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In November 2024, only two months after Hurricane Helene and the resulting floods in North Carolina, Melisa Weiss and I spoke remotely. The flood that destroyed her studio of eleven years marked a profound halt in her practice, but it also underscored the power of community and mutual aid. Melissa’s reflections on the flood resonate with broader themes of human interconnectedness, the disparity in global responses to crises, and the vital role of art in navigating a fractured world. Through it all, her commitment to making ceramics remains steadfast as she continues to find meaning, purpose, and community in her practice while grappling with the complexities of global injustice. Her ceramic practice embodies her ethos of personal connection to the land and community.


Melissa Weiss: I'm originally from New York City. Both my parents are from there, and we moved to California when I was four. So I would spend the school year in California, and then I would go back to New York City every summer and spend all those summers with my whole family on my mother's side.

I came to Asheville in 2005 to house-sit because I was living in rural Arkansas, and I had my baby, my daughter, out there. She was one when we moved to Asheville. 

I never had ceramics growing up. I never made a single thing out of clay until I was twenty-eight when my daughter was born. When she was five months old, I took a class in Arkansas, and that was the first time I'd ever made anything. It was a six- or four-week class. However, I didn't do it again until I moved to Asheville, and took a class at the community college.

Randi O'Brien (ROB):  Did you end up going to school for any formal academic training, or are you independent and self-taught?

Melissa: I took a class at the community college, and I took classes with the wonderful teachers in the area at Odyssey Calyworks. Then, to some degree, I was Michael Hunt and Naomi Dalglish’s first assistant at Bandana Pottery, but it wasn't called that; it was more informal. For about a year or two, I would go out there once a week and do chores like stack wood and make glaze. I would always do the night shift on the wood-kiln. In exchange, I would get to put a few pieces in their wood-kiln. 

I had the opportunity to take a couple of classes through different assistantships and scholarships through John C Campbell Folk School, Penland School of Craft, and then Arrowmont. So, I was piecing my education together and learning from a whole bunch of people. 

But really, I was just obsessed and made pots. I got a studio; it was a cooperative studio with four other people. Then, every moment I had free time, I was there making.

I started digging and making my own clay almost immediately. So, locally sourced clay is almost the only clay I've ever used, except for the first couple of years when I was working in other studios. I learned how to fire a wood-kiln before I even knew how to fire an electric kiln. When I got my first electric kiln, I was so scared. I was like, “I don't know how to fire this.” And people were like, “What's wrong with you? You just push these buttons.” I was scared of it because it seemed like I had no control over this thing. 

ROB: I think there's something special about learning through traditional processes, even though it might feel like working in reverse compared to how technology shapes learning today. Experiencing the hands-on process of wood-firing – seeing how smoke and flame interact and understanding when and why to stoke – offers a depth of knowledge that’s incredibly rich. In many ways, it can provide insights that you might not gain if you’d started with something like an electric kiln. There’s also much to be said for working with materials in their raw state, like making your own clay. Since we’ve touched on this, I’d love to hear more about your approach. Are you still using regional and local materials in your practice? It sounds like you started with those – how has that evolved over time?

Melissa: I dig my clay in Arkansas, so it's not exactly using North Carolina local. I bought land in Arkansas with friends in 2002, before I had any idea about clay. We bought the land because it was $600 an acre, and we thought we were going to be homesteaders. Once I moved here, I would go back and visit. After taking a class with Shawn Ireland – he helped me a lot by showing me his recipe for wild clay – I realized what I had in that Arkansas land. I brought a bucket back to test, tweaked his recipe, pugged my wild clay, and that's how it all started. 

Now, I feel making clay is a daunting part of my process, but I couldn't imagine buying it. I'm doing it a little bit right now because I'm in this weird world of having nothing since the flood. My point is that when you use the same clay body, even if you buy it from the store for your whole career, it becomes a part of how you make and what you make. So, I would never use another clay body on purpose for the long term.

ROB: Your clay from Arkansas, what is it like, what's the color, what's the texture, how does it feel in your hands?

Melissa: It's a really interesting clay because it is very, very red, and it's super sticky as it comes out of the ground. It's weird because although it's really sticky, and you can pinch forms with it, it's got a lot of debris. It seems really plastic, but it's really short. If you roll a coil and bend it, it breaks.

When I was first testing the clay, all by itself, with no additives, to see what I needed to add, it wasn't vitrifying at cone ten. So, in order to make it easier to develop glazes and to fire to the temp I use, I had to add things like Lizella clay from Georgia, which brought it to a cone nine, some feldspar, and ball clay to make it more plastic, and sand to help with the incredibly fine the particles that were in the wild clay. It's almost like porcelain in this way, but not plastic.

That clay body is like magic, even though I know it’s so corny to say. I can get away with so much using that clay; when I try to use other clay and create stuff, I'm like, “What's happening? This is all cracking. Nothing's working!” But I can do anything to my clay. And its response to me is, “Okay, I'll do that.”

ROB: It’s such a unique experience when you’re working with a material that feels truly yours – something from a specific place that you know so deeply. It’s fascinating, almost counterintuitive, when a material has that porcelain-like quality but lacks the same plasticity, yet you’ve learned its nuances so well that you can shape and wield it in a way that’s entirely personal to you. That connection makes it special.

One thing I was curious about is the surfaces of your pots. You’re working with regional materials, and it seems like you’re also drawing from a broader palette within that region. Could you talk about your surface work? I know you now incorporate a lot of imagery. Can you share more about your decisions there? Perhaps discuss pieces that hold particular significance, whether in terms of content, narrative, or any other perspective. I mention narrative and content because of the graphics you often include, but it’d be great if you could explain that to readers a bit more.

Melissa: The imagery in my work is relatively new. I always decorated pots with simple geometric designs or repeated geometric designs, sticking to materials like red iron oxide ash glaze. Then, a few years back, I tested an underglaze. I never thought about underglaze as a material that I could use because I've always made my glazes, clay, and everything myself. 

I've always been very engaged with the world; I started listening to punk rock when I was fourteen and became politically involved. Punk rock music was my opening into the world of politics and the oppression and unfairness of this world. It's always affected me deeply, and although I’ve been in that world, I couldn't figure out how to relay that world through ceramics beyond directly talking about it. The imagery has gotten way more narrative in the past year. Honestly, the past year has been a fucking hell world nightmare, and I feel this internal battle of “Oh, here I am in my safe studio making pots.” It just seemed so unfair that this gets to be my life, and I look on my phone and see the worst things I've ever seen in my life. 

I wanted to talk about it through my work, not just through what I have to say. I started looking at images online and brought them onto the pots. I was always scared to draw on the pots because I've never had formal drawing classes, and I know it’s a dumb thing we all do when we feel like we can't do something because we're comparing ourselves to others. However, I started painting during the pandemic just for fun. I think painting on paper helps me draw on the pots, and drawing on the pots helps me draw on paper. It's kind of like this loop, but when I started drawing on the pots, it felt different than drawing on paper. 

Now, I look at historical regions and cultures that, for whatever reason, I feel connected to or identify with. That imagery is combined, so it's not just one thing. 

ROB: Even just hearing you talk about homesteading and those lifestyles that some might see as counterculture highlights this idea of stepping away from the mainstream – choosing not to buy into capitalism fully. Being a potter and living off the grid, in many ways, feels like a political act. Even if the pots themselves don’t carry overt or heavy-handed imagery, the very act of making, of being a potter, can challenge consumerism and capitalism. It’s about embracing a more intimate, deliberate form of craftsmanship, which I think is inherently political.

Personally, I believe that pots can hold that meaning, even without an explicit narrative. It’s fascinating to see how those choices – like having communal land in Arkansas – seem to align with that philosophy, even if they aren’t meant as direct statements. Do you see your own work in that way? Do you feel that the act of making pots, regardless of whether they include graphics or not, carries that kind of significance for you?

Melissa: It is definitely a little confusing or contradictory to me. It feels like a great privilege to be an artist. But I also worked until I was almost forty; outside of making ceramics, I waited tables, raked blueberries, and worked in the cranberry factory. I've always worked, so it's not that I feel I should do something more for the world because art is important. But, I do go through phases where making art feels insignificant, but then I remember that the world without art would be drudgery. I have this battle within me where I feel like I'm not doing enough to directly lessen suffering in the world in a literal way. But then remember how important art is, and it is doing things for the world. 

I often think about Emma Goldman, the renowned anarchist, who spoke passionately about how deeply she was immersed in the movement – where everything was supposed to serve the cause. Yet, she always insisted that beauty and art were for everyone and that these things matter deeply. She recognized the importance of art, not just as a luxury but as something essential. Whenever I feel that nagging doubt, like I should be doing something more “important,” I remind myself of her perspective. Art is important. It gives us purpose and helps us find meaning, especially in those moments when everything feels futile.

I think in the past year, I've found something I was trying to say in my work that feels significant. The past year, I've felt manically inspired, even though everything feels so crazy. It feels weird to feel inspired right now.  Every time I would decorate a load, I felt my trajectory was moving in a direction that I couldn't verbalize, but it was visually happening. 

That hasn't happened to me before. I've thought a lot about what it means to be in this place for over a year.  Even with the consistency I had, I couldn't get everything out. I would have to make more pots, so I could get more out. This role I was in kept going and going, and then the studio flooded. It all came to a complete stop. 

It's really wild to be in this place of moving forward and then to have it completely stop. I don't think everything happens for a reason, but I think there is a way to find meaning in everything that happens. I don't know what it means right now, but something will become clear.

ROB: Obviously, there was a physical halt that came with limitations in access, materials, and space, right? But did you also experience an emotional, spiritual, or psychological pause? Or do you still feel that sense of inspiration and drive, but maybe it’s just been redirected toward navigating these challenges?

Melissa: I don't know, to be honest.

Since the flood, I’ve been unable to focus on anything beyond the day-to-day. My energy is consumed by the practical steps needed to move forward – figuring out how to rebuild, how to create the possibility of having a studio again, and how to even get back to making work. Right now, my mind can’t hold space for thinking about what I want to make or how I want to create. It’s all about putting one foot in front of the other and tackling the logistical tasks in front of me.

I honestly feel so fortunate, considering what happened, what people went through in the flood, and what people are going through worldwide.  

I lost my studio. I lost a studio that I put everything into for the past eleven years. I lost a lot of things and a beautiful space to work; we had a garden, an incredible space that we had worked endlessly on for over a decade. This is all so terribly sad, but we are still lucky. 

There were a couple of times when we were cleaning out the studio where I was super broken down and was just like, “I can't do this. This is too hard. I'm just gonna go get a job and not do this anymore.” In those moments, there was an overwhelming amount of tasks in front of us. Except for those moments, you have to figure out a way you're going to move forward, or you'll give that part up.

I don't know how to give up making ceramics. It's part of me at this point.

For me, looking forward, I’m doing the things to move forward and things that have kept me from feeling overwhelmed or a sense of despair. Something that has been on my mind a lot since this happened is the crazy parallels between what we have been seeing on our Instagram feeds of Palestinians being murdered and their land being stolen and destroyed in a genocide committed by Israel and the US. It was a complete mind fuck to be at my studio looking at all of this rubble and destruction, and then for the past year, I've been scrolling on my phone and seeing that chaos.

I can't understand how one form of destruction can be ignored or put into this box where blame happens. Yet people, humanity, rose to the occasion for us; we had so much aid and support. 

People didn’t think about politics; they realized, “You lost everything. You need things. So here you go.” But over the past year, that hasn’t been the reality for Palestinians. Instead, there has been a pattern of blaming Palestinians as a way to justify the ongoing genocide. When people on the other side of the world are having their lives destroyed and ripped apart, not even from a natural disaster, but from the direct action of people, I can't get past how it's compartmentalized for people. Compartmentalization didn't happen for us, and it shouldn't happen for them.

We are talking about what people lost in the flood, but when we talk about what people lost in Palestine, we are vilified as a terrible people. How can it be justified on the one hand, but the exact same justification doesn't transcend the next conversation? The flip-flopping of how people rationalize right and wrong is so hard to make sense of. It’s so hard to make sense of.

Water for example, we didn't have water, and then aid came in; there wasn't any blocking of aid for us. 

We had this purpose and this solidarity with our greater community that felt deeply meaningful. The broader community helped us get through the first hurdles, which were really hard. The community, through the power of Instagram, sent me water and other aid so we could go out and deliver water and ask people what they needed. I put my address on Instagram stories, and everything from things for sick children to coffee was sent. Every time we came home, we would have a tower of boxes from people all over the country who saw the posts on Instagram; the generosity was truly heartening. I think just seeing humanity rise through these occasions was important in this moment, at least for me to have faith and hope.  

We got a 275-gallon water tank, filled it up, and started delivering water. For over five days, people in outlying communities – especially those without a car, disabled, or unable to speak English – had nothing. Delivering aid became our full-time job, and it was really what saved our sanity. I think it gave us perspective. Yeah, we lost our studio, but we're lucky. We didn't lose our house. So many people lost their homes.

One day, a little girl was crying, and you could see her mom was on the brink of having a breakdown. We just happened to have a doll in the donations. I gave this little girl a doll, and it was just that simple act; that doll fixed everything. Sometimes, all a kid needs is a doll.

Thinking back to that window of time when we didn't have water, like, wow, what if people were strategically cutting off access to you receiving water?

ROB: I can hear in your tone how deeply grateful you are, and I can see how that gratitude comes from recognizing the privilege and blessings you still have, even amidst the devastation. It’s clear that your perspective is shaped by witnessing the other side – the destruction that often goes unacknowledged or met with the same level of genuine care and compassion. That kind of unpoliticized, deeply human empathy for suffering is so vital, and yet it feels like there’s this constant barrier to breaking through. I can imagine how that mix of gratitude and frustration might leave you wanting to scream at the world sometimes, just asking, “Why can’t we be better humans for one another?”

Melissa: Yeah, the power to end the suffering immediately, which we won’t get into too much because that's a whole separate interview.

ROB: Listening to you share the trajectory of your life and all the places you've been throughout your career, it's clear you've been a very communal and giving person throughout all of these chapters of your life. Even the space you hosted in Asheville housed about nineteen other artists, but from the photos, it seems the space was utterly devastated. Was anything salvageable? And what’s next for you as you move forward?

Melissa: Our studio was nineteen people. It was nice having a communal place like that. 

We couldn't salvage in the beginning because we were right across from two gas companies, and a train derailed full of propane; there was a flame burning off propane for weeks.  It was so apocalyptic down there. Everything was leveled, just gone, just piles of rubble.

But, Brian Nettles at Nettles Pottery, from Pass Christian, Mississippi – he also lost everything in Hurricane Katrina – invited me to his place. I'm going there in February to work in his studio, stay at his place, and fire his kiln for free. Frank Vickery at The Bascom Center for Visual Arts offered me a residency. Because the greater ceramics community has helped secure my residencies and teaching opportunities, trying to secure a job didn't have to be part of one of my anxieties. Our small community has been incredible. 

Luckily, I bought my house when it was affordable. My dream: I would love to be able to have a building and start a free art center. It would have a ceramics component, a printmaking component, and textiles, and it would be free. Those dreams feel impossible now in the world we live in. So, I don't know. I don't know what people are going to do. I'm putting a studio in my basement for now. 

We also bought seven acres of land years ago, thirty minutes from our house, because we thought one day we would eventually build a studio out there. I feel so incredibly lucky that I have that place to build a studio. It will take an incredible amount of work and time, but it's possible. For now, I have to restructure, like a lot of people are going to have to do – restructure and simplify. 

Ultimately, when we build our studio out there, I dream of making a few little sleeping houses and being able to offer residencies because I'm not an artist who wants to work in isolation. I like having alone time, for sure, but I love collaboration. Before the flood, I had just gotten my first assistant. I'd never had one before, and they were just amazing. I was looking forward to our future working together. 

People need each other, we need each other creatively, and nothing happens in a vacuum. We are constantly engaged in this relationship of give and take, give and take, and you don't even know what's inspiring you. Those connections and all of these people will affect what you make. For now, it’ll feel strange to be working alone in my basement, but I’ve got a lot happening outside of town this year to keep me connected. My hope is to one day have some space where people will be working together; hopefully, it will be something where we're collaborating communally.


You can explore more of Melissa’s work by visiting her Instagram page @melissaweisspottery and her website.