Clay is dirt—the most basic material you can work with. Coming from years in high-tech software, I was drawn to this earthy medium precisely because it demanded something computers never could: my hands, my patience, and a completely different way of thinking. What started as a mental break from the fast-paced corporate world became its own complex discipline, one that keeps me humble every time I'm in the studio.

I work mostly with stoneware and raku, mixing my own clay bodies and glazes. There's always more to learn: how different cultures have approached pottery throughout history, how accomplished potters found their voice, the science behind different firing processes. When I travel, I seek out museums, pottery studios, galleries—taking in everything I can, though I'm never quite sure how it all influences my work. Fire transforms everything, and I love the surprises the kiln gives me.

Working with clay forces me to slow down. I can't rush dirt—it'll crack, collapse, or just plain refuse to cooperate. This pace connects me to something bigger: the understanding that making something beautiful takes time and practice, and it's a necessary contrast to our fast-paced world. Pottery has also taught me to deal with failure in ways my previous career of mostly succeeding hadn't prepared me for. Glazes fail, pieces crack in the kiln, what works on a test tile doesn't work on the actual piece. Clay teaches me to live in the present moment, not for the next one.

"Sundaram" means "beautiful" in Sanskrit. Not the fancy, untouchable kind of perfection, but the kind of beauty you find in everyday moments and imperfections—the way light reflects off a glazed surface, or how your hands naturally curve around a warm mug. What I'm after is that moment when someone picks up one of my pieces and experiences something beautiful, even if it's just for a moment. The joy that comes with that engagement is what makes all the time in the studio worthwhile—each piece an offering of that beauty I hope to share.

- Suresh Sundaram