Studio life

To Apron or Not to Apron

A mostly unserious examination of the deepest rift in ceramics. On one side, people who arrive in a canvas apron with their name embroidered on it. On the other, people who throw in whatever they wore to the grocery store and go home streaked to the elbow. Both are correct. Neither will admit it.

This page is a joke with a small amount of useful advice hidden in it. The advice: wear old clothes, expect to lose them, and tie back anything that dangles. Everything else is a matter of personality.

A field guide to the seven types Actual laundry science, briefly One genuinely practical section
The real advice, up front The seven types The verdict
Aprons hanging on studio hooks beside a clay-covered shirt draped over a chair
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The serious part, taken care of first A field guide to the seven types The case for the apron The case against the apron What actually happens to your clothes The verdict The whole idea, quickly The seven types Questions we get asked Keep going

A field guide to studio clothing, with a small amount of real advice in it.

The whole idea

An apron moves the problem, it does not solve it

An apron catches what lands on your front. Almost nothing lands on your front. Clay reaches your forearms, your thighs where you brace, the outside of your knee where you wiped your hand, and eventually your face.

So an apron protects the one part of you that was already fine. It is still worth wearing, for reasons that have very little to do with staying clean.

This page is largely a joke. The real advice is in the next section and it takes four lines.

The taxonomy

The seven types, abridged

  1. The Embroidered. Split-leg canvas, name stitched on the chest, hung on their own hook.
  2. The Denialist. No apron, good jeans, visibly certain that today will be different.
  3. The Towel. A towel tucked into a waistband. Functionally an apron. Will not be called one.
  4. The Archaeologist. One apron, never washed, now stiff enough to stand on its own. Considers this a record.
  5. The Overdressed. Apron, sleeves, a second apron for glazing. Has never had clay on their shoes.
  6. The Convert. Bought an apron after one specific incident they will tell you about.
  7. The Uniformed. Owns clothes that are only studio clothes. Has quietly solved the whole problem.
Read this bit straight

The serious part, taken care of first

The rest of this page is not to be taken seriously. This section is, and it is short.

  1. Wear clothes you have already made peace with. Clay comes out of most fabric. Glaze, underglaze and oxide often do not, and iron oxide in particular is permanent.
  2. Tie back anything that dangles. Long sleeves, necklaces, scarves, loose hair. This is the only line on the page that is about safety rather than laundry, and it matters at a wheel and matters much more at a slab roller.
  3. Do not wear anything you would be upset to lose. Not because the studio is dangerous, because clay is indifferent.
  4. Brush off before you get in your car. Dry clay on clothing becomes dust in your car and your house, which is the one part of this that is genuinely a health point rather than a style one.

That is the whole of the advice

Everything below is a taxonomy of your fellow members and a set of arguments nobody needs. Proceed accordingly.

Observational

A field guide to the seven types

Compiled from watching people, and from being several of these at different points.

The Embroidered

Heavy split-leg canvas, cross-back straps, name stitched across the chest, folded at the end of the night with the creases lined up. The apron cost more than the clay in it. Their work is frequently excellent, which makes the whole thing harder to mock than it should be.

The Denialist

No apron. Good jeans. A visible conviction that today will be the day the clay stays on the wheel. Has been wrong every previous session and has drawn no conclusion from it. Leaves with a handprint on one thigh, every time, in the same place.

The Towel

A towel tucked into the waistband, which is an apron. Will explain, unprompted, that it is not an apron. Reaches for a clean corner of it roughly every ninety seconds, which is more than the apron wearers manage.

The Archaeologist

One apron, acquired at some point, never washed since. Layers of glaze in colors no longer stocked. Now stiff enough to stand up without assistance. Regards it as a record of work rather than a laundry failure, and honestly has a point.

The Overdressed

Apron, sleeve protectors, a second apron reserved for glazing, sometimes gloves. Emerges from three hours of throwing entirely clean, which is either mastery or evidence that not much throwing occurred.

The Convert

Wore nothing for months, then had one specific incident, and bought an apron the following week. Will tell you about the incident. The incident always involves a garment that mattered and a glaze that did not come out.

The Uniformed

Owns a set of clothes that exist only for the studio. They live in a bag in the car. No apron, no anxiety, no laundry decisions. Has quietly solved the problem while everybody else was arguing about it.

A note on all seven

Nobody has ever changed category through persuasion. People change category through incident. That is the only known mechanism.

The prosecution

The case for the apron

  1. Somewhere to wipe your hands. This is the real argument and it has nothing to do with protection. A clean surface attached to your body, always within reach, is worth more than the fabric it is made of.
  2. Pockets. A rib, a needle tool, a sponge, and the thing you put down twelve minutes ago and have been looking for since.
  3. It contains the sleeve problem. Split-leg aprons and cross-back straps keep loose fabric off a moving wheel, which moves this from laundry to safety.
  4. It marks a start. Putting something on is a small ritual that says the session has begun. This sounds precious and it demonstrably works on people.
  5. It is one item to wash. Instead of the entire outfit, every time.
  6. Glaze is the actual threat. Clay washes out. Underglaze and oxide do not, and glazing is done standing at bench height, which is exactly where an apron covers you.
The defense

The case against the apron

  1. It protects the part of you that was never at risk. Clay arrives on forearms, on the thigh you brace against, on the back of a wrist, and on your face. The chest is the safest region on your body and the apron is squarely on it.
  2. It becomes the dirtiest thing in the room. An apron used as a hand towel for six months is a hand towel. Pressing it against a piece you are carrying is how clean pots stop being clean.
  3. It is hot. A canvas panel across your torso in a warm studio in July is a decision with consequences.
  4. The strings. A back-tied apron is one more loop of fabric near a spinning thing, which is the exact hazard the apron was supposed to help with. Cross-back or bib-style only.
  5. It does not stop dust going home. Dry clay on your sleeves and trouser legs travels to your car regardless of what is on your front.
  6. Old clothes already work. The Uniformed have never had this argument with anybody, and their laundry situation is better than everyone else's.
Briefly factual

What actually happens to your clothes

A short interruption of the nonsense, because this part is genuinely useful.

  1. Wet clay is not the problem. It is a mineral suspension. Let it dry, knock it off outside, and wash normally. Most of it goes.
  2. Do not rinse clay clothes in a sink you care about. Or a washing machine you care about, repeatedly. Clay settles in traps and sets like what it is.
  3. Underglaze and oxide stain permanently. They are designed to be color that survives a kiln. Your washing machine is not a kiln, and they will win.
  4. Iron oxide is the worst of them. Rust, essentially, and it behaves like rust on fabric.
  5. Wash studio clothes separately. Partly for your other clothes and partly because it keeps silica dust out of the machine that washes everything else.
  6. Shake off outside, not indoors. Same reason. Dry clay on fabric is the main way studio dust ends up somewhere it was never meant to be.
The ruling

The verdict

Wear an apron if you want somewhere to wipe your hands and somewhere to keep a rib. Those are good reasons and they are the only ones that survive scrutiny.

Do not wear one under the impression that it is keeping you clean. It is not. Nothing is. The people who look cleanest at the end of a session are the ones who wore clothes that were already ruined and therefore stopped thinking about it.

  1. If you buy one, buy cross-back or split-leg. No strings near a wheel.
  2. Wash it occasionally. The Archaeologist position is a joke and also a real hygiene issue.
  3. The Uniformed were right the whole time. A bag of studio clothes in the car ends the entire debate.
Questions we get asked

The ones that come up at the tables

Do I need an apron for pottery?

No. Plenty of very good potters have never owned one. What you do need is clothing you do not mind losing, and nothing loose near a wheel or a slab roller.

Does clay wash out of clothes?

Usually, yes. Let it dry, knock it off outside, wash normally. Glaze, underglaze and oxide are the ones that stay, and iron oxide is effectively permanent.

What kind of apron should I get?

Cross-back or split-leg, and nothing that ties in a long loop at the back. The split-leg design also stops the apron bunching into your lap while you throw, which is the complaint most people eventually have.

Why do my clothes get clay on the thigh?

Because that is where you brace your elbows while centering, which is correct technique. The handprint on one thigh is a sign you are doing it properly, and it is exactly the place an apron does not cover.

Should I wash studio clothes with everything else?

Better not to. Partly for the sake of the other clothes, and mainly because it keeps clay dust out of the machine that washes everything you wear.

Is there anything I genuinely should not wear?

Anything that dangles. Long loose sleeves, necklaces, scarves, untied hair and back-tied apron strings all belong to the same category of problem, and a wheel or a slab roller does not stop to consider whether it has caught something.

One last thing

Everybody ends up covered anyway

The thing that makes this debate funny is that it is unwinnable. The Embroidered still go home with clay on their forearms. The Denialist still owns jeans with a permanent handprint. The Overdressed have simply relocated the problem to their shoes.

Wear what you like. Tie back what dangles, keep glaze away from anything you love, and brush off before you get in the car. Beyond that, the apron question is a personality test dressed up as a practical decision, and no page is going to settle it.

Old clothes, nothing dangling, glaze stains forever, brush off before the car. The rest is personality.

If you want the field guide and the arguments nobody needs, switch to the Comprehensive Version at the top of the page.