Plagiarism in Pottery - is copying stealing?

Dear Laurie,

“Do you think that because your work is unique to you and the process you use is complex enough, that some upstart cannot copy your work? Is it simply too complex? And what if someone copied your work?” 

Much love, Tim. 

Dear Tim,

Plagiarism is an interesting topic when viewed across the working history of pottery and its roots in craft-based traditions. Traditionally, copying the work of an established master was considered the best way to learn, and many aspiring potters had no inclination towards uniqueness. The ideal was to recreate a pot consistently to the standard set by previous generations. Being a potter meant being a craftsperson within a lineage of potters who produced an established quality for the community they served. I know several potters who today quite happily make wabi sabi reproductions of Shoji Hamada’s unsigned and allegedly egoless pots, or simple studio pottery shapes emerging from the omnipresent Leach tradition. 

I am unsure of how unique my work is. Like all potters, my pots are an amalgamation of tens of thousands of years of other potters’ techniques and traditions. At best, I’m mashing together their contributions within the context of my own lifetime and worldview. The currency of the content may differ, but the materials, tools, and techniques arise from antiquity. The only originality I can claim is that my brain is the current operating system.

True complexity hides itself in the philosophical and structural architecture of a pot but is often mistaken for decoration. As a notorious over-decorator, I put little or no value on the embellishments I add. Complexity for its own sake is a bit like having a three-headed penis with no balls. Funny at a party, but generally useless. As a child, I was a terrible scratcher, especially in bed. My mum made me special mittens to wear to try and reduce the damage I’d do clawing at my skin beneath the sheets. They didn’t work. It is true that I was itchy and that’s what initiated the action, but the real pleasure lay in scratching for its own sake. Anyone who scratches knows the sweet line between scratching and bleeding. There’s a delicious moment of tension that sits just before the blood comes that is irresistible. And that is why I over-decorate. I over-decorate and scratch for the pleasure of it, like a dog. I appreciate that, in terms of surface decoration, this can create the illusion of complexity in my work, but it’s not intentional. I over-decorate not because I don’t know when to stop, but because I don’t want to. I decorate until it bleeds.

There is also the prevalent hierarchy of techniques and their perceived complexity or difficulty i.e. pinching, coiling, throwing. Personally, I’ve always found these hierarchies stupid. Well, perhaps not always. I’ve had my honeymoon periods with various techniques over the years, but nowadays I just view them as ‘tricks’ — various ways to get where I want to go, usually in combination. The same applies with realism. Just because something looks like something isn’t complex unless it is communicating. Over the years, I’ve become fairly adept at crafting likenesses, but I try to use them to create narrative. Sometimes I use realism to lure an audience in. We’re simple animals, and often just making something look quite real is enough to coax a viewer closer to the work so I can jam my finger in their arsehole and send them on their way with an unexpected twist. Realism is not complex in and of itself. Realism is just making something look like something else that already exists. It’s a good trick and an even better lure if you’re fishing for attention. It is true that my work often utilises a vast array of techniques, but it’s all in service of the idea or feeling. Because like scratching, some tricks just feel nice to do. I have never considered making especially complicated pots as a defence against plagiarism. It would probably be easier to make really shitty pots. The hardest ones to replicate are often the ones that appear effortless to make.

I identify as an upstart. I’ve never really fit in, and I’ve always been fairly vocal about my dissatisfaction with normality. With regards to someone copying my own work, my position is “fill ya boots!”. I appreciate this isn’t to everyone’s taste, but I couldn’t give a ratty fuck if anyone wants to replicate anything I’ve made. Why? Because I just don’t really care. Sincerely, it just doesn’t bother me anymore. Awkwardly, I’m also a plagiarist. I’ve spent thousands of hours making replicas of my favourite pots. Even today, if I see a shape I like, I’ll make a few in the studio. It’s the only way to really understand a new thing. I consider it a hard-earned privilege to be able to try and emulate things I consider masterful. It is liberated, open-flow learning and often very humbling. Admittedly, things can get a bit squirrelly if someone is making an identical version of your products and selling them in your marketplace, especially if said product has crossed the dreaded craft-art line. In this case, a well-placed punch in the face is a good deterrent, but you could also choose to laugh about it — because soon you’ll be dead. Consider this: it might be quite nice to be copied. It means that someone besides your mum thinks your pots are good. At this stage in my life I’d be more worried if nobody ever emulated my work. That would mean I actually suck.

XL