The Thaw
A year ago, I walked into the studio with more questions than answers, carrying a strong feeling that clay—this ancient, resilient, elemental material—could become the heart of kinetic sculpture. That initial phase, The Beginning, was less about perfecting techniques and more about building muscle memory. It was about learning how weight behaves, finding the right balance, and understanding how much pressure a form can withstand before it gives in to its own ambition.
On January 15, I submitted my portfolio to the MFA program at the University of Delaware. Clicking “submit” was like putting a final touch on a carefully crafted sentence. Whether it turns out to be an exciting exclamation point or a subtle ellipsis, only time will tell.
And then—I hesitated for a moment.
It’s not a dramatic change, without any fireworks or intense feelings. Instead, it’s a gentle, quiet burnout—just the kind that happens after putting in sustained effort. It softly whispers, ‘You’ve done enough for now.’
Just as if it was planned, winter made its grand entrance with lots of drama. Nine inches of snow fell, followed by two inches of ice. Weeks of freezing temperatures turned everything into a winter wonderland of challenges. The path to the clay studio transformed into a tight, slippery rink, making each step a careful dance. One wrong move, and you might find yourself flat on your back, pondering your life choices in the most unexpected way.
It was hard not to see the metaphor.
The impassable path wasn’t just weather. It was creative hesitation. It was the subtle art of procrastination dressed up as practicality. It’s too cold. Too slick. Too risky.
Sometimes the obstacle is real. Sometimes it’s convenient.
Yesterday, the thaw began. Temperatures climbed into the mid-fifties. Ice surrendered to gravity. Snow receded. The path re-emerged—not pristine, not dry—but passable.
And that is enough.
Tomorrow, Phase Two begins: “Tension.”
If The Beginning was about forming, Tension will be about opposing forces—weight and lift, rigidity and movement, stability and risk. Clay wants to settle. Kinetic work wants to move. The friction between those two impulses is where this next body of work will live.
I’ve given myself a deadline: June 1.
Deadlines matter. Farmers plant in season. Kilns fire on schedule. Good work often thrives within boundaries. Tradition teaches us that discipline is not the enemy of creativity—it’s the scaffolding.
Over the past year, I’ve also come to a quiet decision.
If I am not accepted into the MFA program this round, the work does not stop.
It deepens.
I will continue the conceptual exploration. I will refine the technique. I will make more pieces. I will understand the work more fully—not just how it looks, but how it thinks. And next January, I will submit again.
There is something deeply liberating about that choice. Acceptance would be an honor. Rejection would be information. Neither determines the trajectory of the work.
The thaw reminds me of this: sometimes the path is impassable for a season. That doesn’t mean the studio disappears. It waits. The clay waits. The work waits.
Spring has a way of exposing what winter tried to hide.
Tomorrow, I walk back down that path—carefully, deliberately, but without hesitation.
Phase Two begins.
Hands to clay, eyes to the future.
