Gwen Vaughan
Along the edges of the Cornish coast, where sea meets stone and wind carries stories, I shape small ceramic beasts, diminutive creatures with burnished hides, smooth as pebbles.
Fired beneath open sky, flames fed by seaweed, driftwood, and salt – materials gathered from the tideline. Each form carries the imprint of place and ritual. This ancient process, as old as fire itself, becomes a kind of quiet alchemy: earth and flame transforming what is found into what is imagined.
I walk the shoreline gathering what the sea gives up – scavenged wood, tangled weed, always plastic. In my mind, a silent herd wanders these weathered landscapes, not just born of the land, but caretakers of it, collectors of what’s been left behind, guardians of what remains.
These creatures are an offering, part memory, part myth – a meditation on fragility, persistence, and the quiet power of small things.
