I always listen to music when I throw. Lately, I love listening to Leif Vollebekk.
Wishlist
a gas kiln or wood kiln
Studio
My studio sits on the third floor of an old furniture factory near the Port of Oakland, California. The building is industrial and unassuming from the outside. Flat walls of windows, loading docks, and abandoned cars line the street, but inside, it has been converted into long, light-filled loft spaces filled with artists, painters, and woodworkers. It’s a place for the few artists left in the Bay Area, and one I’ve made into both my home and studio.
From the roof, you can see across the bay to San Francisco, a drive I make often, carefully carrying greenware to be fired in a large community gas kiln. It’s a necessary risk to achieve the dark, raw surfaces that define much of my work, and also a practical one, as the old wooden building I live in too closely resembles a tinderbox for the landlord to allow any kind of kiln.
The space is roughly 1700 square feet (159 sq. m.), with high ceilings and twelve-foot, east-facing windows. Every morning, the studio fills with a bright orange glow as sunlight reflects off the cream walls and wooden floors. For a few hours, windowpane shadows stretch across tables, drying vases, and stacks of drawings. This is often when I film videos and photograph my work.
Everything in the space revolves around the wheel, a Pacifica GT-800 placed very simply in the center of the room on a jute rug. The rug protects the floors and holds up well as long as I throw relatively clean. From that central point, the room radiates outward with couches, shelves, worktables, books, plants, finished pots, and piles of clay lining the walls.
Because the studio is also my home, there is little separation between living and working, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I don’t like to think of my art as “work,” so I’ve tried to design a space where daily life and making overlap completely. The kitchen is 15 feet (4.6 m) from the wheel.
A large projector plays shows on the wall when I’m bored. My bedroom is just down the hall. Drying racks live in my clothing closet, and shipping materials are stored in the attic.
Much of my practice centers on precision throwing and trimming, which requires working with clay at very specific stages. I’ve never understood how people manage frequent wrapping and unwrapping of work as it dries. That often throws pieces out of center for me, and because many of my forms feature carved radial lines, even drying is essential. When the clay is ready, I drop whatever else I’m doing and tend to the pots. There are no strict timelines for when I’m at the wheel. I work in large batches of shapes, throwing vases for a month and then cups, and so on. The work sets the rhythm of the day, and I’ll often check the moisture of pieces before bed and wake up first thing in the morning to sit at the wheel.
Most other tasks happen at a small worktable, since nearly all of my vases begin and end on the wheel, I don’t need a large surface. I use a closed system of five-gallon buckets for water and clay scraps, so nothing goes down the sink. The studio is efficient by necessity: most of the light comes from the windows, and there is no air conditioning or heating. During some parts of the year, it does become uncomfortably hot, and I’ll often be found dripping sweat at the wheel in a tank top.
Looking ahead, I hope to improve my storage and firing workflow, creating more efficient systems for transporting work in and out of the studio. Moving greenware is always nerve-wracking, especially listening to it shift in the back of my car. I believe my work could eventually benefit from wood firing, and I hope someday to have access to a wood-fired kiln.
Paying Dues (and Bills)
I first learned ceramics in high school and continued taking classes for many years while earning my BA at the University of California, Berkeley. Most of my early development came from studying videos by other artists online. Watching and rewatching instructional videos became a form of apprenticeship, and Hsin-Chuen Lin was especially influential.
During high school, I spent countless hours memorizing his hand positions and rushing back to school the next day to throw during my lunch breaks. Each day brought new technical challenges, which sent me back to the videos at night. That early dedication eventually grew into a small business when I built my first studio in a garden shed in my parents’ backyard and began selling work at local wineries.
Alongside my ceramics practice, I work as a fashion photographer. Photography has played an important role in building my ceramics career, especially in documenting my process and presenting my work. Being able to photograph and film my own work has allowed me to share it more clearly and consistently.
Marketing
I primarily connect with customers through Instagram and my website, where I collect emails ahead of quarterly releases. This rhythm has proven sustainable and allows me to ship work internationally.
I place a strong emphasis on communicating my process. People don’t just buy objects; they connect with the stories behind them. By sharing how pieces are made, the challenges involved, and the intentions behind each form, I bring people into the larger narrative behind the work. Social media has become an extension of the studio, and much of my branding centers on transparency, documentation, and education.
Mind
I like to argue that pottery is not meditation. For me, it can be super frustrating if I’m not in the right mindset, or even if the wrong song is on. It’s not that hard for me to get inspired, but it can be really hard for me to get relaxed enough to throw my best. Even a cup of coffee is enough to make my hands too shaky to throw well. Because of that, I find it really important to exercise and release some energy when I’m not at the wheel.
I spend four days a week at the climbing gym. It’s a nice balance, letting me move my body in other ways, and I’ve found that the strength and flexibility I’ve gained there help keep me from getting overuse injuries in the studio.
If I feel stuck creatively, I usually turn to drawing or looking at other mediums, especially woodworking and lathe-carved pieces, for new inspiration. I also tape my drawings directly onto the studio walls and keep sketchbooks full of ideas. I see these as reminders of how my work has developed and as a kind of bible of my own style that I often refer back to for direction. I can usually trust that my past self had some good ideas I might have forgotten to explore further.
Keeping those ideas visible helps me stay consistent and honest in my work.
Most Important Lesson
The biggest lesson I’ve taken to heart is to only make things I love to make. If people are buying them, that’s the dream. But I’ve learned the hard way that I’m not happy doing commissions or custom work. Those usually kill the art for me. It often involves adding elements to my work that I would never choose myself, and the pieces start to feel like chores instead of something I care about.
In the past, taking on commissions has left me burned out and needing long breaks afterward. Ever since I stopped doing them, I’ve had more time and energy to focus on developing my own style. People seem to trust me more when I approach my work with that kind of focus and discipline.
Every vase is handmade and one of a kind; that feels honest to me. When I stay committed to making what I genuinely want to make, the work is better for it in the long run.
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Just the Facts
Clay
brown stoneware
Primary forming method
wheel throwing
Primary firing temperature
cone-10 gas reduction
Favorite surface treatment
wheel carving
Favorite tools
Hsin bat system
Studio playlist
I always listen to music when I throw. Lately, I love listening to Leif Vollebekk.
Wishlist
a gas kiln or wood kiln
Studio
My studio sits on the third floor of an old furniture factory near the Port of Oakland, California. The building is industrial and unassuming from the outside. Flat walls of windows, loading docks, and abandoned cars line the street, but inside, it has been converted into long, light-filled loft spaces filled with artists, painters, and woodworkers. It’s a place for the few artists left in the Bay Area, and one I’ve made into both my home and studio.
From the roof, you can see across the bay to San Francisco, a drive I make often, carefully carrying greenware to be fired in a large community gas kiln. It’s a necessary risk to achieve the dark, raw surfaces that define much of my work, and also a practical one, as the old wooden building I live in too closely resembles a tinderbox for the landlord to allow any kind of kiln.
The space is roughly 1700 square feet (159 sq. m.), with high ceilings and twelve-foot, east-facing windows. Every morning, the studio fills with a bright orange glow as sunlight reflects off the cream walls and wooden floors. For a few hours, windowpane shadows stretch across tables, drying vases, and stacks of drawings. This is often when I film videos and photograph my work.
Everything in the space revolves around the wheel, a Pacifica GT-800 placed very simply in the center of the room on a jute rug. The rug protects the floors and holds up well as long as I throw relatively clean. From that central point, the room radiates outward with couches, shelves, worktables, books, plants, finished pots, and piles of clay lining the walls.
Because the studio is also my home, there is little separation between living and working, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I don’t like to think of my art as “work,” so I’ve tried to design a space where daily life and making overlap completely. The kitchen is 15 feet (4.6 m) from the wheel.
A large projector plays shows on the wall when I’m bored. My bedroom is just down the hall. Drying racks live in my clothing closet, and shipping materials are stored in the attic.
Much of my practice centers on precision throwing and trimming, which requires working with clay at very specific stages. I’ve never understood how people manage frequent wrapping and unwrapping of work as it dries. That often throws pieces out of center for me, and because many of my forms feature carved radial lines, even drying is essential. When the clay is ready, I drop whatever else I’m doing and tend to the pots. There are no strict timelines for when I’m at the wheel. I work in large batches of shapes, throwing vases for a month and then cups, and so on. The work sets the rhythm of the day, and I’ll often check the moisture of pieces before bed and wake up first thing in the morning to sit at the wheel.
Most other tasks happen at a small worktable, since nearly all of my vases begin and end on the wheel, I don’t need a large surface. I use a closed system of five-gallon buckets for water and clay scraps, so nothing goes down the sink. The studio is efficient by necessity: most of the light comes from the windows, and there is no air conditioning or heating. During some parts of the year, it does become uncomfortably hot, and I’ll often be found dripping sweat at the wheel in a tank top.
Looking ahead, I hope to improve my storage and firing workflow, creating more efficient systems for transporting work in and out of the studio. Moving greenware is always nerve-wracking, especially listening to it shift in the back of my car. I believe my work could eventually benefit from wood firing, and I hope someday to have access to a wood-fired kiln.
Paying Dues (and Bills)
I first learned ceramics in high school and continued taking classes for many years while earning my BA at the University of California, Berkeley. Most of my early development came from studying videos by other artists online. Watching and rewatching instructional videos became a form of apprenticeship, and Hsin-Chuen Lin was especially influential.
During high school, I spent countless hours memorizing his hand positions and rushing back to school the next day to throw during my lunch breaks. Each day brought new technical challenges, which sent me back to the videos at night. That early dedication eventually grew into a small business when I built my first studio in a garden shed in my parents’ backyard and began selling work at local wineries.
Alongside my ceramics practice, I work as a fashion photographer. Photography has played an important role in building my ceramics career, especially in documenting my process and presenting my work. Being able to photograph and film my own work has allowed me to share it more clearly and consistently.
Marketing
I primarily connect with customers through Instagram and my website, where I collect emails ahead of quarterly releases. This rhythm has proven sustainable and allows me to ship work internationally.
I place a strong emphasis on communicating my process. People don’t just buy objects; they connect with the stories behind them. By sharing how pieces are made, the challenges involved, and the intentions behind each form, I bring people into the larger narrative behind the work. Social media has become an extension of the studio, and much of my branding centers on transparency, documentation, and education.
Mind
I like to argue that pottery is not meditation. For me, it can be super frustrating if I’m not in the right mindset, or even if the wrong song is on. It’s not that hard for me to get inspired, but it can be really hard for me to get relaxed enough to throw my best. Even a cup of coffee is enough to make my hands too shaky to throw well. Because of that, I find it really important to exercise and release some energy when I’m not at the wheel.
I spend four days a week at the climbing gym. It’s a nice balance, letting me move my body in other ways, and I’ve found that the strength and flexibility I’ve gained there help keep me from getting overuse injuries in the studio.
If I feel stuck creatively, I usually turn to drawing or looking at other mediums, especially woodworking and lathe-carved pieces, for new inspiration. I also tape my drawings directly onto the studio walls and keep sketchbooks full of ideas. I see these as reminders of how my work has developed and as a kind of bible of my own style that I often refer back to for direction. I can usually trust that my past self had some good ideas I might have forgotten to explore further.
Keeping those ideas visible helps me stay consistent and honest in my work.
Most Important Lesson
The biggest lesson I’ve taken to heart is to only make things I love to make. If people are buying them, that’s the dream. But I’ve learned the hard way that I’m not happy doing commissions or custom work. Those usually kill the art for me. It often involves adding elements to my work that I would never choose myself, and the pieces start to feel like chores instead of something I care about.
In the past, taking on commissions has left me burned out and needing long breaks afterward. Ever since I stopped doing them, I’ve had more time and energy to focus on developing my own style. People seem to trust me more when I approach my work with that kind of focus and discipline.
Every vase is handmade and one of a kind; that feels honest to me. When I stay committed to making what I genuinely want to make, the work is better for it in the long run.
www.danmackstudio.com
Instagram: @danmackstudio
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