Art is Impermanent and Made of Junk: Behind the Scenes of an Independent Sculpture Studio

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 independent sculpture studio. 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 with raw materials that lacks an exact term in Vietnamese. In English, this concept 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.

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, compensating for my lack of money with time to create philosophical objects that defy these rigid standards.

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

To me, a ceramic kiln is not complicated. Electric kilns have existed for over a hundred years. When I first researched, I scoured Vietnamese sites hoping to find a reputable seller with clear specs. 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. 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.

The very notion of an independent sculpture studio is mastering the art of junk gear

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 — a form of eccentric artistry that thrives on limitation.

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 meant mentally adjusting colors because I couldn’t trust the display. This struggle fueled my experimental figurative art, as I became better at imagining colors for glaze work. Glaze has no color in its raw state; it demands a vivid imagination to foresee the final result. 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 gaudy, versatile pieces. This fusion of ceramics and graphics has defined my style since I first began dreaming of a niche art brand—one built on postmodernism that draws from my background in fine arts without being held captive by it.

There is a series of urban art objects: lamps and trays that carry suggestive meanings through anatomical distortion and maximalist chromatics. However, my first batch was a disaster. The cheap kiln heated too fast, ignoring my programmed schedule and causing the clay to explode. Breasts were chipped, bellies were cracked—everything was falling apart. No technician in Saigon would fix this "junk" gear, leaving me with nothing but a pile of shards.

These failures opened a new horizon for upcycled art, shifting my narrative toward artistic deviance. I sanded down the chips and decorated the cracks, turning technical flaws into a form of curated absurdity that no perfect firing could replicate. I even glued two completely shattered parts back together. Of course, I don’t sell it; I keep it on my own shelf to remind me of my art philosophy (though, in reality, I suspect no one but me could truly enjoy it this way).

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. If I were to sell it, I’d claim it as a product of an elaborate, energy-consuming firing process and price it higher—not for forced uniqueness, but because I truly cannot replicate it.

I am seriously considering a new concept: loading damp pieces into the kiln and letting them explode, then gathering the shards to assemble forms I never could have imagined. It’s just a matter of calculating the moisture level to control the scale of the cracks. This is the art of impermanence.

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