Electives · Behind the counter
Some of everything that can go wrong running a community pottery studio.
A community studio is a building full of water, dust, fire, breakable objects, expensive machines and several hundred people who all have their own idea of how things should be done. Given that, it is a small miracle that pots come out of the kiln at all. This page is a tour of what goes wrong, told from behind the counter, because every rule on the wall was written after one of these things happened, and rules make more sense once you have seen the thing.
This page covers the kilns, the glaze wall, the clay and the reclaim, the shelves, the dust and the drains, the building itself, and the people, with what each one costs when it goes wrong and the rule that exists because it did. Then the honest part: what a studio can and cannot promise you. Five videos from people who run their own.
This is the short version: the eight things that go wrong most, and the rules that came out of them. The tour room by room, the questions and four of the five videos are in the comprehensive version.
Read it, then watch it
Why this is written down and filmed, both.
This is a page of stories, and stories read well. A kiln that dies at eleven hundred degrees with sixty people’s work inside it is a paragraph, and the paragraph is the point: you understand the rule about bone dry work the moment you picture the load it ruined. What reads less well is the texture of the job: the dozen small things a studio owner does before opening, the way a good day looks, the arithmetic of what a kiln costs to run. Those film beautifully, and the people below filmed them.
So read the tour for the rules and why they exist, then watch a few people who run their own studios walk you through a day. The reading gives you the reasons and the watching gives you the feel of the job, and people who do both come out the other side as better members, which is the actual purpose of this page.
Use both, in this order
The eight things first. Then the first video, which is a studio owner counting what it actually costs. Then look at the clean-up page with new eyes.
The whole idea
Eight things that go wrong most, and the rule each one wrote.
- 1A kiln quits mid-firingElements age, thermocouples drift, power blinks. The rule: nothing is promised until it is out of the kiln, and the firing fee is the price of the element it wore out.
- 2A piece explodes in the bisqueIt was not bone dry, or it had a pocket of air. It peppers everything around it with shards. The rule: bone dry means bone dry, and the front desk gets to say no.
- 3A glaze runs onto a shelfToo many coats, glaze on the foot, an untested combination. The shelf is ruined or ground for an hour. The rule: no glaze on the bottom quarter inch, and runners on a catcher.
- 4Plaster gets into the reclaimOne chip, one crater in somebody else’s pot, weeks later. The rule: plaster never comes into the building.
- 5Glaze jars are left open, or a brush goes in the wrong oneA jar dries out or gets contaminated, and a $30 glaze becomes a $30 problem for everyone. The rule: lid on, one brush per jar, wipe the rim.
- 6A shelf fills with pots nobody claimsUnlabeled work is the single most common thing in the building. The rule: name and date on the bat, every time, and abandoned work goes to the lost pots.
- 7Dry clay gets sweptSilica dust is the one real health risk in a studio. The rule: wet clean-up, damp rags, never a dry broom on clay, and a proper respirator for the jobs that make dust.
- 8Somebody does not clean upThe next person inherits it, and the studio absorbs an hour. The rule: the clean-up page, in full, every visit.
Room one
The kilns, which are the most expensive thing in the building and the least forgiving.
A kiln is a box that gets hotter than lava, on a timer, full of other people’s hopes. Here is what goes wrong inside one.
The element that dies at peak
Elements are coils of wire that wear out with every firing, and they tend to fail when they are hottest, which is the top of a glaze firing. The kiln stalls, the glaze never matures, sixty people’s pots come out underfired and matte. The fix is a new element, which is why firing is charged by the cubic inch: it is the price of the wear.
The thermocouple that lies
The probe that tells the controller how hot it is drifts as it ages, a few degrees at a time, until one day the kiln thinks it is at cone 5½ and it is not. Witness cones on the shelf are how anyone finds out. The fix is a new probe and a firing of cones alone.
The piece that explodes
A pot that was not bone dry, or that had a pocket of trapped air, turns its water to steam and comes apart, hard, spraying shards across every piece near it. One person’s impatience, twenty people’s pots. This is the whole reason bone dry is a rule and not advice.
The glaze that ran
Too many coats, an untested combination, glaze on the foot: it flows off the pot, fuses the pot to the shelf, and pools on the shelf in a puddle of glass. The shelf is ground for an hour or replaced for real money, and the pots on the shelf below get drips. Glaze catchers exist because of this.
The power blink
A half second outage resets some controllers, and a kiln that was climbing at midnight is cold and confused at seven. The load gets re-fired, which is fine for bisque and a gamble for glaze. Nothing to be done except know it happens.
The overfull load
Every studio has one night when the shelves are full and one more mug goes in. Pots touching in a glaze firing fuse together. Lids fired on pots without wax fuse shut. The loader takes the blame and the rule is: if it does not fit, it waits.
Room two
The glaze wall, where a thirty dollar jar becomes a thirty dollar problem.
Six hundred and fifty jars of brush-on glaze, seven dipping buckets, and every one of them shared. What goes wrong is small and it happens every night.
The lid left off
A brush-on glaze with the lid off overnight loses water, thickens, and applies unevenly for the next fifty people, until somebody notices and thins it. A lid takes two seconds and nobody thinks it matters. It matters.
The brush in the wrong jar
A brush that went into a dark glaze and then into a white one contaminates the white for everybody, and a contaminated glaze looks fine in the jar and wrong on every pot for a month. One brush per jar, rinsed between, wiped on the rim.
The dipping bucket nobody stirred
Dipping glaze settles. A pot dipped into an unstirred bucket gets the thin water on top, and the next one gets the sludge. Stirring is in the certification for a reason, and the certification exists because of the pots that came out of an unstirred bucket.
The wrong lid on the wrong jar
Two jars open, two lids swapped, and now the labels lie. The glaze finder says one thing and the pot says another for weeks. Lids back on the jar they came off.
Glaze in the sink
Glaze is glass and metal oxides in suspension. Rinsed down a drain it sets like cement in the trap and costs a plumber. Rinsed in a bucket it settles and gets recovered. Brushes rinse in the bucket.
The home-mixed mystery
A glaze somebody mixed at home, applied to a pot, and put on the shelf without a word. Nobody knows what is in it or what it will do at cone 5½, and the shelf under it finds out. Catcher, and a conversation, first.
Room three
The clay, the reclaim, and the one chip of plaster.
Clay is the cheapest thing in the building and the reclaim is free, which is exactly why what goes into it matters.
Plaster in the reclaim
A chip of plaster smaller than a lentil, from a home slump mold or a damp box, goes into the reclaim, gets wedged into somebody’s pot, and blows a crater out of it weeks after the firing, on their shelf, on a piece that was perfect. It is untraceable and it is permanent. Plaster does not come into the building.
The wrong clay in the bucket
Porcelain scraps in the stoneware reclaim, or grog in the smooth. The reclaim comes back speckled or short and nobody can say why. Each clay has its own bucket, and a scrap you are not sure about goes in the trash, not the bucket.
The open bag
A bag of clay cut open, a pound taken, and left unsealed on the shelf. By the weekend it is a rock. Twist the bag and tape it, or bring a container.
Glaze in the reclaim
Trimmings from a glazed bisque piece, or a sponge rinsed in the reclaim bucket. Glaze in clay is a flux where no flux should be, and it bloats and slumps in the kiln. Only clean, unfired clay goes in.
The sludge bucket
Throwing water poured into the reclaim instead of the settling barrels, until the reclaim is soup and takes a week to firm up. Water goes where the clean-up page says water goes.
The wedging table nobody scraped
Dried crumbs on the canvas go into the next person’s clay as hard bits that tear on the wheel. Scraped and wiped after use, every time.
Room four
The shelves, the tools, and the pot that belongs to nobody.
A studio is a shared closet. Everything on this list is somebody looking for something.
The unlabeled pot
The single most common problem in the building. A pot with no name on the bat sits until somebody decides it is abandoned, and sometimes that somebody is wrong. Name and date, on the bat, every visit, and the problem does not exist.
The abandoned shelf
A shelf full of a member’s work who stopped coming in March. It cannot be thrown away, it cannot be fired, and it is holding a shelf somebody else is paying for. That is why shelf rules have dates on them.
The tool that walked
A hole cutter in the wrong bin, a rib in a pocket, a needle tool in the reclaim. Every tool put back where it came from is a tool the next person finds; every tool put back somewhere sensible is a treasure hunt.
The wooden bat under the wet pot
Wood pulls water out of the base at its own speed and the pot cracks, and the bat warps and is finished. Plastic bats for storage, always, and wooden bats stay on the wheel.
The wheel left dirty
A splash pan full of slurry, a head with dried clay on it, a bucket of throwing water left to grow things. The next person spends fifteen minutes cleaning before they can start, on their own class time. The clean-up page is long because this list is.
The three wheels one person is using
A bag on one, a bat on another, a pot on the third, on a night with fifty people. First come first served means one wheel, and moving to another means giving the first one back.
Room five
The dust, the drains, and the building itself.
This is the band with the one real safety issue in it, so it is the one to read twice.
Silica dust
Dry clay is silica, and silica dust breathed over years causes silicosis, which is permanent and serious. A studio that sweeps dry clay with a broom puts that dust in the air for everyone. The rule is wet clean-up: damp rags, damp mops, sponges, and never a dry broom on clay. For the jobs that make dust anyway, sanding bone dry work, mixing dry glaze, grinding shelves, a proper respirator fitted to your face. A paper dust mask is not one. An N95 fitted properly is the minimum; a half-face respirator with P100 cartridges is what the staff use for the dusty jobs.
The clay trap
Every sink has a trap under it that catches clay before it reaches the drain, and a trap that is not emptied fills, and then the drain fills, and then the plumber comes. Clay water goes in the settling barrels; the sinks are for hands and the last rinse.
The frozen morning
The building cools to about fifty five degrees overnight and on weekends. Pots dry slower, glazes thicken, and a pot left in the delivery area in January is a pot at risk. Nothing to be done except know it, and cover work accordingly.
The summer kiln room
A kiln at cone 5½ heats the room it lives in, and a July glaze firing makes the kiln room the warmest place in the county. Loading happens in the morning for a reason.
The spill
A bucket of glaze, a barrel of slip, a splash pan of slurry, on a floor that thirty people walk across. It gets cleaned immediately, wet, and it gets reported, because a slurry floor is glass when it dries and ice when it is wet.
The thing that got dropped
Bisqueware chips, glazed ware shatters, and a broken pot on a shared table has sharp edges nobody expects. Swept up wet, wrapped, and into the trash, never the reclaim.
Room six
The people, who are the whole point, and also the whole problem.
Every one of these is somebody having a normal human evening. That is what makes them hard.
The one who did not clean up
Not malicious, just tired, or late, or sure they would be back in a minute. The next person inherits it. This is the most common conversation a studio owner has, and it is never fun.
The one who glazed the foot
A first glaze firing, a beautiful pot, and no idea that glaze on the bottom fuses to the shelf. Now it is on the fused shelf getting ground, and the certification exists so the second pot does not.
The one who is sure their piece was bone dry
It was not. It exploded. The conversation about whose pots it took with it is the second most common conversation, and the reason the front desk gets to say no.
The one who knows a better way
Sometimes they do, and the studio learns something. Sometimes the better way is why the glaze bucket is contaminated. Instructors listen to both and can usually tell which is which by the second sentence.
The one who cannot let go of the rules
The member who polices other members. Also well meant, also a problem. The front desk enforces the rules so that nobody else has to, and a quiet word to staff beats a loud one across the room.
The one who was wonderful
Most of them, most nights. The member who labels everything, cleans their wheel, puts the lid back, asks before trying something new, and brings a pot to show and tell. Every studio runs on these people, and this whole page is really a description of what they do without being asked.
The honest part
What a studio can promise you, and what it cannot.
What a studio can and cannot promise.
A community studio can promise you the equipment, the glazes, the kilns, instructors who will teach you, a shelf with your name on it, and a room full of people doing the same thing. It can promise that the rules are enforced evenly and that they exist for reasons you can read about on this page. It can promise that your firing fee pays for the elements it wears out and that the reclaim is free.
It cannot promise that your pot survives the kiln. Kilns fail, pots explode, glazes run, and the piece next to yours can take yours with it. It cannot promise the wheel you like is free on the night you want it, because there are twenty nine wheels and up to seventy people. It cannot promise that a glaze looks like the tile, because a tile is a small pot and yours is not. And it cannot promise to keep abandoned work forever, because the shelf belongs to whoever is paying for it this month.
The trade
You accept those things, label your work, clean up, and read the rules. The studio gives you everything else. It is a good trade, and most people who make it stay for years.
Watch it done
Now watch four people who run their own.
Watch this one, then read the clean-up page again.
None of these people work here or know we exist. Between them they cover the money, the opening, the building, a bad day and a normal one. The still frames load while you read; the player and its cookies wait until you press play.
Ten minutes of a potter counting what a pot actually costs to make and fire. The other four videos are in the comprehensive version.
How it works here
The rules, and the pages that carry them.
This page is written about studios everywhere. Here is where ours stands.
Three things to know here
The clean-up page is the whole list of what to do before you leave, and it is long because this page is. The certifications for dipping glaze, slab rollers and raku exist because of the things in this tour. And when something goes wrong, tell the front desk the same night; a spill, a broken shelf or an exploded pot found at seven the next morning is a much bigger problem than one reported at nine the night before.
The clean-up page
Every item on it is on this tour somewhere. Read the clean-up instructions once with this page in mind and it stops being a list and starts being obvious.
The certifications
Dipping glaze, slab rollers and slab molds, brush-on glazes, raku: each one is a short course, a quiz and a signed agreement, and each exists because of the pots that were lost before it did. Nobody is being tested for fun.
Tell the desk the same night
A spill, a broken shelf, a jar with the wrong lid, a pot you are not sure was dry. Reported at nine, it is a two minute fix. Found at seven the next morning, it is a kiln load.
The firing fee
Five cents a cubic inch, $4.80 minimum, $600 cap, bisque free. It is the price of the elements, the shelves and the electricity, and the cap exists so a giant piece does not cost more than a kiln.
Icarus
The kiln god on the wall takes offerings before a firing. He does not actually control the kiln. He does remind people, every time they walk past, that the inside of one is out of anyone’s hands.
The wonderful ones
Label your work, clean your wheel, put the lid back, ask before trying something new, bring a pot to show and tell. That is the entire job description, and most members here already have it.
Questions people actually ask
The ones that come up at the front desk.
My pot broke in the kiln. Was it the kiln?
Usually not. Most kiln losses are a piece that was not bone dry, trapped air, a glaze that ran, or a neighbor that exploded. Kilns do fail, and when one does the studio says so and re-fires what can be re-fired.
Why is plaster such a big deal?
One chip in the reclaim goes into somebody else’s pot and blows a crater out of it weeks after the firing. It is untraceable and permanent. Plaster molds and damp boxes live at home.
Why do I have to wet clean instead of sweep?
Dry clay dust is silica, and silica breathed for years causes silicosis. A broom puts it in the air for everyone. Damp rags and mops keep it on the floor. For dusty jobs, a fitted N95 at minimum; a paper dust mask is not a respirator.
What happens to work I forget about?
Labeled work sits on your shelf as long as your membership does. Unlabeled work sits until somebody decides it is abandoned, and then it goes to the lost pots. Name and date on the bat, every visit.
Can I bring a glaze I mixed at home?
On a catcher, after a conversation with the studio team about what is in it. A glaze nobody here has seen fired can take a shelf with it, and the shelf under yours belongs to someone else.
Why does firing cost money when membership already does?
Because elements and shelves wear out per firing, and a member who fires a lot wears them out faster than one who does not. Charging by the cubic inch is the fairest way anyone has found, and bisque is free.
What is the most common problem, honestly?
An unlabeled pot. Then a wheel not cleaned. Then a lid left off a glaze jar. None of them is dramatic and all of them are every night.
Related pages
Six pages that carry the rules this tour explains.
Three to read next.
Every rule on this page lives somewhere else on the site in full. These are the somewheres.
That is the tour
Every rule on the wall is a story. Now you know some of them.
None of this is a complaint. Running a studio is a privilege and most nights nothing on this page happens at all. But the nights it does are why the clean-up page is long, why the glaze wall has rules, why plaster stays outside, and why the front desk asks what is in your home-mixed glaze. Knowing the story behind the rule is most of what it takes to be the member every studio wants.
If you want the room-by-room tour, the questions and the other four videos, switch to the comprehensive version at the top. Otherwise, go put the lid back on the glaze jar.
Written for potters everywhere. Where our studio does things differently, the page says so.
Which version would you like to print?
Both print clean, with the videos turned into labelled boxes you can search for later.