Some stories begin with a yes. Ours with George Bronwin began with a very polite no.
We had admired George’s work for some time—his boldly striped forms, his refined yet eccentric touch, and the sheer artistry of his hand-thrown pottery. But when we reached out, he declined. He was busy, the logistics were tricky, and—quite rightly—he didn’t want to compromise on price or process. Each piece is made by him, nose to tail, and the price is the price.
So we did what we do best: swapped email for in-person, zipping through the English countryside—flat tire and all—to make our case face-to-face.
George’s studio sits on the edge of the Quantocks, in a timber-framed building he rents from friends on the organic farm where he once volunteered. The studio once belonged to his landlord’s late wife, Suki, who was also a potter. George still throws on her old wheel—a piece full of memory and meaning—with Suki’s garden blooming just outside the door.