I have always been curious about the things around me.
I notice the lines and patterns in old buildings, the surfaces of stones, and always, trees. I am drawn to sculpture, both ancient and contemporary. I notice the way light changes a surface, the natural lines created by shifting sand in the dunes, and the movement of water along the Lake Michigan shoreline.
Sometimes I photograph what catches my attention. Sometimes I simply stop and look.
Over time, I have realized that this practice of looking closely is at the heart of my work.
Learning to Look
I grew up in Grand Haven, Michigan, near Lake Michigan. I have always understood direction by where I am in relation to the lake. West is the water. When I have lived in other places, I sometimes find myself disoriented without that western body of water to guide me.
The Grand Haven lighthouse is my anchor. Water, sand, dunes, changing light, wind, birds and the movement of waves give me a sense of home and belonging.
But Lake Michigan is only part of what I notice.
I am drawn to architecture, sculpture, old buildings and historical objects, as well as the patterns and textures found in nature.
When I travel, I visit museums, galleries, artists’ studios and places with a history.
I photograph details that interest me, often without knowing why.
A shape. A window. The lines of an old building. The natural textures of stone and brick. The geometry of an ancient vessel. Patterns painted on its surface by someone long ago. The bark of a tree.
Why did I stop to look at that?
That question has become increasingly important to me.
Finding Clay
I enjoyed art and music as a child, but as a young adult, business became my focus.
Clay came into my life while I was raising my family in Vermont. I took a community ceramics class and discovered a material that allowed me to explore many of the things I was already drawn to—form, surface, texture and the handmade object.
That first class led to more classes, workshops and years of making. I visited artists’ studios and museums, collected handmade objects and learned from other makers.
Along the way, a mentor gave me advice that stayed with me. He told me that I had acquired the skills I needed. Now I needed to keep my eyes open, notice the world around me and travel.
Go to Italy. Take a course.
So I did.
That experience led to other workshops and opportunities to study in different parts of the world. Each one exposed me to new places, histories, objects and ways of making.
A ceramics residency in Portugal became another important point in that journey. I began to understand that I was especially drawn to building forms by hand and allowing the surface itself to become part of the story.
More than 30 years later, I am still learning.
And I am still looking.
Developing a Visual Language
Recently, I have been thinking more intentionally about the idea of a visual language.
Artists have always looked at the world around them, simplified what they saw and developed their own ways of expressing those observations.
Looking at the work of artists and makers across different times and cultures has helped me recognize this in my own work.
I realized I have been doing the same thing.
The things I repeatedly notice eventually find their way into my clay.
Lines in the sand may become carved marks. The movement of water might appear in the way a glaze moves across a surface. Architecture and old buildings influence my interest in squares, windows and geometry. Suns and moons become simple circles. Bark, stone, sand and weathered surfaces influence texture.
I am not trying to copy what I see.
I am interested in what remains after I have looked at something, thought about it and simplified it.
Those marks, colors, shapes and textures are becoming my visual language.
From Looking to Making
Today I work primarily with porcelain in my Grand Haven studio.
I build vessels, bowls, mugs and sculptural forms by hand, often leaving evidence of the making process visible. Coils, pinched surfaces, carved lines, impressions and irregular edges become part of the finished piece.
I spent more than 20 years developing my skills on the pottery wheel while also learning different handbuilding techniques. Today, I draw from all of those skills, choosing the process that best allows me to create the work that interests me.
Lake Michigan is sometimes physically present in the work as well. I incorporate sand gathered along the shoreline into many of my glazes. During firing, the sand becomes part of the ceramic surface, creating texture and variations that cannot be repeated exactly.
Often the question is simply:
What happens if I try this?
That question leaves room for experimentation, discovery and change.
Art for Everyday Life
I have collected art and handmade objects for much of my adult life.
I believe the things we choose to live with matter.
A handmade mug becomes part of a morning routine. A bowl sits at the center of a family table. A vase holds flowers brought in from the garden. A sculpture catches your eye as you walk through a room. A painting can change the feeling of a space.
Over time, these objects become connected to meals, conversations, people and memories.
That is one reason I continue to make functional pottery alongside sculptural work. Art doesn’t have to be saved for special occasions or experienced only in a museum.
It can simply become part of everyday life.
An Invitation to Look Closely
The longer I make art, the more I understand that my work begins before I ever enter the studio.
It begins with noticing the world around me.
I am still learning what makes me stop and look again. I am still discovering how those observations become marks in clay. And I expect that process will continue to change.
Maybe that is what keeps making art interesting.
My hope is that my work encourages you to do something similar.
Slow down.
Look closely.
Notice what makes you stop.
There are small details everywhere, quietly waiting to be seen.
Cyndi Casemier
Ceramic Artist
Grand Haven, Michigan
