There are days that stay with you.
Yesterday was one of them.
I spent the afternoon with one of my biggest clay heroes, Peter Callas,
I have admired Peter’s work for years. His pots suggest an ease and confidence in the way he moves clay, an economy of touch, and an instinct for knowing exactly when to stop. Those qualities have always drawn me to his work. Like so many others, I knew Peter first through his pots, long before I had the privilege of knowing him as a person.
When I reached out to ask if I could interview him for my oral history project while I was in the area, I hoped he might be willing to spare a little time. So imagine my surprise when he invited me to his home for lunch.
He made the most delicious pesto pasta with basil and garlic from his garden. Over the course of the meal, we talked about clay, life, teaching, and the experiences that shaped his remarkable career. He answered every question with thoughtfulness and honesty, and at times shared moments of hurt and vulnerability. It didn’t feel like an interview. It felt like a heartfelt conversation between two people.
Then we went up to his studio, where I got to see and hold work that, until then, I had known mostly through books. Seeing those sumptuous pots in person revealed them in an entirely different dimension. As we looked at each piece, Peter spoke about the meticulous planning and thoughtful decisions behind those remarkable surfaces. What had seemed like happenstance was, in fact, the result of years of experience, intention, and deep understanding of clay and fire.
As we were leaving, he paused in front of a small shelf of cups, looked at me, and simply said, “Pick one.”
I was speechless.
Recently I had read Von Venhuizen’s essay, The Gift, in Studio Potter. One passage had stayed with me:
«”I have bought pieces from the makers I admire and respect, but the ceramic objects I continually visit, have conversations with, use, and reflect with, are the ones I acquired as gifts or in trade. It’s the personal connections within these pieces that mean so much to me.”»
Standing in Peter’s studio, those words suddenly became real.
I have bought work from artists I admire, and I treasure every piece. But this cup is different. Every time I hold it, I will remember the meal Peter prepared, the stories he shared, the laughter around his table, and the generosity with which he welcomed me into his home. The cup is beautiful, but what makes it priceless is the memory it carries.
As someone who grew up in India and discovered clay only after moving to America through community classes, I did not come into ceramics through an academic program or a residency, and because of that I never had the built-in community those paths often provide. Yet, throughout my journey, clay artists across America have welcomed me with a generosity that has never depended on where I was in my own career. It is something that continues to humble me.
Yesterday was another reminder of that.
When I got home, I sent Peter a message thanking him for such a wonderful afternoon. His reply touched me deeply. He said it felt like he had spent the day with an old friend.
As I write this, my heart is full.
We often celebrate artists for the beauty they create with their hands. But sometimes what leaves the deepest impression is the generosity with which they share themselves.
Thank you, Peter, for opening your home, your studio, and your heart to me. Thank you for your time, your stories, your wisdom, and your kindness. The cup will always remind me of an afternoon that meant far more than I ever expected.
