Petriform feels like a fragment of something ancient, a form shaped by pressure, time, and memory. Its rough, mottled surface carries the logic of fossil and hide, as if a creature once pressed itself into the earth and left this imprint behind. The piece stands between sculpture and relic — an object that looks discovered rather than made, holding the quiet weight of something the ground chose to keep.
 
Petriform wasn’t engineered — it was discovered. The clay told me what it wanted as I worked: where it was willing to fold, where it resisted, where it needed to tear a little to feel honest. I pressed and lifted and opened the form only when the clay felt ready, letting gravity shape the wings and the hollows. Every ridge, crease, and opening came from responding to the clay’s mood in the moment — its softness, its tension, its desire to slump or stand. The piece emerged the way creatures do in my studio: slowly, intuitively, by listening instead of forcing.