Please note: The Clay Studio School, Galleries, and Admin offices will be closed in honor of Martin Luther King Jr. Day on Monday, January 19, 2026.

Brian R. Jones

It’s an experience as old as mankind—jamming your fingers into a lump of wet, red mud scooped from the ooze of an ancient lake; as old as a preschool summer dodging wasps in the muck under a kiddie pool, wet dirt and snails and grass. A pie. A pot. Kodachrome dreams of watermelon reds and sno-cone blues, stuffing your fingers into a mound of alluvium belched up from the belly of the earth; the masticated remnants of towering sequoias, luffing seagrass, horsefly wings, bear hides, mastodon cud and nightcrawler crud. It’s like a conversation. A jam session. Trading fours with Etruscan potters and stealing licks from T’ang glaziers. Taking your own clay out for a spin. Looking back to ask, “How’d you like that?”



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