The courage to become
The story of my favourite Cup
Cup of Insights
I have a favourite cup.
It’s “chunky, and a little rough”. That’s how my friend Trevor, the potter who made it, described it to me, almost apologetically, as he handed it over. I laughed and told him, ‘it suits me perfectly, because, so am I.’
And I love this cup. This piece of functional artistry that, when I hold it, feels solid as it rests in my hand, grounded and humble. The surface carries the ridges left by Trevor’s hands, by his choices of pressure and intention, and his skill in making what, to me, is a perfect cup.
Symbols of the path
The aesthetics of the rich brown, and subtle browning of the light tan clay, where the wood firing has burnished it evokes an idea of ‘natural’. And I feel somehow calmer when I hold it, and when I pour tea into it, the heat moves slowly into the cup and then into my palm. It invites my attention away from the rush of whatever is happening outside that moment, and into the feel of being held, not rushed.
Pressed into the clay is my Insightful Path logo, made from a wooden carving that, under Trevor’s guidance (on how to make a clay stamp) I carved in order to give the logo a physical form. In fact, the one used to make this cup was but one of several versions that I made, and which together we tested. This one was a wooden ‘press’, the other we made from folded aluminium, pressed into a wooden block. Each stamp was sanded, shaped, and tested.
Finding the path
Trevor was clear about what mattered. A good clay stamp needs clean edges, enough depth to survive shaping and firing, and smoothness so it releases from the clay without damaging it. Even making the stamp became part of the collaboration, our creativity reaching across two studios… three studios, in fact, as the cup was fired for 3 days, in The Groundhog Kiln at the not-for-profit arts association, Strathnairn Arts.
Collaboration, when it empowers individual contribution creates connection. And it engenders a mutuality of curiosity and respect. Not just for the skills and artistry of the contributors, but also of the meaning and the narrative of what brought them to see the world they way they do.
When I first discovered that Trevor was a potter, I reached out to ask whether I could commission a cup. We met for coffee. He showed me examples of his work: different forms, different glazes, each with its own character. And, we also talked about how he came to pottery.
When he was younger, he took an evening pottery class and loved it. But time went on, and work, family, and life meant he had little time to invest in his art. However, years later, his wife gave him a potter’s wheel as a gift. She, being an artist too who works in paint and textiles, knew the importance that art can give to one’s life, and together they found ways to create artistry more and more into their lives, and importantly, they supported one another’s practices. and passions.
Like many who find the joy of creating, Trevor invested more deeply in his craft. He joined pottery communities as they worked together to keep large wood fired kilns stoked and at the right temperature for combined firings of the artists’ works. He found, and studied under masters of the craft, and shared what he, and his fellow potters had learned about their art forms. Trevor’s studio grew, bit by bit, in their garage. Tools accumulated. Pieces, at different stages of completion, appeared.
Trevor’s now preparing to get his own kiln, excited by what it will allow him to explore. Different clays from different regions. Wood ash glazes. The way heat, material, and time interact. The learning, he told me, is energising. And thinking about this, and my own journey toward claiming an identity as an artist, I’m reminded that:
“‘Becoming’ doesn’t happen all at once. It happens through attention, through showing up, through allowing ourselves to be shaped by the work just as much as we shape it.”
The story of an artist’s creation
This is, perhaps, one of the central elements of how I see the world. We are, each of us, slowly stepping more fully into who we already are. And this process of becoming doesn’t happen all at once. It happens through attention, through showing up, through allowing ourselves to be shaped by work we do, just as much as we shape that work. Our lives are ours to craft. And we can always decide how we want to sculpt our character from the raw materials that we have in our life. Faults, and unique qualities together.
This is part of my path to insight. To find and help people who are wanting to step more fully into those elements of who they already are, that they intuitively feel will help them create a better life. And for each person, they come to these realisations differently, which is one of the joys of my work, and I’ve been noticing that the tools of creation are very similar across contexts. From how one creates their vision in clay, or wood, or stone, or in their own character.
In this workshop of identity, we are all artists. And can learn from one another in our mutual creations, and even in how we approach this work. Perhaps even more than in the viewing of the finished pieces which are ‘for display’. Because part of the process is revealed in the in-between forms, the pots waiting to be trimmed. The vases not yet fired. The pieces that, for whatever reason, are still sitting. They speak about patience. About the way we approach work, and about the value we place in our unfinished stories.
Waiting for the artist’s finish
Trevor trusted me to see some of his unfinished pieces, and from within his workshop, the shelves, filled with cups, pots, vases, and forms at different stages of becoming.
Perhaps because I am in the process of becoming, I asked him a question I ask many artists that I meet: When did you feel comfortable calling yourself an artist?
And after a moment or two of thinking, of letting the question, or maybe the meaning of the response, sink in, he told me the story of when he knew.
It didn’t happen that long ago. He was returning to Australia from an overseas flight, and when filling out the customs declaration form he wrote down his name… and then paused when he saw the question of ‘Occupation:’.
“Public servant” no longer fit.
“Retiree” didn’t feel right either.
What did fit was “Potter”.
That’s what he wrote. And in writing it, he recognised something true about who he had become.
There is real courage in naming yourself honestly, especially when the identity still feels unfinished.
That moment connects to something else I’ve been carrying for years:
I believe we are all capable of being artists of our own lives. Not in a romantic sense, but in a practical one. By paying attention. By choosing care over speed. By claiming an identity before it feels tidy or complete.
That’s the work I’m interested in. With people. With leaders. With organisations. And sometimes, that work begins with something as ordinary as a cup, reminding us of who we are becoming, and inviting us to keep going.
The commissioned works
Like much of my own art, and my relationship with creating, I try to ‘meet the material where it is’. To work within constraints. To make something useful and meaningful, even when it’s imperfect. All of our workshops, studios, our art, our work, and our teams hold both limitation and possibility. But if we are able to approach all of this as art, we can be reminded that becoming doesn’t require ideal conditions. It requires curiosity, noticing, and care.
The cup I hold carries all of that now.
It’s no longer just an object. It’s a reminder of the creation of an identity that inspires me to continue on my path toward insights and becoming.
Inside the studio of Trevor Heldt Ceramics
(Trevor’s work can be found on his website: https://tceramics.au, and on his Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/trevorinkamberra/. If you care about craft, and beautiful pottery, it’s worth spending some time looking at Trevor’s art).
