Stick
Stick is a potter based in South London.
His dad died in 2012 and his mum died in 2015.
“I bought a 45 litre kiln in January 2020. I thought it could be a very millennial side hustle if nothing else.
I guess I was reaching out for a creative act. I felt I needed something, a form of therapy. But it’s difficult to build up momentum in pottery. Renting a space is expensive; courses are expensive too.
It sounds strange, but being furloughed felt like a stroke of luck. I treated each day like a working day.
Grabbing a piece of earth and producing whatever you want. Creating something from nothing - ultimately, that’s the appeal.
I go on dog walks and I’ll get chatting to someone and they’ll ask what I do. I’ll say I’m a potter. “Do you make any money doing that?” they’ll say. Even I can’t believe it sometimes.
My brother and I cleared out my parents’ house in a matter of months. It was a really difficult period to navigate together.
One of the things I took was a big box of screws from my dad’s workshop. Over the last twelve years, I’ve used every screw from that box in different DIY projects. I built my studio with them.
Every time I pick up a screw or a nail, I know he deliberately took it from somewhere and stored it. It’s poetic, I guess. Using his tools.
“I guess I was reaching out for a creative act. I felt I needed something, a form of therapy. ”
The house was sold, but sometimes we stop off there on the way home. We’ll sit outside their old bungalow in the car and I look at all the things Dad made around the house - that gate, the gazebo. It gives me confidence. A little nudge.
My parents very much had their hands firmly on my back with anything I wanted to do. Anything I was interested in, they’d support it. I’m so grateful for that.
I never really got to an age where I was giving back when they were alive. I find that very hard.
I look at myself now compared to my mid-20s self. It sounds melancholic, but I miss that person.
In my office job, I had to leave my grief at the door and pick it up again when I walked out. But this business, being a potter, allows me to sit with my parents.
I’m not channeling my parents through my work. I’m giving myself space to be with them. I think that’s probably the greatest gift I’ve given myself.
I filled my diary for years and years and years. I shut it out for so long, kept it at bay.
But you dip a toe into grieving every now and again. Currently I’m fairly deep into that. More so than I have been since my mum died.
It’s really useful to talk about it. Nick Cave says that thing about there being little headway we can make around grief until we learn to articulate it – speak it, say it out loud, sing about it, write it down, whatever. That really resonated with me.
If I hear a podcast or a book that’s able to articulate it for me, it feels like a really good moment. It feels like a day where you can carry grief comfortably with you. I spend a lot of time in my week seeking that, searching for it.
It’s hard finding the right moments to tell your story. I try to minimise my 'grief narrative’ on social media; I don’t want to be defined by it.
But at the same time, it’s a heavy load. To be honest, without the support of my wife, I’m not sure I’d still be here. We met at school and I’m so proud of everything we’ve endured and overcome together. We’re a strong unit.
A lot of it is music for me - I listen to music all day every day. Perhaps now I pay more attention to the lyrics more than the melody.
There’s a Sharon Van Etten song and it goes “Every time the sun comes up I’m in trouble.”
I read that as every morning’s going to be a battle. But you can’t let it bury you.
I’ve got to turn it round before I get to bed.”