Cracks Let The Light In: Notes from the muddy middle of art, life, and letting things fall apart (on purpose)

Confession #923:

The vase exploded in the kiln.
The second one? Cracked clean in my hands while I was gently washing it in the last step before handover.

A tiny fumble.
A loud, devastating snap.

It’s not the first time a piece has broken. But this one hurt more.

This was a commission I’d been working on for months. Months of softening, coaxing, refining, whispering to the clay, "Please play nice today." And in one clumsy heartbeat, all of it shattered.

I sat on the cold studio floor longer than I probably should have, surrounded by shards and that special kind of silence that follows a very loud oh-no-you-didn’t. You know the one.

The silence where those sneaky whispers crawl in:
Maybe you’re not cut out for this.
Maybe you’re not a real artist.
Maybe you’re just playing in the mud while everyone else is making magic.

Spoiler alert: those voices are absolute trolls. But they’re persistent, aren’t they? Especially when perfectionism and imposter syndrome decide to throw a little house party in your brain and forgot to tell you you’re the guest of dishonour.

These are the days they don’t write about in the dreamy artist memoirs. The days that smell like kiln dust, taste like disappointment, and feel like failure.

But maybe these are the most honest days. Maybe these are the days that keep us grounded, cracked but still standing.

Because here’s the muddy, unglamorous truth I keep bumping into: Being a ‘full-time artist’ is about 25% art and 75%... everything else.

Sure, I get to make pottery. But first, I have to photograph the pottery. Write about the pottery. Package the pottery. Share stories about the pottery on the internet. Make reels. Make captions. Make hashtags. Make content.

It’s a lot of making.

And I’ll tell you what—artists don’t burn out from making art. We burn out from making content about making art.

I read that somewhere once and it hit me square in the clay-covered gut.

Because I feel it. That constant low buzz of more, more, more. More sharing. More showing up. More polishing my work—and myself—for the scroll-happy world.

And all the while, that sneaky, slippery comparison monster slides in.

Look at what she’s making. Look at how perfect his studio looks. Look at how clean her kiln is (does anyone actually have a clean kiln?).

Perfectionism creeps in through the cracks. But here’s what I’m (still) learning: Art doesn’t live on the internet. It lives in the messy middle. In the pauses. In the cracks. In the days when I ignore the TARDIS studio completely because my little one needs my arms more than my clay does.

And guess what? That’s art too. That’s a kind of vessel-making that doesn’t require a wheel or a kiln or an Instagram caption.

I’ve spent years unlearning the lie that I have to be productive all the time to be worthy. And let me tell you, the unlearning is just as messy as clay under your fingernails.

But I’m starting to see the beauty in the invisible work: The sitting still. The drinking tea with both hands. The letting the studio get dusty while I soak in a moment with my family. The long days when rest is the only thing on my to-do list.

Because rest is part of the work. Pausing is part of the process. Letting the work wait doesn’t make me less of an artist. It makes me a more human one.

And honestly, I don’t want to be the kind of artist who has it together all the time. I want to be the kind of artist whose work is shaped by life—not the other way around. The kind of potter who understands that some weeks the only clay I’ll touch is the muddy footprints from the dogs and the kiddo running through the house. And that’s okay. That’s more than okay. That’s art.

Because art is life. Life is art. Neither of them are ever tidy. And neither of them need to be perfect to be enough.

So yes, the vase cracked. Yes, I cracked a little too. But you know what?

Cracks let light in.

And when I come back to the clay—and I always do—it’s with softer hands and a steadier heart.

I remind myself: I’m not a machine. I’m a woman. A mother. A potter. An author. A snack-getter, cuddle-giver, mud-slinger, story-sharer.

I am all of it, sometimes all at once. And sometimes… not at all. And that’s okay. That’s the real art.

Until next time,
Nawsheen, your friendly homebody artist from Murrumbateman.