Ceramic art often feels utilitarian—more craftwork than artwork. That is, until it reaches a certain scale, at which point it becomes unmistakably sculpture. American ceramicist Chris Gustin, long considered a pivotal figure in contemporary ceramics, works precisely at that threshold. His massive forms are grounded in function but push beyond it, occupying a space where utility gives way to something more enigmatic and elemental. In “Ascension” at Donzella Project Space, some of Gustin’s organic, bulbous, bodily forms top out at five feet tall. They’re abstract but appear to be frozen in the act of eclosion, unrecognizable but poised to assume some mysterious final form.
This is the first-ever New York City presentation of the artist’s Spirit Series (2023-2025), which is shown in conversation with iconic pieces from a five-decade career that saw him transition—somewhat abruptly, according to an essay by curator Glenn Adamson—from creating truly functional wares to sculptural forms that suggest transformational humanoid figures while foregrounding the tactile and sensual qualities of the clay itself.
Transformation—bold, unflinching, sometimes radical—is not just a motif in Gustin’s work but a thread through his life as an artist. In addition to serving on the faculty of multiple universities, he cofounded the Watershed Center for the Ceramic Arts with Margaret Griggs, George Mason and Lynn Duryea and established Gustin Ceramics Tile Production. The one constant has been the clay. Gustin comes from a family of ceramicists—his parents co-owned several commercial ceramic factories and founded Franciscan Pottery. After high school, Gustin worked for them before pursuing a BFA, then an MFA, and finally committing to his own studio practice.
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Today, his pieces are in several major public collections, including LACMA, the Smithsonian American Art Museum, the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Shigaraki Ceramic Cultural Park in Japan and the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. His work has been exhibited across the U.S. “Ascension” closes soon, but Observer caught up with Gustin to learn more about the forces behind his formidable sculptural works—and his enduring relationship with his chosen medium.
First, let’s talk process. You’ve described your process as instinctual or intuitive. Can you walk us through how a single sculpture begins—emotionally, materially and physically?
Process is an interesting term to talk about, as it is the driver for how work is realized. I think of it as a road that I’m traveling on, and if I’m taking a trip somewhere, then there are some things I do prior to leaving. But if the trip is going to be interesting, then I hope to have a few surprises along the way. I start in the studio by drawing and sketching, just drawing a lot of doodles of ideas, not really editing anything, but just letting one drawing lead to another. This is the roadmap, and after doing enough drawings, I have a sense of where to begin and where I want to go with the next series of work.
I always begin by creating a set of boundaries, starting with a sense of scale for the series I’m working on, whether I’m working on vertical or horizontal form, the size ranges of the pieces I want to make, that sort of thing. I create limitations of sorts and then play within them. I begin a group of pieces at the same time, usually working in series of three to six pieces at any one time, depending on their scale. And from there, I move between pieces as I work, building on one, then moving to another when the clay needs to set a bit in order to continue. The pieces play off each other, each telling its own story, but connected as a group in some way.
I’m very interested in the moments of making, the time element of process and how that directs the outcome. I work very slowly and try not to direct the outcome to a predetermined result, building the forms in a very similar way that I doodle (make a mark, then respond). I lay down some coils of clay, move them around, then respond with the next set of coils. Just let it flow, and if something isn’t working, then go back in to figure out why.
The process is how I get there, so it’s much like the drive to the destination when taking a road trip. If I’m too focused on where and when I’m going to arrive, I miss everything I’d see along the way. So there’s a mindfulness part to it all, trying to always be in the moment with the clay while maintaining the boundaries that I’ve set up. And it’s the boundaries, or imposed limitations (i.e., a two-foot piece or four) that define the space for invention.
You’ve been working in clay for decades, and you come from a family of ceramicists. Has your relationship with the material changed over time?
My family was in the giftware business, which was centered on production and product. I grew up in ceramic factories, so my early awareness of clay was centered on mass production, where the hand was removed in much of the processes, though there was great skill within the factory itself in making objects on a grand scale.
But I grew up in the ‘50s and ‘60s, when kids built a lot of the stuff they played with. I loved making things, so when I got involved with ceramics as a teen, I was interested in how the hand informed the individual piece through the process, taking a different tack than what might happen in a factory. So, I was drawn to the studio pottery movement of the ‘70s when I was in art school. What’s changed over the years regarding clay as a material has been the confidence that years of making gives when trying to realize an idea. I used to have to accommodate an idea due to a lack of skill or the inability to see a solution with the skillsets I had. That’s changed over the decades, and I feel I can build whatever my mind’s eye can see.
There’s a tendency to see clay as domestic. How do you negotiate that association while working at a large scale and exploring themes like the human experience?
Pots carry the association of use and domesticity through history. It’s been a blessing and a curse of sorts; a blessing in that there is such a rich history of metaphor and analogy in clay history, but a curse in that it’s held back the perception of clay as an artform in contemporary art. That’s changed a lot in the last few years, but that dialogue has been going on for generations. When building vessels, the scale of the work takes it off the table and onto the floor, and in doing so, asks different questions of the viewer/user of what a vessel can be.
But whether I’m working off a vessel narrative or digging into larger-scale sculpture, my forms are organic and sensuous with associations to the human body. How I move those forms creates a sense of ‘body language’ that is emotional, that people can associate with in terms of their own experiences. It’s these metaphors that have the potential to connect. I’ve always wanted my work to be quiet, to be more reflective in thought than loud or boisterous. It’s the quiet space that allows the mystery to be discovered.
Your work is rooted in function, but what does ‘functional’ mean in the context of a form that is both organic and abstract?
I started out as a functional potter, so domestic use of pottery was fundamental to understanding the power that objects can have in everyday use. There’s a difference between function and utility, as utility meets a strict need, whereas function is more open and nuanced, and is not limited to use. An object can exist in two worlds; that is, a teapot can both serve tea and carry meanings of community and beauty that transcend its utilitarian purpose. My work uses the ‘memory’ of function as a starting point for the conversation. How we strive to give context to something is critical in how we interpret our world. Without context, we can get lost in our understanding of ‘meaning.’ So, we search for it in things we see and situations that we are exposed to. I use ceramics and its vast history as a springboard for people to begin to find a door in, a place to find enough understanding so that they can then connect to an emotional space that form, color and shape can trigger.
What do you hope laypeople perceive in or take away from your work?
First off, I hope that people connect with my work on an emotional level. That is, I want them to first ‘feel’ the piece in their gut, rather than experience it through an intellectual observation. The work asks that you connect with your body history, not your mind, and only after that first emotive response does the mind take focus and then offer space for analogy. My best work does this without pretense, and because the door in is non-intellectual, its potential ability to connect with people is based on human connection.
You’ve exhibited in more than fifty museum shows and helped shape the field through both your practice and as an educator. What has institutional recognition meant to you—not just for your work, but for ceramics more broadly?
Recognition for what one does is always affirming, and in many ways helps keep the work moving and changing over the years. I’ve been very lucky that the things I make and the teaching I’ve done have touched people in ways that I could never imagine all those years ago in art school. I’m proud that my voice in the field still resonates and that my work has helped move the field forward. Recognition opens doors and opportunities, both for the individual artist and the field. What’s happening in the art world today has been a game changer for ceramics, with galleries, museums, collectors and institutions recognizing the material as a true art form. To be a part of that is both humbling and thrilling. But I’m also aware that recognition can stifle creative risk, so I try very hard to leave all of that behind me when I’m in the studio. Someone once told me the adage ‘don’t believe your own press’, and I think that’s a pretty healthy place to work from.
You’ve spent many years teaching and mentoring. What do you think younger artists working in clay are bringing to the field that’s new? Are there any artists you think Observer’s readers should be paying attention to?
The number of artists working in clay has exploded over the last decade, with younger artists coming into the field from multiple communities, with a different sense of history and reference than those of my era. We all studied ceramic history, using past cultures as reference points and inspiration to make work. Now, culture itself is source material, which has knocked down biases and opened the conversations of what ceramics can offer for not only functional works, but for performance, installation and sculpture. There’s an energy out there that’s very powerful, and it’s young, vibrant and unapologetic. Clay has a voice, and it is screaming. It’s a very exciting time, one that is full of experimentation, politics, social commentary and boundary breaking. How we eventually evaluate works being made today is for another time, as a work’s importance in the larger conversation can fade with time or have legs that transcend a moment. But what’s important isn’t the power of longevity, it’s the energy that a creative moment can spark to light innovation and the rethinking of how value is attributed to an idea.
As for people to look at: Natalia Arbelaez, Isaac Scott, George Rodriguez, Janina Myronowa, Colby Charpentier and Paul Briggs.
