Between Clay and Heart

It begins with a handful of clay.
Each fingerprint, each quiet breath leaves its trace — time pressed into form, turning earth into playful, living figures.

Every sculpture holds the warmth of the hands that shaped it, each revealing a different depth of life.
The two cats sit close together, caught in a still moment of companionship;
the octopus folds itself into a quiet dance, its tentacles echoing the sea;
the tree-trunk teapot ripens with fruit and flowers, inviting touch;
the buffalo, resting on the wheel, feels steady as the land itself;
and Spiderman, reborn in clay, stands heroic yet familiar — an unexpected smile drawn from earth.

Between clay and heart, between what time shapes and what we shape in return,
each work becomes an extension of the moment — a dialogue between hand, memory, and the world in motion.

Shaping Life

Shaping Life,
Shaping Time.

In the palm of my hand, the clay shifts like something alive.
When I touch it, even time seems to soften.
Living, I think, must be much the same.
We shape, we break, and we shape again.
And in the end, like the trace of a hand, the heart remains.