In my second year at university I pitched a documentary project on process in contemporary sculpture and asked Michel Francois if I could shadow him. It was meant to be three visits with a camera; it became a standing invitation. I kept returning to photograph the quiet choreography of the studio; hands mixing slips, clay reclaimed and wedged, test tiles lined up like notes, until the work naturally shifted from observing to helping. I started as a fly on the wall and ended up mixing plaster, loading kilns, fixing pedestals, and shooting everything from maquettes to installation views.

The formal project ended, but the relationship didn’t: I stayed on as an in-house photographer and studio assistant, and our working days settled into a rhythm of making, talking, and laughing over tea while waiting for the kiln to cool. Somewhere in that routine I fell for ceramics; the discipline of centring on the wheel, the calm of trimming, the small thrill when a glaze finally holds. What began as coursework turned into a lasting friendship and a new craft that now shapes how I look, light, and make.