The late afternoon sun presses gold into a shade cloth hung at the Hawai‘i Potters’ Guild entrance. Light that finds a way into the studio streams across shapes curved and straight, wet and in various stages of dry. Phones are tucked into purses and pockets to keep them from the insidious clay dust that hangs invisible in the air. With a soft soundtrack of wheels humming and intermittent chatter, the space feels like a step away from the modern world.

I adjust the chair at my favorite wheel and take stock: Yesterday I was preoccupied, but today I am calm and present, ready to discover what shapes lie dormant in my hands. Centering the clay on the wheel, the first thing you do when throwing pottery, provides an even foundation for the start of your piece. But it also forces the potter to center herself. All focus is on this task. My breathing slows until there is stillness in my hands and stability in my body.

Any pressure on the spinning clay has an immediate impact on the eventual shape of the vessel. I learned the hard way that patience is key—move too quickly and the walls will be uneven, causing the whole thing to collapse. Wabi-sabi? More like wobbly-saggy. My initial lessons came mostly through Instagram, where (unbeknownst to me) potters post sped-up videos to fit the social media app’s one-minute allotment. This makes for captivating, instant-gratification clickbait, but gives little indication of the deliberate movements required to coax an awkward, solid mass into a delicate, hollow vessel.

Like clay turned to stoneware, the Hawai‘i Potters’ Guild has become a rock in Honolulu’s arts community. Members, some of whom have been with the guild since its founding in 1967, are humble, unassuming experts. Their knowledge, hard won through decades of experimentation and research, is shared as generously with newcomers as they share their tools. While the quality of the work done at the studio ranges from beginner to extremely skilled, the studio is meant to be a place of learning. Many of the 120-plus members still boast about getting a seat in coveted classes or look over each other’s shoulders to glean new techniques. Watching my fellow potters was a far better education than anything I could find on YouTube, and my skills expanded accordingly.

With my hands locked together, I exhale and pull the clay up from the wheel, letting it slide under my fingers into something thinner, taller. More precarious. With practice, I’ve gotten closer to creating the well-balanced shapes I intend. Even so, precisely weighed balls of clay become similar, not identical, vases in my amateur hands. Luckily, perfection isn’t what this is about.

I took my first ceramics class four years ago. My initial interest was in acquiring skills and unique dishes, but on a deeper level my soul was aching to create something tangible and lasting. In my job as a photographer, I observe things and make a visual record of them. The work itself is created in a fraction of a second, and usually lives an ephemeral, two-dimensional life. With pottery, I can create something both utilitarian and beautiful from mud; something that never existed before and could, potentially, outlive me by centuries. Where photography is fast, pottery is slow. The long process of working with clay is itself a vessel for creative discipline.

Several weeks and two firings later, my finished piece will hint at the movements that led to its creation. An over-zealous pull, a distracted mind, or a sneeze could derail my intended silhouette. Potters often remark that clay has a memory; early missteps will reappear later in the process, hardening into character. The final piece will become the sum of my moods, impulses, and physical state during each of the various phases. Sure, it’s only a cup. But it’s also movement, place, and time writ in stone.