CERAMICS
Rachel Sellem
Tell us a bit about yourself and your background.
I think I can relate to what you said about growing up with a certain way of seeing and doing things. I was raised in Amsterdam, so definitely a city person, but I come from a family full of makers. Both of my parents are artists, and my grandfather was too. My grandmother was constantly knitting, and my other grandfather was a shoemaker. On that side of the family, my dad grew up in the Algerian countryside. We’re actually working on a family cookbook together now, with old recipes, and he tells me stories about how his grandmother would pickle vegetables for the whole year and roast her own coffee. In their village, they made their own bread, their own everything.
I think I grew up surrounded by a quiet, steady sense of making. My parents often took us to museums, and my mom was always crafting and drawing with us. Paying attention to how things are made, to materials, just became second nature, and I think that really shaped who I am. I'm also quite a sensitive person in general, tuned in to smells, textures, and visual details, and those sensitivities naturally find their way into my work with craft and art.
I went to art school in Amsterdam, even though I wasn’t sure it was the right path at first. But like you said, sometimes things unfold in their own way. I studied fine arts, focusing mostly on sculpture and installation, and over time I found my way into ceramics. It opened up the possibility of making functional objects, which has become a central part of my practice. Not everything I make is functional, but much of it is.
When you mentioned privilege earlier, it really resonated with me. For me, it was a privilege to grow up with all of this. Being exposed to making from such a young age is like learning a language early in life. It does not mean others cannot learn it later, but for me, it was simply part of my world from the beginning.
What first drew you to ceramics as a medium for creative expression?
When I was in art school, the materials I used were very fragile and temporary. I was making things that could fall apart or disappear, very fleeting, momentary pieces. And that matched the way I worked, which was quick, intuitive, fast-paced. I would make something quickly and then play with what it could become.
At some point, I started feeling the need for something more grounded. Ceramics offered that. When you make something from clay and fire it, it becomes solid and permanent. It feels serious in a way. You cannot just undo it. The only way to get rid of it is to physically break it. That sense of commitment was something I needed at the time.
I never studied ceramics formally. I just started working with it, met people who had more experience, and learned from them. It slowly grew from there. I still do not really think of myself as a ceramicist, maybe because I came into it from a different direction, but it is a material I keep returning to. Even when I feel frustrated with it, with the dust, the space it takes, the slow process, and the breakage, I cannot seem to let it go.
What draws me in is how the process of ceramics balances out my way of working. I tend to move quickly, but clay requires patience. It needs time to dry, time to be fired, time to change. You can never fully predict how it will turn out. That slowness and unpredictability complement my rhythm. It feels like a conversation, and somehow it just fits.
In what ways do you feel your upbringing and academic background in the arts have shaped your work and approach to ceramics?
Absolutely. The way I grew up has a deep influence on how I approach what I make now. I don’t think I can separate who I am from what I create. The older I get, the more I realize how everything is connected — my upbringing, the people around me, the materials I was exposed to. I’ve always been surrounded by people making things, using their hands, paying close attention to details, and that naturally shaped how I think and see.
It is all intertwined. My identity and the way I relate to materials are one and the same. I’m not sure it is that way for everyone, but for me there is no clear boundary between life and work. I don’t see making as therapy but more as something essential, something I cannot help but do in a certain way. That includes the choices I make around materials, processes, and even what does not interest me. For example, in ceramics, I know how to throw on the wheel, but it does not feel right for me. It is not a technical issue — it simply does not align with how I want to work or express myself.
Art school played a complicated role. On one hand, I learned a lot, especially about reflecting on my own work and understanding why I do things the way I do. That kind of self-awareness was valuable. But the school I went to was very conceptual, and sometimes that felt at odds with my more intuitive, material-based instincts. I often found myself pulled in a different direction, one that did not quite match the academic framework.
Looking back, I think that tension was useful. It challenged me to question things and helped me clarify what really matters to me. Sometimes I feel like I am who I am because of that experience, and sometimes I feel like I became who I am despite it. It is hard to separate the two. But in the end, I would not want to erase that experience. It helped me grow, even if it was not always a perfect fit.
What role does collaboration play in your practice, and how does it foster collective support and growth within your creative community?
Collaboration and community are absolutely essential. I don’t think I could do what I do without them. While much of my actual work happens alone—hours spent in the studio by myself—none of it takes place in complete isolation.
I first learned ceramics through collaboration. My dear friend Anna Brandsma taught me everything she knew in those early years. That was my true introduction to the medium. Later, I joined Studio Pansa in Amsterdam, where I met many ceramicists I still know today. Being part of that community taught me so much—not just technical skills, but ways of thinking and sharing.
There is something deeply powerful about working alongside others. You begin to understand your own preferences and strengths by seeing how others approach the same material in very different ways. It sharpens your sense of purpose and builds a culture of mutual support.
Later, I co-founded a shop and exhibition space with Emma Levie. That collaboration was about more than just sharing space. It was about shaping a vision together, making room for each other’s work, and creating something neither of us could have done alone.
I used to believe I needed to work alone, that I was more of a solitary person. But over time, I have realized that nothing meaningful happens in isolation. Collaboration brings richness. It opens new perspectives, new materials, new ideas, and new friendships. Everything comes from those connections.
Especially in crafts, this kind of knowledge-sharing is vital. So much of what we do is not written down in books. It is passed from person to person. The only way to preserve these practices is to stay open—talking about what we do, how we do it, and why we do it. Sharing is not just helpful; it is necessary.
Could you share a bit about the Komok and Klei club, and how they came to life?
The Klei Club began when I moved into a new studio with my friend Anna, who taught me everything she knew about ceramics. Together, we bought our first kiln and started experimenting with clay. Over time, friends, family, and people from my school became curious about ceramics, so I invited them to join me in the studio to explore the material. It was never a formal workshop but more like an open studio—a shared space for people to discover and experience clay.
My approach to teaching is hands-on. I believe you really learn materials by doing. Of course, there are technical details, but the real understanding comes from using your hands and your imagination. Since starting in 2017, Klei Club has grown naturally. I run two sessions a week with small groups, organizing them in blocks of five weeks. It’s not just about clay, it’s a creative playground where people who may not usually make things can connect, experiment, and feel a sense of community.
Klei Club has become much more than a class or a source of income. It feels like inviting people into my home. Many friendships have blossomed there. Emma, one of the earliest participants, went on to open Komok with me—a space to show and sell ceramics and other works. She invited me to join her, and together we created a platform where makers and clients could connect in new ways. Though running the shop was exhausting and eventually led to burnout, it was an invaluable experience about collaboration, community, and sustaining creative spaces.
Since 2017, Clay Club has been a vibrant and ongoing part of my creative journey. The freedom to shape the space and flow of the club makes it a unique and deeply meaningful experience for me.
Can you walk us through your creative process? Do you have any particular rituals that help you dive into it with greater ease and foster a more natural flow?
Right now, my life feels quite structured, which helps me find a steady creative flow. I start my day with exercise, then head to the studio with my coffee. When I’m “in flow,” working feels easy and natural. I often work on multiple projects at once—ceramics and textiles side by side.
Ceramics itself involves stages: shaping, drying, firing, glazing, firing again. These pauses give me time to think and move between projects. I also do a lot of hand embroidery, which is repetitive and meditative. That repetition lets my mind wander and create space for ideas to emerge. If I’m feeling stuck, I spend time in the studio doing simple tasks—browsing books, cleaning, organizing—to reconnect with the making process.
Before, my creativity came in bursts, with long gaps of little work. Now I aim for a steady rhythm, a sustainable pace where I keep returning to the studio and to my craft regularly.
How does the physical, tactile nature of your work influence your well-being and connection to your craft?
I’m not sure if it’s just the tactile quality, but making things is where I feel my best. When I’m creating, it feels like giving myself a gift. When I can’t work, my mood suffers deeply. Making is a kind of healing for me, an essential way to feel connected to myself and the world.
The sensitivity I have to textures, colors, and forms, whether in ceramics, textiles, or even nature, feeds into this. It’s not just about touch but about a broader awareness of beauty and detail around me. Craft is deeply personal and nourishing, and that connection to materiality supports my well-being in a very real way.
Where do you see the greatest potential for preserving and honoring traditional local crafts in today’s world?
For me, preserving craft is really about community and sharing. Craft is passed on not just as skills, but as culture, stories, and relationships. I’m inspired by small-scale initiatives, like the Textile Initiative in Amsterdam, where people gather to share knowledge through workshops and events focused on textile and related crafts.
I see a renewed interest in these traditions, especially among younger generations rediscovering the skills their grandparents had. It can’t be forced—it has to come from genuine curiosity and exchange.
At the same time, I believe craft needs room to breathe and evolve. I’m wary of rigidity, where “this is how it must be done” stifles experimentation. A strong foundation is important, but so is freedom to adapt and make the craft your own.
How do you want your work to affect and impact others?
I hope my work helps people develop a deeper sensitivity and care for the objects around them. Not just to see things as replaceable, but to appreciate the effort, story, and craft behind them. This mindfulness can extend beyond objects to how we treat our homes, public spaces, and even each other.
It’s a big hope, but if my work can inspire even a small shift in how people relate to their world—with kindness and respect—that would be meaningful.
What current projects or ideas are energizing you right now?
Right now, I’m excited about combining textiles and ceramics in new ways. I’m working on hand-embroidered textiles framed with ceramic and hand-carved wooden frames. It’s still very much an experiment. For example, ceramics can be sturdy but fragile while drying, so figuring out how to hang and support the frames is a new challenge.
I love that these pieces create a dialogue between the different materials—where neither is just supporting the other but they interact and become a unified whole. That intersection of craft and material is where I find a lot of inspiration and energy.
@rachelsellem and www.rachelsellem.nl.
Photos [1, 2, 13, 14] by Matthijs Diederiks and the rest by Rachel
