My stubborn hands and cheap kiln craft upcycled ceramic masterpieces!

People today talk a lot about caring for the environment, even as they keep damaging it. Like runners who jog just to reward themselves with junk food, many have started to appreciate upcycling their belongings.

I also upcycle, but only within the small confines of my own workshop. Some treat upcycling as a moral statement — rescuing remnants of past lives and breathing new purpose into them. I do it to face my own hands, to avoid shame over mistakes, laziness, and the cheap kiln that wrecked many ceramic pieces.

To be clear: I don’t collect discarded bottles or patch together found objects to make something new. Nor do I fix old items to fake antiques or pretty up ugly things just to use them. The process I do is a kind of experimentation that lacks an exact term in Vietnamese. In English, this concept already exists and is called “upcycling,” which suits it perfectly. Owning a kiln makes this process possible — it’s a privilege and a challenge.

A piece I upcycle, refurbish, or whatever you want to call it.

The kiln is not just a tool — it’s both cause and effect of every upcycled ceramic creation.

Cheap electric kilns are the type that make ceramic artists on Reddit foam at the mouth. They say true artists don’t use junk gear. Like artists can’t be poor, or maybe the opposite: poor people can’t claim the artist label. I lurk in those forums to self-learn glaze chemistry and pick up tips from those with proper kilns, compensating for my lack of money with time.

That capitalist mindset is partly true, even if a bit insulting. But I’ve eaten morning glory instead of beef — what can I do? On the other hand, I once saw a photo of an African guy lifting weights with a cement-filled water bottle. No machines, no whey protein, just makeshift gear that works rather than looks flashy — yet his body was sculpted like a statue. That’s exactly who I want to be in the ceramic realm.

To me, a ceramic kiln is not complicated. Electric kilns have existed for over a hundred years. I know they use heating elements to warm the chamber. When I first researched, I worried it might burn down my house. I scoured Vietnamese sites hoping to find a reputable seller with clear specs and honest instructions. I didn’t need secrets on firing — I just wanted to understand precisely what I was buying. But somehow, dealing with local sellers was hard. They assumed buyers are dumb and gave no electrical explanations. I refused to buy what I didn’t understand.

In desperation, I looked to neighboring China. At least they operate transparently: clear prices, honest info, shipping on demand. The materials were somewhat suspicious, which I only realized later. Another shock: due to limited heating program control, I constantly struggled with glaze reactions. And crucially, if it broke, no technician in Saigon would fix it, no matter how much I pleaded or paid extra. Technicians were stubborn — repair had to cost less than buying new to make sense. When I revealed my kiln was a cheap Chinese import, they all seemed “scared” — perhaps unsure if I’d pay a higher repair fee after choosing the cheap route.

Working with junk gear is a skill.

Despite the unreliable kiln, I managed quite a few firings until real problems arose. After dozens of firings, I experimented with countless glaze color combos I couldn’t have tried without my own kiln. I believe working with junk is an art in itself. I have a Wacom tablet with a finicky pen tip, yet I draw better than many using iPads, because it trains my subtle pressure control. Believe it or not, just watch it here. During college I struggled with a DELL screen that wasn’t even full HD; every design or drawing meant mentally adjusting colors because I couldn’t trust the display. So I became better at imagining colors for glaze work — glaze has no color; it demands imagination. By the way, the paintings linked above came from those imagined color mixings.

My father always said: “Using junk gear but doing well is mastery. Using good gear and doing well is just competence.”

I sculpt versatile pieces — both jewelry trays and night lamps with bases vaguely shaped like female curves or, well, you know... that part (depending on perspective). I like multifunctional items, probably because I’ve lived in cramped spaces. I decided ceramic combined with graphics would define my style once I committed to being an independent artist. One principle of graphic design is high utility.

I made a whole series like this: lamps with removable parts that double as vases for dried flowers, trays combined with lamps, and trays that are just trays — nothing more, but still carrying some kind of suggestive meaning.. Most pieces from the first firing batch cracked, chipped, or broke. Some got chipped breasts, others had cracked bellies, some chipped breasts, some cracked bellies — all over the place. The culprit was the kiln heating too fast, ignoring my programmed schedule — probably a broken controller or thermocouple. I’d try to turn it off before it reached 100°C — basic physics tells me water boils at 100°C, and excess moisture inside clay causes explosions if not dry. Despite my precautions, many pieces cracked and chipped badly. This happened twice in a row, twice in a row pushing me to hunt for kiln repair, but no technician was willing to come. These broken, cracked, chipped pieces were meant for my portfolio to join an artist residency in Taiwan, and I was nearly defeated.

Not wanting to waste all this effort and all these cracked, chipped, broken pieces, I improvised. Slightly damaged pieces opened a new horizon for that Vietnamese term I said I don’t have. First, I selected slightly chipped pieces, sanded them down, decorated them intentionally to highlight the cracks and chips — tricking viewers into thinking it was deliberate. Then, one stressful night before the submission deadline, I went further: I glued two completely broken parts back together, creating the piece below.

This is the jewelry tray combined with a night lamp. Initially a perfect ceramic piece with full “breasts,” it lost one side in a kiln disaster, splitting into two parts.

I used liquid glass mixed with plaster powder and crushed stone to make a gritty slurry. Liquid glass acts like strong glue, plaster disperses everything evenly, crushed stone reduces shrinkage. I glued the broken parts and added details I wanted, then applied decorative glaze and fired it a second time.

Art is impermanent...

The result was surprisingly good. I fell in love with the rugged texture this homemade mixture created. Honestly, some might be curious how I achieved this effect. If I sold it, I’d proudly call it a product of an energy-consuming, elaborate firing process, pricing it higher. Not because I forced uniqueness, but because I truly cannot replicate this piece exactly.

I’m seriously thinking about a new creative concept: putting slightly damp pieces in the kiln, letting them explode; then gathering shards to assemble works I never imagined before. I only need to calculate how much moisture creates cracks or salvageable fragments. This is the art of impermanence.

P.S. That tray-lamp piece no longer exists, as I glazed over and fired it a third time, continuing the experimental spirit of upcycling ceramics.