculate. A clean work area is crucial as the sticky lacquer picks up and contaminates easily. Kinstugi is an exercise in measure. Restraint. The ratio of rice flower to ki-urushi (raw lacquer) has to be precise, and the glue must be applied with great care. Timing is everything. Nothing can be rushed. In between each step, the vessel cures in a humid box—known as a muro —and it can take up to two weeks per step for the lacquer to fully cure. From broken vessel to the sprinkling of gold dust, there are six main steps. A perfect method for an imperfect subject. It was in this paradox where I came unglued. Surely, an art that celebrates imperfection can’t ask me to be this fastidious. By the end of the first day, I was half wishing I’d signed up for something easier, something less existential. Day two was even worse as I opened the muro to find that the lacquer had left a muddy stain across the entire surface of my bowl as my original matte glaze was too porous. I laughed it off –– no big deal, we’re here to learn –– but I was disappointed. My first layer of sabi (the lacquer applied to fill, smooth, and reinforce the cracks after the broken pieces have been glued together) was a thick, gloopy mess –– more like impasto than Kintsugi. Embarrassment is the cost of entry. Expectations are tricky in the absence of experience and Kintsugi is not a skill one picks up in three days. It was the women in the group who took a serious approach to learning while holding no expectations that seemed to enjoy it the most. My finished piece (now tucked away in a kitchen drawer) is a chaotic mess of bleeding glazes on speckled clay, smudged lacquer and golden jagged lines, an honest representation of my experience. But in the chaos, there was also profound peace such as when we held our collective breath to apply the final layer of lacquer. It was these moments that helped me understand that Kintsugi isn’t about fastidiousness, it’s about focus. Zooming in on the tiniest imperfection and magnifying it to a thing of beauty. “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light comes in.” Grace, understanding and forgiveness. It takes time –– weeks, months, years –– to hone a technique. To heal a wound. Kintsugi is a labour of love. Kintsugi is love.

It began with a bunch of ranunculus from my Mum. There was a tenacious one in the mix that held on for weeks. As its petals started withering and losing their moisture, an intricate vascular network emerged that looked like the fine lines on an ageing face. I decided to photograph the petals on some bricks and so began the series, flowers on bricks. When we start to pay attention to something it has a way of weaving its way into all areas of our life. My thoughts moved from dinner to dahlias, from the hydro bill to begonias, from an earache to crocuses. Flowers were everywhere. And I wasn’t just seeing them, I was feeling them. The cellular level joy that comes from being utterly absorbed in something we love.

Flux is a ceramic glaze that’s added underneath or over top of another glaze to create movement in the way of mottling, rivulets and streaks. It also highlights hidden colours within a glaze resulting in unexpected combinations. As an example, I used flux over a cerulean blue on the rim of a bowl last week and it unleashed a riot of reds, copper and chartreuse. It’s the element of surprise that makes working with flux so exhilarating. And terrifying. Given how controlled and deliberate I am –- I’ve worked with the same two colours for a decade –– flux is new terrain for me. I feel like each piece is a collaboration between myself, the glaze, the kiln and the clay. There are four of us in this relationship, a kind of wild alchemy with no one in total control. And the outcome can be glorious and disastrous. Regardless, the anticipation has ignited something in me that I haven’t felt about clay in a while; excitement, curiosity, the feeling of starting a new.

Spiral Jetty, Robert Smithson.

Every time my Mum visits from England she leaves something behind. Sometimes it’s her scent, woven in to a cushion or a tea towel. Other times it’s a drain snake for the build-up of hair in our bathroom sinks. This time, she left us a 1000-piece puzzle strewn loosely all over the kitchen table. It’s a vibrant collage of Mediterranean windows, several of which she assembled while we put the world to rights over tea and toast. One anxious morning last week, I found real calm and focus in the tiny terracotta pots that lined the sills of one of the many windows. My son organizes the pieces while he eats his cereal in the morning and my youngest daughter treats the puzzle like a late night meditation. Every day, one of us sits down to add something. I just love that she’s still here, scattered all over our kitchen table, yellow bunting, green shutters, geraniums in every shade of pink.

One of the things I love about clay is that it has so many states. And that each state corresponds (in my mind, at least) with the human cycle. Clay begins soft and malleable, and full of possibility. It’s in this pliable state that it remembers everything. As it dries, it morphs into its most delicate state, dusty, fragile and as breakable as brittle bones. In the kiln the clay vitrifies and is no longer as porous but still can’t hold water. The second firing –– where glaze is applied –– completes the cycle. It’s here that the vessel is as strong as it’s ever going to be. I’m always amazed by how much a ceramic vessel can withstand. After all, our museums are filled with clay pots that have been around for millennia.

Three gold hoops, two diamond bars and a lightning bolt of emeralds is what women –– mostly in their mid 20s and 30s –– have on their ears these days. The craze for the curated ear shows no sign of waning with every part of the ear –– helix, conch, snug, rook –– getting glitzed. It’s one of few trends I’m into. I like the look of a fully stacked hand and I like the look of a fully stacked ear. If you’re lucky, your jewellery tells the story of your life. Selma Hayek said that. I wear a single stud in my right ear as an ode to my love of asymmetry. There’s no symmetry in nature. I’ve worn it for years, and I’ve lost it and found it a dozen times. I do like a stacked lobe, though. Add a helix huggie and a poppy seed sized diamond in the rook and you’ve got a veritable buffet of bling. Maybe next time around.