A white bowl with grey protruding scars like brush strokes. Its title; intense silence, falling leaves.

When confronted by Petrus Spronk’s pottery work, the view is instantly aware the objects are telling a story deeper than a ceramic offering. “It is one of the most primitive forms of making. People forget about the power in their hands. I believe, the hands have memory.”

There is a weight to his art work that’s impossible to define with language, like the great sculptures of the world they become entangled with time, remnants of the past. He laughs, “I didn't decide to become an artist, I just became one.”

Petrus’ story begins with an observation from his high school teacher, “he told my father I was too creative for my own good. My father and my mother took me to a counsellor who said, ‘if he can’t use his head, let him use his hands.’ The interesting thing is that after many years I'm using my head.”

After attending a baking course, Petrus ventured out to art school in South Australia. “I was introduced to clay besides other interesting ideas in the 60s. And then I hitchhiked around the world for eight years.”

As part of his adventure, Petrus walked around the island of Samos in Greece.
“I found all these big pieces from ancient buildings lying around, like pieces of sculpture left behind in the landscape.” He adds, “Sometimes there are no words for these feelings that you get. It reminded me of a poem, Ozymandias by Shelley. It’s about somebody who was powerful, made out of marble just laying in the desert.”

These experiences would become the basis for Petrus’ iconic sculpture of an ancient library sinking into the road outside the state library of Victoria on Swanston street.

When asked about his transition to pottery, Petrus quips, “I have no idea. Somebody gave me some clay one day and I was off on a journey that I've never regretted. I built a kiln. I made my own pottery wheel. I’m low maintenance.”

His work has a transient quality, there’s something mystical going on that eludes a sense of time. He says, “I'm not religious. I'm not spiritual. But there is something going on when I'm making bowls.”

He reflects on those years he spent travelling like a mystic searching for answers. “The bowl came about by visiting the Pueblo American Indian people in New Mexico.” His voice filling with excitement, “When they make a bowl, they put a coloured layer of clay on the rim. But they don't close the circle, they leave the circle open.”

“When I asked the woman, she said that the the opening allows the spirit of the pot to get in and then to get out. I asked if that was important, She said, ‘Of course it is. If your spirit gets caught up in an object, you can't move anymore, you can't travel and if you can't travel you can't learn. And if you can’t learn, you're dead.”

He turns to the present; “now, I can just sit down and start throwing clay, but it involves the most important word in the language of making; attention.”

The art of pottery for Petrus was about being attuned to the moment, being present, acknowledging life as it unfolds.

Petrus recalls another moment from his journey. “I travelled for a year in Korea. At the end, I had to go home, because my visa ran out. A monk said to me, do you want to meet a zen master? He taught me how to behave, and said I can only ask one question.”

“I asked the zen master, ‘how do I become a better artist?’ And it was quiet for a while and he said, ‘attention.’ And then he waved me off with his hand. And I've walked out and I thought this is totally irrelevant. I thought, ‘wanker!’ Over the times, it has become obvious to me that this was a perfect answer.”