The Emotional DNA of Nummias: Exploring Presence in Ceramic Sculpture

There is a point in making where something shifts. Not in the hands, exactly - but in the feeling. A piece stops being shaped and starts being recognised, and that is where Nummias begin.

Nummias are not designed in a fixed way - there is no sketch, no correct proportion, no ideal expression I am aiming for. Instead, each one arrives through a kind of noticing - a quiet agreement between the material and myself.

A tilt becomes a posture, small marks become a face, and then a Nummia comes into being. Not alive in a literal sense, but not not alive either.

I think of Nummias as holding an emotional DNA.

Not emotions in a fixed or defined way, but something softer and familiar - like an object you’ve had for years that has begun to feel part of you.

Lumo (from the Founding Five) watching the rain with me ♥️

I discover Nummias rather than construct them. I don’t intentionally give them personalities, but they seem to gather one anyway. Nummias feel companionable, calm and patient, with an occasional awkwardness that feels familiar. Their humour isn’t obvious or performative - it appears in a slight lean, an unexpected proportion, a gentle kind of oddness. There’s often a sense that they’re quietly observing, with just a hint of side-eye.

That humour feels important. It softens the work and keeps it light.

There is a moment when I realise I can’t take the piece any further without losing something essential. I stop there - not because it’s finished in a polished sense, but because it has become itself.

That moment matters more to me than refinement. It’s where the emotional DNA settles into place.

I’m not claiming that sculptures are alive, but I do believe objects can hold presence.

And from there, Nummias begin to take their place in the world.

Somewhere between object and companion.

Devoted vessels, living quietly alongside us.

Lumo (from the Founding Five) listening to gossip!