The audio file for this article was produced by the Ceramic Arts Network staff and not read by the author.
The Ceramics Monthly editorial staff recently caught up with ceramic artist Joanna Poag to check in on her current practice, work-life balance, and a shift in focus and failure. Here is our conversation. —Eds.
Ceramics Monthly: What does a “day in your life” look like, balancing family, teaching, gallery commitments, and your ceramics studio practice?
Joanna Poag: I am the academic director and a professor at a liberal arts college in upstate New York, and my husband and I parent three kids aged nine, seven, and five, so my days during the school year are busy. I carve out as much time in the studio as I can during the weekend, and do my best to make use of those little pockets of time away from my work and household management responsibilities. This past spring I built a studio space in my garage, so it’s easier to work for shorter periods of time. I spend about 15–20 hours a week making work and managing administrative aspects of my art practice, and I’ve learned to lean into an art-making process that fits the rhythm of my life, rather than striving for rigid or unattainable standards.
CM: Pinched slabs and pressed coils have been hallmarks of your work. To what extent does touch remain visible or erased in your finished pieces, and why?
JP: I still love a good, pinched coil! Even though my work has shifted quite a bit, touch remains a central and highly visible element in my work. The repetitive process of pinching clay is meditative, and that practice sets the parameters for spontaneity in my work. A pigmented coil often creates a definitive edge around the work while retaining a sense of life and motion. I’m exploring the tension between softness and hardness—the clay’s initial softness versus its final, stone-like state and how those questions echo my own inquiries about being a woman: the push and pull between softness and strength, between structure and intuitiveness. The visible touch on the surface isn’t just about texture; it’s a visual language of pressure, of being held together and shaped, and a reminder of the material’s original softness before its transformation.
CM: While your earlier work contained monochromatic frameworks and ordered shifts in scale and rhythm, your new body of work loosely and boldly explores color, depth in flatness, and layered patterns. Can you discuss how your relationship to grids, patterns, and repetition has evolved over time?
JP: My relationship to grids and patterns has evolved from a focus on balance and poise to one that embraces disruption. This shift began several years ago when I listened to a podcast in which physicist Brian Greene described the pre-Big Bang universe as “smooth,” and how it was the disruption of that smoothness that created an environment for life. I realized the structure and order in my earlier work had become stagnant—repetitive rather than rhythmic. Having three children also substantially rearranged my world and my understanding of time. My work distinctly reflects these changes, moving from rigid order to a more intuitive and playful exploration of pattern and color that embraces chaotic disruptions as a means to thoughtfully explore human experience.
CM: What prompted the move from sculptural, multi-component installation work into the more layered and painterly language of clay collage? Was it a gradual evolution or a distinct turning point?
JP: My transition to clay collage was a distinct turning point. In 2021, while navigating a challenging period with three young children and the fallout of the pandemic, I found myself on the verge of quitting my practice. To keep my hands moving, I began making paper collages at my kitchen table. This simple, low-stakes ritual led to an extensive body of work and, ultimately, a realization that the collages were the work. I then taught myself to pigment my clay and began putting together compositions that felt fresh and exciting. Some of the most significant changes I’ve made in my art practice have come from my “peripheral practice” or a place of necessity that has created a quiet space for experimentation and play.
CM: Can you talk a bit about your studio process, including materials, planning, construction, and finishing? What draws you to clay collage as a primary mode of working, and how do you manage the technical challenges of joining and layering?
JP: I start my process by looking through historical textiles, illustrations, and home interiors in order to find engaging patterns and color relationships that I do my best to color match with my color chips. From there, I mix pigment into clay and then apply the colored material to a thin slab of clay, much like you would paint to canvas. Once I have two or three patterns completed, I splice those patterns into a formal composition by laying them out on a new thin slab. After the slabs adhere to each other (a mixture of working with clay on the moist side and heavy rolling), I cut the perimeter of the piece and let it set up before finishing the work the following day.
CM: What has surprised you most in this transition—either in your process, or in how audiences respond to the work?
JP: This new work has been so satisfying to me because I feel so much joy when I make it. While the audience’s response has been wonderfully exciting, I know I am finally at home with myself as an artist because I’m creating the work that I want to see without concern for how it will be received.
CM: Do you see your clay collage pieces as a continuation of your earlier interest in structure and negative space, or as a departure?
JP: I see my new clay collage pieces as a continuation of my earlier interest in structure and composition, but through a new and more complex lens. The process of collage allows me to take fragments and join them together into a whole, exploring movement, emotion, and structure. Currently, my compositions are full and have very little open space—a reflection of the crowded, full nature of my current life. I am interested to see how my work will change and develop as life continues, and change creates parameters for new themes to emerge.
CM: Eating Darkness, a free-standing architectural passageway dressed in a skin of collaged tiles, showcased a recent return to large-scale installation work. Did a particular question or exploration pull you back in that direction, and do you have plans to continue working at that scale?
JP: My interest has always been in the liminal space between two and three dimensions, and this installation was the perfect opportunity to explore that in a new way. It was the first large-scale project I’d been able to take on since having kids, and it was thrilling to watch the collaged tiles expand from wall pieces into a passageway that physically commanded the space. I’m drawn to the way tile can be scaled up or down, and I certainly plan to do more exploration in that language in the future.
CM: What is your philosophy on failure in the studio? Do ruined firings or cracked pieces ever feed new explorations?
JP: Failure is so important and has been an acquired practice. This new work has really lowered the stakes for me by allowing me to make many works in a short time span, versus the previous work where I would take months to make one work. I think for someone who has perfectionistic tendencies, it’s been really important to create parameters that “required” me to fail (quantity over quality). Now, I make so much work that it’s really not important if they all work out, because I’ll just make more tomorrow.
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The audio file for this article was produced by the Ceramic Arts Network staff and not read by the author.
The Ceramics Monthly editorial staff recently caught up with ceramic artist Joanna Poag to check in on her current practice, work-life balance, and a shift in focus and failure. Here is our conversation. —Eds.
Joanna Poag: I am the academic director and a professor at a liberal arts college in upstate New York, and my husband and I parent three kids aged nine, seven, and five, so my days during the school year are busy. I carve out as much time in the studio as I can during the weekend, and do my best to make use of those little pockets of time away from my work and household management responsibilities. This past spring I built a studio space in my garage, so it’s easier to work for shorter periods of time. I spend about 15–20 hours a week making work and managing administrative aspects of my art practice, and I’ve learned to lean into an art-making process that fits the rhythm of my life, rather than striving for rigid or unattainable standards.
CM: Pinched slabs and pressed coils have been hallmarks of your work. To what extent does touch remain visible or erased in your finished pieces, and why?
JP: I still love a good, pinched coil! Even though my work has shifted quite a bit, touch remains a central and highly visible element in my work. The repetitive process of pinching clay is meditative, and that practice sets the parameters for spontaneity in my work. A pigmented coil often creates a definitive edge around the work while retaining a sense of life and motion. I’m exploring the tension between softness and hardness—the clay’s initial softness versus its final, stone-like state and how those questions echo my own inquiries about being a woman: the push and pull between softness and strength, between structure and intuitiveness. The visible touch on the surface isn’t just about texture; it’s a visual language of pressure, of being held together and shaped, and a reminder of the material’s original softness before its transformation.
CM: While your earlier work contained monochromatic frameworks and ordered shifts in scale and rhythm, your new body of work loosely and boldly explores color, depth in flatness, and layered patterns. Can you discuss how your relationship to grids, patterns, and repetition has evolved over time?
JP: My relationship to grids and patterns has evolved from a focus on balance and poise to one that embraces disruption. This shift began several years ago when I listened to a podcast in which physicist Brian Greene described the pre-Big Bang universe as “smooth,” and how it was the disruption of that smoothness that created an environment for life. I realized the structure and order in my earlier work had become stagnant—repetitive rather than rhythmic. Having three children also substantially rearranged my world and my understanding of time. My work distinctly reflects these changes, moving from rigid order to a more intuitive and playful exploration of pattern and color that embraces chaotic disruptions as a means to thoughtfully explore human experience.
CM: What prompted the move from sculptural, multi-component installation work into the more layered and painterly language of clay collage? Was it a gradual evolution or a distinct turning point?
JP: My transition to clay collage was a distinct turning point. In 2021, while navigating a challenging period with three young children and the fallout of the pandemic, I found myself on the verge of quitting my practice. To keep my hands moving, I began making paper collages at my kitchen table. This simple, low-stakes ritual led to an extensive body of work and, ultimately, a realization that the collages were the work. I then taught myself to pigment my clay and began putting together compositions that felt fresh and exciting. Some of the most significant changes I’ve made in my art practice have come from my “peripheral practice” or a place of necessity that has created a quiet space for experimentation and play.
CM: Can you talk a bit about your studio process, including materials, planning, construction, and finishing? What draws you to clay collage as a primary mode of working, and how do you manage the technical challenges of joining and layering?
JP: I start my process by looking through historical textiles, illustrations, and home interiors in order to find engaging patterns and color relationships that I do my best to color match with my color chips. From there, I mix pigment into clay and then apply the colored material to a thin slab of clay, much like you would paint to canvas. Once I have two or three patterns completed, I splice those patterns into a formal composition by laying them out on a new thin slab. After the slabs adhere to each other (a mixture of working with clay on the moist side and heavy rolling), I cut the perimeter of the piece and let it set up before finishing the work the following day.
CM: What has surprised you most in this transition—either in your process, or in how audiences respond to the work?
JP: This new work has been so satisfying to me because I feel so much joy when I make it. While the audience’s response has been wonderfully exciting, I know I am finally at home with myself as an artist because I’m creating the work that I want to see without concern for how it will be received.
CM: Do you see your clay collage pieces as a continuation of your earlier interest in structure and negative space, or as a departure?
JP: I see my new clay collage pieces as a continuation of my earlier interest in structure and composition, but through a new and more complex lens. The process of collage allows me to take fragments and join them together into a whole, exploring movement, emotion, and structure. Currently, my compositions are full and have very little open space—a reflection of the crowded, full nature of my current life. I am interested to see how my work will change and develop as life continues, and change creates parameters for new themes to emerge.
CM: Eating Darkness, a free-standing architectural passageway dressed in a skin of collaged tiles, showcased a recent return to large-scale installation work. Did a particular question or exploration pull you back in that direction, and do you have plans to continue working at that scale?
JP: My interest has always been in the liminal space between two and three dimensions, and this installation was the perfect opportunity to explore that in a new way. It was the first large-scale project I’d been able to take on since having kids, and it was thrilling to watch the collaged tiles expand from wall pieces into a passageway that physically commanded the space. I’m drawn to the way tile can be scaled up or down, and I certainly plan to do more exploration in that language in the future.
CM: What is your philosophy on failure in the studio? Do ruined firings or cracked pieces ever feed new explorations?
JP: Failure is so important and has been an acquired practice. This new work has really lowered the stakes for me by allowing me to make many works in a short time span, versus the previous work where I would take months to make one work. I think for someone who has perfectionistic tendencies, it’s been really important to create parameters that “required” me to fail (quantity over quality). Now, I make so much work that it’s really not important if they all work out, because I’ll just make more tomorrow.
To learn more, visit www.joannapoag.com or follow her on Instagram @joannapoag.
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