The firing process lasts for weeks on end. The sourcing and chopping of firewood, the preparation and setting up of the kiln, firing itself, cooling and then, finally, the removal of the finished pieces. When winter sets in and the felling season begins, I buy up logs and branches that are unsuitable for use as building timber. They then need to be sorted into different types of wood, cut to length and then chopped into manageable pieces. This is a physically strenuous process that takes place in various phases over the course of the year. I need around 6 steres of wood for each firing (a stere being a cubic metre of chopped and stacked wood). Working with clay is also highly physical. When my hand presses against the clay, the latter gives way to the pressure. It reacts to my body and follows my movements. If I am hasty and impatient, then so too is the clay. As the majority of my ceramics are hollow, my hands are both inside and outside of them as I form them. I therefore create something that is both around me and comes from inside of me. As such, each ceramic is like a cast of my body. In its raw form clay is very inert, almost sluggish, and exhibits a particular set of physical properties, but once it has been fired it changes its characteristics. If I press against a fired ceramic it is my body that gives way. A broken edge can even be as sharp as a knife, as the clay has swapped its inertia and sluggishness for keenness.

It is a bit like sailing: You can’t leave the boat, no matter what happens. I have experienced blizzards and thunderstorms, heatwaves and seemingly never-ending rain. Everything that happens influences the firing process. Each and every firing is therefore a unique, never-to-be-repeated event. It is as if the fire documents occurrences and time on the ceramics, similar to the annual rings of a tree.

When I work with clay it is in direct contact with my body, just as there is a direct connection between my body and my paintings when I paint. Both processes cause me to think about this relationship. What is the relationship, what are the threads between my body, our bodies and other bodies? What is our relationship to the world? The last couple of years have shown us just how delicate we are, both as individuals and as a society. A small change to the system can result in dramatic consequences that not only lead to a tidal wave of knock-on changes, but also require us to change ourselves. A renowned brain researcher once said that the brain does not want to change. On the contrary, once it has made itself comfortable it wants nothing more than to be left alone to float lazily in its fluid. Given the global challenges we are faced with, I have to ask myself which transformation is required in order to free us from our lethargy? Or would such a transformation contradict human behaviour?

By the time the temperature reaches around 850°C all transformative processes within the clay have been completed. Molecular changes to quartz and cristobalite have occurred and the clay has gone through a change of state. I use the morning to get a few hours’ sleep before returning to the kiln for my next stoking shift. Each cycle of heating raises the temperature, and after around 30 hours I have reached over 1000°C. At around 1150°C the ash from the burnt wood that has settled on the ceramics over the past day and a half becomes sticky and begins to melt. Under the influence of the heat from the fire, the clay and ash slowly begin to determine the colour and texture of the ceramic surfaces. In the hours that follow the temperature oscillates between 1200°C and 1330°C, with the ash beginning to trickle down like honey in some places. Each time I open the kiln door to throw in more wood I am hit by an enormous wave of heat. Sometimes two of us throw a large amount of wood into the kiln and it hisses like water does when tipped into hot fat. A 2-3 metre flame shoots out of the chimney, and the kiln resembles a glowing red gnome’s hat.

The interplay between my firing technique, external factors and the peculiarities of fire leads to a result that is shrouded in uncertainty right from the outset. It is therefore essential that I trust in my own actions, even though I am sometimes petrified by the high temperatures involved. It seems to me that there is more to it all than just the fired pieces and the theatre of the fire. The fire stirs something much deeper than that. As the firing process reaches its climax, the ceramics and the entire inside of the kiln glow in a whitish yellow that is blinding to the human eye. Yet standing at a distance, or wearing a pair of welder’s goggles, I can use the few seconds I have between each heating cycle to look inside the kiln. It is as if I am looking into another world. Completely unexpectedly the flames roam slowly between the glowing ceramics, lending the scene a semblance of total peace and infinite tranquillity. There is something prenatal about it, like a recollection of a time of which one has no cognitive memory. A return to a time before time.

At some point the moment comes for me to bring the firing to a close. I generally base my decision on the progress indicated by the shimmering melt on the surface and the drips and streaks on the ceramics. Sometimes I feel the time is right after 40 hours, but I have also fired for over 60 hours. It is not unusual for my own exhaustion to signal that it is time to initiate the long final phase of the firing process. I then close all openings to the kiln, the fire inside it goes out, and then, after days of hearing nothing but the crackling and sputtering of the fire, I am suddenly surrounded by complete silence. It takes a few days for the kiln to cool down to a temperature at which I can break open the bricked-up opening and take a first look inside. The stones lie there in slumber. Then, all of a sudden, the space behind them opens up and I gaze into the vast expanse of eternity. The stones begin to move – or have they always been in motion? I can’t tell anymore.