June Halberg lives at the end of a long unpaved road in central Vermont and has not, by her own admission, looked back. Twelve winters in, the pots she makes are quieter than the pots she made when she arrived; smaller, more uncertain, and — to the people who follow her work — more difficult to acquire. The kiln, she insists, deserves at least half of the credit.
You moved here twelve years ago. What changed first?
The pace at which I made decisions. I used to be a person who said yes to seven things a day. Now I say yes to one thing a week. The pots have noticed.
You speak about the kiln in the third person.
I do. He is older than I am. He has opinions. I have learned to consult him before I form a piece, the way you would ask a difficult friend to read a draft. He is usually right. I do not always like it.
There are pieces you refuse to photograph. Why?
Some pots are for the room they end up in. If I put them online, they become a different object — an idea of themselves. The pot does not care, but I do, and I am the one who has to live with the choice.
How has the work changed?
I used to make things that wanted to be looked at. Now I make things that want to be set down. There is a difference. A pot that wants to be looked at has a kind of vanity to it. A pot that wants to be set down has surrendered. It is easier to live with.
You keep a shelf of pots you almost threw out.
I do. They are the worst pots I have ever made. I keep them because I want to remember what almost is. The worst thing you can do to a young pot is throw it out. It does not know yet what it is going to be.
Do you miss the city?
Sometimes. I miss the sandwiches. The rest I have stopped missing. The city is doing fine without me, and so am I.