This past month, I spent time with two Northern California clay artists—Forrest Lesch-Middleton and Kala Stein.
As clay artists, we often seek each other out. There’s something about stepping into another studio—seeing the work, the tools, the rhythm of the space—that offers a kind of perspective you can’t get any other way —building a life in clay.
What I noticed in their studios —
Forrest welcomed me into both his public clay studio and his personal working space. He has built something meaningful—not just for himself, but for a larger community. His studio supports multiple makers, with a clear structure around what he creates personally and what his team helps produce. I also met his wife, who helps manage FLM Ceramics. Her name is Beth Schaible. Beth is a calligrapher and printmaker.
What struck me most was the intention behind it all. This is not accidental. It’s a thoughtful, sustainable approach to a life in the arts.
We also talked about place. Forrest spent part of his childhood in Vermont and hopes to return there someday. That idea—of being shaped by a place, and feeling pulled back to it—felt familiar.
Kala’s work has intrigued me for a couple of years. I was first introduced to her through an online workshop she hosted for Joanne Seong Weon Lee. Seeing her studio in person added another layer.
She approaches clay with curiosity. There’s a willingness to explore, to test, and to follow an idea into something new. Her background in glaze chemistry shows up in her process, but what stands out most is her mindset—she’s always asking what’s next.
Her work is also closely tied to where she lives. She incorporates native plants, along with found sand and dirt, into her surfaces. Texture and imprint become a way of holding onto those materials—capturing a moment, or a place, directly in the clay.
That connection to her surroundings feels intentional. It’s not added on. It’s part of how she works—paying attention to what is nearby and allowing it to shape the outcome.
Seeing that made me think again about how much my own work comes from what I notice each day along Lake Michigan.
Both visits left me thinking about something closer to home.
My own work is grounded along Lake Michigan—in the lines in the sand, the movement of water, and the shifting light across the shoreline. I notice these patterns every day. Translating that into clay, and then sharing that story clearly with others, is ongoing work.
I’ve written before about the idea of “try it and see”—about showing up without needing to know the outcome. That thinking still holds.
Being in their studios was a reminder that building a life in the arts takes more than making. It takes intention. It takes structure. And it takes a willingness to keep refining how we share what matters to us.
I returned to my studio with a renewed focus—not to change what I make, but to be more thoughtful in how I share it.
Take care,
Cyndi
