This ceramicist works only with what she has. Her kiln shapes her pieces.
Why would anyone put even more objects into a world that is already full of things? This is a question Maria Koubourli asked herself – a ceramicist I visited on the Greek island of Patmos. How she deals with this, and the circumstances under which she works, have stayed with me ever since that afternoon.
At the restaurant Ela on the Greek island of Patmos, there are lamps hanging that catch my eye. I am actually on vacation. But my love for exciting things never takes a holiday. So, I ask who made them. Maria Koubourli of Paloma Negra, the owner says, and immediately tells me more: the room was once Maria's own studio; some of her pieces were created right there and were allowed to stay after the renovation. Today, she works from home. The owner puts me in touch, and Maria invites me over for the next day.
I am standing in front of her house. There is coffee and tsipouro in the garden, surrounded by olive trees. She doesn't have a large studio, no big kiln, no road on which a delivery van could drive. And yet – or perhaps because of that – these are the most beautiful objects I have seen this year.
Source: Géraldine Meier
Source: Pia Seidel
Source: Pia Seidel
Source: Pia Seidel
Source: Pia Seidel
Source: Pia Seidel
Much of her work is sculptural. But something very practical catches my eye: her table. It consists of individual wooden slats that are offset from one another, with gaps in between. And into these gaps, Maria has placed ceramics. A cup, a bowl, a vase, each shaped exactly for its place.
A table that can do more than necessary
The table itself is a little story in its own right. The wood comes from the old floor; it was actually supposed to be thrown away. Maria's partner, an architect, built a table out of it.
He wasn't finished with it yet. Something was missing, Maria thought. So she experimented to see what happens when clay meets wood. Instead of placing a vase on the table, she made one that belongs to the piece of furniture.
Limits as opportunities
The fact that her objects look the way they do has to do with Maria's view of things. She doesn't like objects that look too flawless. For her, clay remains a living material that can never be exactly repeated, and that is what makes it appealing to her.
«In the past, I once colored an object with a yellow pigment that I mixed into the clay. I fired it at a high temperature and the yellow disappeared. It turned into sand. I wanted to repeat the result because it was unexpectedly beautiful. A mistake that makes you happy turns into 'not a mistake'. But it didn't work, and that was a good thing.»
Mistakes are good as long as you don't try to repeat them.
For Maria, clay is more than just a working material: «Clay is a teacher for me. It teaches me patience, to wait for the unexpected, and to accept broken pieces and cracks as a normal process, just like in relationships. And to feel that all people have this fragility.»
Besides this attitude, there is also a very sober reason. Her kiln is small; the interior height measures around 42 centimeters. She would like a larger one. But the road to her house is too narrow and too steep; a kiln of the desired size wouldn't even make it here.
We have to work with the tools we have.
So she builds her objects out of several parts. She fires them individually and puts them together. She calls these additions, little stories. The fact that she stacks and assembles her pieces is therefore not a stylistic choice. It is the answer to a road that is too narrow.
Source: Pia Seidel
The same applies to her colors, though for a different reason. In her former studio, where Ela Patmos is today, she could fire at much higher temperatures. In her current house, the kiln reaches 1060 degrees. That is the classic range for terracotta; stoneware or porcelain would require 1200 degrees or more. As a result, she can no longer achieve certain colors and effects and now works primarily with terracotta. Instead of glazing the outside, she now colors the clay while it is still damp, using earth and ceramic pigments. Glaze is usually applied to the inside, where it is needed.
What clay am I made of?
Maria asked herself this question. «We are all made of clay. To create, I need its malleability, earth and water, stability and softness. Clay was and is for me the childlike teacher that helps me meet my soul, talk to it, and share that with others.»
For Maria, two things count. Her works should be used: pots, pans, vessels in which to cook. And they should trigger something in someone else. «Each and every one of us has something good to give. No matter where you are right now.»
She succeeds with me even before I know her name. Even the ceiling roses of her lamps are lovingly crafted. In a world where so much is created carelessly, this is a small form of resistance.
Why put even more objects into a world that is already full of things? Maria's answer is as poetic as it is practical: She does it to talk to her own soul. And she does it with what is there: wood that was supposed to be thrown away, and a kiln that is so small that she has built her entire design language out of it. The table could have just been a table. But where would the joy be in that?
Like a cheerleader, I celebrate good design and bring you closer to everything furniture- and interior design-related. I regularly curate simple yet sophisticated interior finds, track down trends and interview creative minds about their work.
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