Ceramics Monthly: How does your body’s condition influence your approach to making—physically, emotionally, and conceptually? Has the experience of illness or medical care changed how you think about touch, material, and the body’s relationship to clay?
Betsy Hinze-Heart: Functional ceramics are the heartbeat of my art practice—vessels that hold food and drink, gather people around a table, and turn strangers into kin. My work centers around immersive, invitation-only events that transform everyday moments into acts of wonder. The invitations are often hidden in public places, waiting to be found by those whose curiosity matches the purpose of the gathering—an open door for anyone willing to step into the unknown. Each gathering is shaped by the ceramic vessels I create for it, which play a ritualized role that informs the entire experience.
I used to work in community studios, but my degenerative illness gradually limited my ability to do that. For a while, I could only make ceramics sporadically and only on my good days. Then, after a major surgery and long hospital stay, I discovered something unexpected: with an adjustable hospital bed and an over-bed table, I could create, even on high-pain days, while still recovering. Now, my studio is built around that insight and includes a few other adaptations (like a mini vacuum to clean up crumbs and an air filter that runs 24/7) so I can handbuild with care and presence. The sculpting process itself has become a comfort and anchor. It quiets my mind, soothes my PTSD, and reconnects me to my body when pain tries to take me away from it.
CM: What draws you to create functional ceramics while navigating medical realities like a port for liquid nutrition? Do your ideas of nourishment, utility, and the vessel take on different meanings in your practice?
BHH: Although I can no longer eat anything at all, I find great pleasure in cooking for others and serving them from my vessels—often pieces that speak to the environment the food was sourced from, like barnacle-encrusted bowls for clam chowder. Because food hasn’t been part of my life for over five years, it has taken on a mythic quality, and so have my ceramics. The ability to eat is something precious, and I want to honor it by crafting vessels that turn nourishment into ceremony. My favorite things to sculpt are tea sets, perhaps because herbal tea is something I can still consume—a small, precious ritual in a life where so many rituals of eating have been lost. Working with clay itself is another kind of sustenance. Its coolness and pliability are reminders of the body’s strength and adaptability. It’s a practice that lets me stay rooted in my body, even on high-pain days, and keep creating in the face of constant change.
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Ceramics Monthly: How does your body’s condition influence your approach to making—physically, emotionally, and conceptually? Has the experience of illness or medical care changed how you think about touch, material, and the body’s relationship to clay?
Betsy Hinze-Heart: Functional ceramics are the heartbeat of my art practice—vessels that hold food and drink, gather people around a table, and turn strangers into kin. My work centers around immersive, invitation-only events that transform everyday moments into acts of wonder. The invitations are often hidden in public places, waiting to be found by those whose curiosity matches the purpose of the gathering—an open door for anyone willing to step into the unknown. Each gathering is shaped by the ceramic vessels I create for it, which play a ritualized role that informs the entire experience.
I used to work in community studios, but my degenerative illness gradually limited my ability to do that. For a while, I could only make ceramics sporadically and only on my good days. Then, after a major surgery and long hospital stay, I discovered something unexpected: with an adjustable hospital bed and an over-bed table, I could create, even on high-pain days, while still recovering. Now, my studio is built around that insight and includes a few other adaptations (like a mini vacuum to clean up crumbs and an air filter that runs 24/7) so I can handbuild with care and presence. The sculpting process itself has become a comfort and anchor. It quiets my mind, soothes my PTSD, and reconnects me to my body when pain tries to take me away from it.
CM: What draws you to create functional ceramics while navigating medical realities like a port for liquid nutrition? Do your ideas of nourishment, utility, and the vessel take on different meanings in your practice?
BHH: Although I can no longer eat anything at all, I find great pleasure in cooking for others and serving them from my vessels—often pieces that speak to the environment the food was sourced from, like barnacle-encrusted bowls for clam chowder. Because food hasn’t been part of my life for over five years, it has taken on a mythic quality, and so have my ceramics. The ability to eat is something precious, and I want to honor it by crafting vessels that turn nourishment into ceremony. My favorite things to sculpt are tea sets, perhaps because herbal tea is something I can still consume—a small, precious ritual in a life where so many rituals of eating have been lost. Working with clay itself is another kind of sustenance. Its coolness and pliability are reminders of the body’s strength and adaptability. It’s a practice that lets me stay rooted in my body, even on high-pain days, and keep creating in the face of constant change.
Photo: Cristin Hinze-Heart.
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