TALKS WITH IONA

At Naguisa, we believe in crafts that move slowly and in the hands that shape the everyday. That’s why it meant so much to us when Iona Palau welcomed us into her studio at Can Ginestar in Sant Just Desvern, where she teaches and, wearing her ABRA boots, shared part of her creative process: the calm of each gesture, the patience of the wheel, and her relationship with clay. With her, we talked about what it means to create through process, how ceramics teaches us to look more slowly, and why returning to territory, to material, to craft remains a deeply contemporary way of moving forward.

Your processes, much like ours, begin with the manual gesture. What value do you think there is today in stopping to make something with your hands?

I think it’s essential, especially in today’s society, where everything moves so fast, where immediacy and individuality prevail, and where we have everything just one click away. Ceramics forces you to be fully present: if you’re not engaging all five senses, things simply don’t work.

That’s why more and more people are signing up for classes; when they come into contact with clay, they realize just how deeply they disconnect from their routine and their digital lives. They’re not used to focusing on a single thing without external stimuli —and that’s precisely what draws them in. That said, I think this rise in ceramics is also being taken to an extreme and, in many cases, trivialized. Two-hour “make your own pieces” experiences are being sold everywhere, promoting a narrative that runs entirely counter to what ceramics actually is: a slow, complex, and deeply technical craft.

Of course, the problem isn’t with the people who consume these experiences —in fact, acknowledging our collective need to disconnect from such a frantic pace of life is important. But in my view, the responsibility lies with the ceramics professionals who promote this superficial way of understanding and presenting the craft. Encouraging people to slow down and connect is great, but for me, that doesn’t mean anything goes.

In your classes and in your own work you put the focus on the process, more than on the result. Why is that way of looking at the craft so important to you?

I’ve always enjoyed imagining and creating far more than contemplating the final result. I’m not entirely sure why, but when the pieces come out of the kiln, the excitement just drops. For me, the exciting part is the tinkering: trial and error, experimentation, getting my hands dirty… much more than the photo finish.

Of course, there are pieces I love and ones I recognize myself in, but when I look at them, what comes back to me are the images of the process, not the final result. That’s exactly what happened when I did my exhibition at the Terracotta Museum in La Bisbal d’Empordà, “40º.” It was beautiful and, to this day, it’s the most important professional milestone I’ve reached as a ceramicist. But even so, it will never surpass the happiness I felt while creating it in the studio, covered in clay from head to toe. When it comes to teaching, my pedagogical approach —and maybe also my personal battle— is to focus on the creative process and on learning, precisely as a counterpoint to what I mentioned in the previous question. Many people arrive wanting to produce and achieve immediate results, without truly learning the technique, simply trying to replicate a Pinterest image and missing everything that makes ceramics so rich.

Working from a perspective that centers exclusively on the final object doesn’t make sense to me and goes against the craft’s very essence. That’s why I insist so much on the process: because that’s where the important things happen —the things that truly transform and excite.

You teach people of all ages. What do you take from that exchange?

My students range widely in age: the youngest are five, and the oldest is over 60. Between those two extremes, I’ve seen every stage possible —but what surprises me most is realizing they share many more things than one might think.

Impatience, fear of making mistakes, and frustration appear constantly, and I work with them almost every day. That said, the passion, loyalty, and trust they show me during class, and the way they see their artistic evolution, is the most gratifying part of all. What fascinates me especially is seeing how, over the years, I’ve built my own teaching style and pedagogical project in ceramics. And seeing that both in Can Ginestar (where I’ve been for five years) and at Escola Canigó (where I’ve been for three), the reception has been so good and the methodology has taken root so well… that makes me deeply happy. I always say this: I’m teaching ceramics and teaching through ceramics. I sincerely believe in my role as a teacher; from the outside, someone might think these are just community-center classes or an extracurricular activity, but for me, it’s so much more than that.

My goal is to cultivate a sensitivity toward ceramics and, more broadly, toward anything artistic. And when I see that happening —even in small doses— I know my work has meaning.

What role does patience play in the way you teach and learn?

Patience is everything in ceramics when you genuinely want to learn the technique. I emphasize it constantly because I want both kids and adults to really understand all the processes involved in creating a piece. Clay is a material you need to know deeply, and rushing is utterly incompatible with that. I place patience in two key moments.

The first is learning, especially when learning to throw on the wheel. For me, it’s fundamental because I understand the wheel through repetition, letting go, and cutting pieces in half to understand my mistakes. All of that requires a massive amount of patience. And since my classes mix different levels, it’s very reassuring for students to see that everyone has gone through the same process —and that mastering the wheel is possible.

The second moment is waiting: drying times and firing times. Over the years, I’ve learned to make the most of these moments of apparent inactivity by inventing new resources.

At Escola Canigó, for example, I have a whole set of ceramic games to fill these gaps and turn them into equally educational and fun moments. And honestly, even though they love these more playful sessions, they often ask me: “Iona, aren’t we doing ceramics today?” And I always respond that even if we’re not touching clay to make a piece, we are still doing ceramics.

The clay from Sant Just is part of a very specific landscape, just as the Mediterranean is part of Naguisa. What does it mean to you to work with a material so tied to place?

Working with the clay from Sant Just was an absolutely accidental discovery. Walking through the Vall, I started collecting it very casually because we were doing summer workshops with kids where we explored the idea of the local environment.

From that day on, I haven’t stopped researching it. What fascinates me most is its versatility: I can use it for throwing, building pieces, turning it into an engobe, or firing it at high temperature until it becomes a glaze —and that’s exactly the stage I’m currently exploring in depth. Often, when we live somewhere for a long time, we stop valuing what we have nearby and feel more attracted to things from elsewhere. But this discovery has made me appreciate the Vall de Sant Just —a place that, to be honest, had always left me somewhat indifferent. Thanks to the clay, I’ve created a new connection with the town: despite having lived there for years, taking part in associations and participating —still today— in local activities, I had never felt such a deep sense of belonging.

There’s also something very special about being practically the only person who works with this clay: I’m developing a personal language, a detailed registry, and very specific techniques. Little by little, I’m becoming a small “expert” in this material, and I love sharing everything I discover to help others see its potential.

In a moment when everything tends toward homogenization, what value do you think there is in returning to what’s local?

In a moment when everything tends toward homogenization, returning to the local has enormous value. It means reconnecting with what is ours: the materials of our territory, the techniques that came before us, and a way of understanding time and craft that has often been lost. But for me, it only makes sense if it’s genuine. When the return to the local becomes a trend or an aesthetic resource, it loses all meaning. I see this a lot with the trend of collecting clay: the process has been heavily romanticized, labeled as “wild clay”, and reduced to an Instagram video created to follow a trend. But if there’s no message, intention, or reflection behind it —about the material and its context— everything stays on the surface. Within the ceramics world, high-temperature clays are highly valued and widely used. When I was studying, I noticed how —maybe unconsciously— these materials were almost revered, while low-temperature red clay, the clay of our territory and the most traditional one, was treated as “second-class”. Because it’s cheap and has certain connotations, it’s often used to learn, but once it’s time to make final pieces, it gets replaced by supposedly “better” clays.

That’s exactly why I love working with red clay and reclaiming it. I try to show my students everything it can do, overturning the stigma attached to it and proving that our local material can be just as interesting, rich, and versatile as any other. Sometimes I sense —or directly hear— that someone might think I’ve “stagnated” as a ceramics teacher, as if teaching weren’t as valuable as exhibiting or selling utilitarian work, as if prestige only came through that other path. The conversation often goes like this:

“What do you do?”

“I’m a ceramicist.”

“Oh, do you sell pieces or do exhibitions?”

“No, I’m a teacher.”

“Oh…” —and suddenly the interest disappears.

But I love feeling that I’m transforming my environment, proposing new ways of working with and living ceramics. I deeply believe in the power of changing things from the local level, through small, constant, everyday actions. To me, that’s also ceramics: creating a sense of belonging, meaning, and community.

Is there any lesson clay has taught you that you also carry with you outside the studio?

So many. Ceramics has helped me, first, to know myself better. When I work —especially when I throw— is when I understand myself most clearly: I know exactly how I feel, what’s happening inside me, and how I need to respond in each moment. It has also helped me define myself as a person and hold clear values and positions in life. It has taught me to be humble and generous, to understand that effort, repetition, and error are essential for growth.

And that learning is always richer when it’s shared. But above all, what I cherish most is that ceramics has given me something I always admired in the craft: a genuine apprentice-mentor relationship. In my case, that person has been Carme Malaret, and our bond goes far beyond the classroom.

What would you like people to take with them from your workshops, beyond the piece they make?

I’d like them to understand what it truly means to make ceramics: to know the values and philosophy behind it, to avoid trivializing it, and to respect it. I want them to appreciate the price and effort behind every piece they see at a fair or in a shop, and to understand that patience, letting go, mistakes, and consistency are essential to learning. Likewise, I also want them to play, experiment, and enjoy getting their hands dirty; to discover the beauty of enjoying the process and to understand that the final result isn’t the only thing that matters. Furthermore, I want them to feel part of a group and a community —something worth caring for and sharing.

And above all, I want them to leave with the certainty that everyone can be creative.