My work is deeply shaped by the landscapes and lives that have held me. The places I’ve called home have carved themselves into my clay through texture, color, and memory:

 

Northern Wyoming will always be home—the Bighorn Mountains rising like old friends in the distance. I spent my childhood on those slopes, fishing streams, exploring pine forests, camping under stars that seemed impossibly bright. Their rugged calm lives in my clay impressions of trees, in the cool greens and deep earth tones of my glazes, and in the quiet steadiness I try to bring to my work.

 

Montana taught me who I was becoming. At MSU I learned how to learn, how to play, how to grow up, and how to take myself (and my creativity) seriously. I became an artist with a voice there.

 

Eugene, Oregon taught me that home can be small and soft: sometimes it’s simply where your cat curls up beside you.

 

Portland taught me that no matter how far I wander, I can always go home again.

 

Bighorn, Wyoming taught me something new—that home isn’t only a place you return to. It can be a place you choose, a place you build, a place that welcomes a new version of you.

 

Laramie taught me clarity: I learned what I didn’t want my home to be.

 

Prairieville, Louisiana taught me that home can be created anywhere, and that family isn’t always defined by blood. It can be chosen, discovered, and grown.

 

Brighton Township, Pennsylvania taught me the kind of life I no longer wanted—what didn’t fit, what didn’t support who I was becoming.

 

Bridgewater, Pennsylvania is where I’ve been handed a lifetime’s worth of lessons in a short span. As a single mom, a potter, and a teacher, I’ve grown a well of wisdom I never expected. This place has asked a lot of me—and taught me that dreams can survive even the hardest seasons.

 

Through every move, every shift, and every beginning-again, clay has been constant. It’s steadied me, challenged me, and given me a language for things I didn’t know how to say. When I press textures into the surface or carve patterns into leather-hard clay, I’m imprinting the places and experiences that shaped me. When I reclaim scraps and recycle clay, I’m practicing the same reclamation in myself—honoring what came before while making something new.

 

Red Feather Handmade Ceramics isn’t just pottery.

It’s a reclaiming of story, of identity, of home.

It’s where all the places I’ve lived come together in my hands.

And it’s where I offer that story, piece by piece, to you.

 

Thank you for being here—and for supporting the journey that brought me to this table, this wheel, this kiln, this new life.

 

—Julie

Artist, potter, and maker of reclaimed beauty