Clay carries the whole idea. Wet, it can be recycled endlessly. Once fired, it’s vitrified, essentially rock, and nearly immortal. Nearly, because pottery is usable until it’s broken, and people are alive until they aren’t. Jack calls these works monuments to semipermanence.

The way they’re made makes them even more special. Each sculpture begins as what he describes as a glorified pinch pot, built vertically by hand at a scale where the clay constantly wants to warp and fall. His fingerprints sit across every surface, and from carrying the tapestries between carvings and firings, the imprint of his arms and chest ended up pressed into the clay too. He compares holding them to hugging a loved one, and you can feel that intimacy in the finished pieces. Even the flowers hold two meanings at once, funerary arrangements and gardens in full bloom. There’s grief running through all of it, but hope in new growth too.

We talked with Jack about his process, his relationship to the unicorn, and how he thinks about art living in homes versus galleries.

Read the full conversation below.

Your work draws from literature, folklore, and cultural canon to create what you describe as three-dimensional reimagined illustrations. How do you decide which stories or references to pull from for a given collection, and what’s your process for translating narrative into sculptural form?

Memories are central to my work. They inform the imagery I am drawn to, first housed in familiar objects or heady moments of feeling, and later conducted into the clay from my hands. Sparking a sense of recognition that penetrates the vessel, the sculptures themselves act as reliquaries or conduits of that energy. It is an addictive experience, a kind of catharsis that allows me control- I become consumed. By then it’s less of a decision to make, and more that the need has been eating at me for long enough that I can do little else. That kind of inspiration can be pulled from the smallest of things- a story, a word, a scene I saw in a movie, or what I experienced while on a walk three years ago. The importance lies not in its source, or the visual itself, but the strength of its innate magic. A concept more abstract than real, it is a random bit of essence that strikes a lasting emotional cord.

Sometimes, (when I’m very lucky) the best work starts as a sudden, very clear picture in my mind. Moments like those are rare. I’d be looking at this rusty old bit of farm equipment, or reading a dog-eared trashy book, and then I know just how it was meant to be. Other times, the work is more intuitive, but no less emotionally present. As my hands press and mold the clay, pinching upwards, I will begin to see shapes forming. Oftentimes ones I never considered before, but that fit the work perfectly. It is in those moments that I know I’m on the right path.

Turning popular narratives into sculptural forms is a constant dance, a personal struggle of mine. It is the practice of saying just enough to stay truthful, of condensing a story down to its most potent parts; but not drowning the audience all at once. While I am drawn to stories centered around elements of fantasy, historical conflicts, and modern pop culture- much of what I have been transcribing can be simplified down as simple symbolic icons. Each with modern ties and rooted in personal canon, but socially relatable as a whole.

Whether heroes, villains, victims, or witnesses; I begin with a central figure- like the Unicorn. From there, I pull visuals from the historical or popular canons that relate symbolically to the energy or narrative I am expressing; drawing on the setting especially as inspiration for the installation’s design. A simple example would be in the floral elements of my tapestry sculptures. By sculpting abstracted floral arrangements, the pieces relate to both funerary flowers (and grief), as well as the actual Unicorn Tapestries original woven designs.

With my most recent series, after connecting the spatial scenery of my work to that larger narrative, I felt compelled to bring the imagery of the Unicorn to the forefront of the installation. Based on the most well known tapestry “The Unicorn in Captivity”, I illustrated my own reinterpretation of that famous scene at the front of one of my newest sculptures.

Ultimately, I am not finished with this body of work. Later on, I hope to bring the symbolic presence of the Unicorn further into this setting, immersing more opulent representation of the creature amongst my abstracted works through various styles of architecturally and industrially inspired forms.

You focus heavily on building up textures inspired by textiles, masonry, architecture, and natural wildlife. Walk us through how you create those surfaces in clay. What are you trying to capture or evoke through that tactile quality?

My sculptures begin as glorified pinch pots. The presence of my hands, a pinch and pull method designed for manually building at such a large scale, is the first textural sign on the clay. Distortedly geometric, my process of handbuilding focuses first on building vertically. When gaining height, maintaining structural integrity comes from balancing how the clay naturally wants to warp, drape, or fall. By carefully pinching upward, and controlling the way the clay bends and folds, I am able to develop purposefully flat planes and dramatic curves.

Over the years, I’ve found more honesty in my work when engaging in the “near” form. A kind of abstracted shape that alters and changes as it is formed; form being the end “result” of the process. Alternatively, during the process of being formed, the time and presence experienced of that action is immortalized through that preservation of touch. Sometimes when the picture is too clear, rendered in too sharp a focus- it feels like I am trying too hard to reach out and grab at the meaning. For sculpture, for art- I’m reminded of a quote from the film adaptation of Phillip Pullman’s series His Dark Materials- “You mustn’t grasp at the answer. Hold the question in your mind, but lightly, like it was something alive.”

In my work, I explore the energies of such questions as what is known, what is unknown, and all that lies outside and between. Intertwined with the strange or unreal- there are brief flashes of distinct concepts or iconography that render way points within the dark of my art. A kind of determinable familiarity to navigate and find refuge in, within the amalgamated obscurity of form and figure. So that with arrangements composed of these large, mercurial clay embodiments of searching, small moments of clarity and understanding are found.

During this process, natural textures occur as a result of my presence in the making. Many of my sculptures are littered with my fingerprints, the subtle lines only visible up close, but duly show the permanence of that moment forever. Other textures like the wood or canvas I built upon, or any tool I used to carve with- they are all of them then memorialized in the clay as well.

While making the tapestry sculptures, I was constantly having to move them; either to refine the carvings, or later during the multiple glaze firings. Held in my arms, the sculptures took on a quality of comfort- the feeling of a familiar loved one’s chest pressed against you in a hug. The imprint of my hands and chest left in the clay- both the moment and my body have left their marks there. Using that kind of tactility and size to assert a strong physical presence, I hope the intricate carvings invite closer investigation; the concept of intimacy in their embrace.

You mentioned that the most fulfilling moment is when your sculptures are displayed in a home and become part of the surroundings. How do you think about designing work that functions both as gallery installation and as objects that live within domestic spaces?

While size should probably be my first thought, when I’m considering how an artwork should look in its future surroundings- I am more concerned with how the texture and color of the piece will influence or react to their potential future surroundings.

I find contemporary aesthetics oftentimes too neutral. There is so much emphasis nowadays on a “clean” look, where everything matches. Fashion, public spaces, the home- its all been “designed” for convenience. Made so that little to no energy must be expended and everything fits easily within a comfortable framework of thoughtless choice. Not to negate the importance of dark or neutral tones (I certainly work with them often enough) but there should be intention behind their use- rather than as just a resolution for simplicity.

I am fully of the opinion that art should be striking in its surroundings. Not necessarily as a form of shock value, or even in immediacy- but there should be some significance to its presence, some feeling it evokes within those who frequent that space. While it may be harsh; I often find that something easily digestible is also easily overlooked, forgotten. If even the most skillfully produced work is not speaking truthfully or meaningfully, I don’t believe I can fully consider it art; in as much as an excellent craft, or of fine design.

With this in mind, there are subtypes of popular culture that are often overlooked within visual language, judged as being below finer tastes. Playfulness, camp, trashy, gauche, filth, and dare I say darkness; less easily digestible perhaps, but still worthy expressions of the complexity of human experience. It is this confliction of feeling within the (dis)comfort of my work that I think people are drawn to. Soft and rough textures, negative spaces and strange undulating forms, the occasional figural work that watches silently- while there is a layer of familiarity to the visuals, the context and experience of them is ultimately new.

So while the mundanity of nature, textiles, and architecture may ground their experience- I would argue it is the cathartic representation of grief, yearning, anger etc. that people are drawn to within my work. Allegories sheltered in recognizable stories, and strange feelings that sit waiting in silence- that is what I want to put in galleries and in people’s homes.

Your most recent body of work at Wesleyan Potters explores mortality and anticipatory grief through the allegory of “The Unicorn in Captivity.” What drew you to that specific tapestry, and how did you think about building monuments to “states of semipermanence” through ceramic forms?

One of the first books I fell truly in love with was The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle. There was such a living, breathing quality to the story, to the Unicorn. It felt like the characters bled right off the page into the world around me, or that it’s life’s blood ran beating from our world to its pages. It was truthful in a way that I’d never felt before, nor seldom since; and even as a child I felt connected to something larger than myself by reading it. While it was partially the magic of that world that I was drawn into, it was also the truthfulness in which death and loss was explored by the characters own misfortunes. How grief, and regret became part of the ill begotten adventure of life, rather than a simple end or destination.

But that was not my first, nor my only exposure to this creature of folklore in my childhood. From my grandmother’s ceramic unicorn collection, to a cherished vintage art calendar; countless fantasy movies, even my first memorable halloween costume (you guessed it)- I had been quietly obsessed with Unicorns. So during my residency at Wesleyan Potters, when considering what my next magical/ mythical focus would be, I can only guess that it came naturally.

My previous body of work had been based around the symbol of the Minotaur as an allegory for inherited familial trauma and grief. Creating my own “labyrinth” from isolated iconography taken from rural southern farmlife, and combining it with the shared influences from the story of Ariadne’s string- an installation of cows, quilts, brick walls, and farm tools was born. A year later those quilt forms evolved into tapestries, a transition from one expression of grief to another.

That summer at the beginning of my residency was such a tumultuous, crazy, stressful time; but overall hopeful as well. Never quite the optimist, I recognized all that I had to be thankful for, but was also hyperaware of how much I had to lose. Having completed my yearly re-read of The Last Unicorn a few months prior, those ideas came together rather quickly. The concept of semipermanence came while working on one of the first tapestries- thinking on the cyclical nature of clay and how it can be recycled at its wet stage, but once fired, becomes vitrified and essentially rock; nearly immortal. Nearly, only because that state is permanent until it isn’t- pottery is usable until it’s broken, and people are alive until they aren’t. Actively experiencing preemptive or anticipatory grief myself, I imagined that is what a unicorn would eventually feel, watching the world around them grow old, only to be born again, then die.

Working in the allegorical – allows me to control the narrative. I am able to balance the positives and negatives of thought and memory. While the floral scenes depicted in my tapestries are representative of funerary flowers, of tapestries woven by people long gone, they are also beautiful gardens in full bloom. There is hope in new growth. It is that balance within the Unicorn In Captivity that I was drawn to. Through the course of the tapestries, the Unicorn is chased, captured, and killed. Yet in the final tapestry, he is shown alive once more. Though this transformation is collared and bittersweet, the interpretation of this final scene can be hopeful as well. The Unicorn sits beneath the pomegranate tree silently, peaceful and contemplative. Perhaps this moment in time, like all others, is momentary in comparison to the Unicorn’s own eternity.