Taipei: Lynna offered to pick me up, asking that I meet her outside a modest noodle stand by the metro station. She mentioned that her studio might be difficult to find, and after a quick five-minute drive, I understood why. Tucked away on a hillside, it blended seamlessly into its surroundings, its seclusion providing an idyllic escape from the city. My mind immediately cleared, my spirits lifted—nature always has that effect on me. I imagine it must feel the same for Lynna, too.

When I visited, Lynna was just beginning to settle into her new studio. The space, with renovations nearing completion, was full of promise. The studio’s exterior, featuring a modern design, clean lines, and familiar brickwork, made it feel both contemporary and at home. Even curious elderly neighbours would occasionally press their noses against the windows for a sneak peek inside. I followed Lynna through the front entrance into the courtyard, where a team of workers was busy installing a seven-foot kiln. On either side, two wings stood ready: one envisioned as a gallery, complete with a kitchen and gathering area, and the other as the artist’s workspace.

Still taking shape, the studio beautifully mirrors the growth Lynna has experienced as a ceramic artist. Her journey began during the pandemic, when a box of clay became her companion through the lockdowns. Since then, she has navigated the highs and lows of an artist’s life—finding her way through moments of uncertainty and breakthroughs. Now, she has reached new heights in her career, with a studio that stands as both a testament to her growth and a starting point for the creative possibilities ahead.

We continued our conversation outside, crossing the narrow road to where Lynna’s family farmland stretched wide, dotted with guava trees and an assortment of other crops. It’s here, in the soil, that Lynna finds her next source of inspiration. The same earth that sustains the trees and their roots holds the potential to shape her art, as what nourishes her family’s harvest could just as easily give form to chairs and sculptures. The earth isn’t just a medium; it’s a collaborator, shaping each piece with the unmistakable mark of this hillside.

As we wrapped up our time together, Lynna handed me a thoughtful parting gift: two yellow guavas, fresh from her family’s farm. The guavas were such a treat, made sweeter by the time we shared. As a parting gift to you, read on for more from my conversation with Lynna Kuan Ling Chen.

How did you get started in ceramics? 

My house was under renovation at the time, and I wanted to make something for it. During the pandemic, I quit my job and I happened to have some clay at home. Clay is a recyclable material that can be easily shaped by hand. Although it still needs to be fired, it mainly requires my hands as tools. I couldn’t go out during the pandemic, so I started making things. I made a lot every day and recycled a lot, repeating the process over and over.

What’s the journey been like since?

Since I started, life has felt like driving without a GPS. Most of the time, I don’t really know where I’m headed, and sometimes it leaves me feeling somewhat lost. But every time I reach a new place, I get to see a different view.

Has there been a view or place along the way that’s stood out to you the most?

Last year, my friend and I went to an art museum in Tokyo, but we couldn’t enter a certain area because the exhibition tickets were limited. A few months later, due to a collaborative project, my works were turned into prints showcased at an art book event that ended up in that very same space. Funny how I tried to get into that space last year, but my work beat me to it!

Wow, what a great full-circle moment! What is it that makes you feel lost at times then?

Most of the things I create are influenced by my surroundings, and what I make feels like a response to them, whether in terms of the methods I use or the thoughts behind them. At the same time, the state of life itself is inherently uncertain, so I wouldn't know what will come next. 

You’re right, life is full of uncertainties. Is there a specific goal or destination you’re working towards then, or are you letting the journey guide you?

I’m not sure where this journey will lead, but one thing I do enjoy is working with my hands, transforming my train of thoughts into tangible objects. This brings me a certain kind of pleasure. I want to have fun.

Enjoying your work is so important—it keeps you going! Shifting gears, you mentioned earlier that you didn’t go to school for ceramics. Do you think being formally trained matters?

Since I don’t come from a ceramics background, I often feel like I'm not fully part of the industry, and I’ve never seen myself purely as a ceramicist. My background in graphic design often leads me to think in a more graphical way, which brings a different perspective when creating three-dimensional pieces. This perspective allows me to explore the versatility of the material. Without formal training, I have a certain freedom to experiment, and I often discover new methods of creation.

What’s your process? Do you usually begin with a sketch, or do you let your imagination guide you?

Many of the pieces I create are inspired by everyday life—simple moments, like how these pieces are like my diary. They come from scenes, dreams, or random occurrences. Sometimes, I begin with a feeling, with no specific idea in mind, or revisit things I’ve written down. Much of this comes from observing daily life or thinking about the characteristics of the materials. They come to me while showering, walking or making something, and I quickly sketch or write them down, though the final piece often differs from the original sketch.

So there was no real structure to how you did things. You just experimented, trialled and errored. Do you have a favourite piece or one you’re deeply connected to?

I tend to be quite spontaneous in my approach. I really like this little chair. It’s an extension of my first series, Thigh. I made different iterations, but the common feature among them was that I had to position myself lower than the piece while shaping them. Instead of viewing them head-on, I spent most of the time looking up at them, which is actually my favourite angle. After creating the initial shape, I realized the connection between the piece and myself, as well as my fascination with the body as a landscape. In a way, through this object, I discovered that I’ve been subconsciously drawn to these themes all along.

Over time, through the process of making, I’ve come to understand my own preferences. One of them is that I enjoy creating larger pieces—sometimes, with smaller ones, I tend to lose interest.

Howcome?

Because the results come too quickly with the smaller pieces. But with larger pieces, it takes several consecutive days of work. Time plays a big role in the process—I need to manage the moisture, the sequence of steps, and find the right pace—not too fast, not too slow. It requires intense focus and a lot of time spent with the piece. There have been many failures along the way, but I enjoy the process. That said, I might change my mind tomorrow.

How do you deal with failing?

I just do it again.

Does it affect you?

I don’t mind too much, because I’ve learned a lot through this process. But sometimes, my body does get tired from the physical labor. I have to recycle and rework the clay, starting over from scratch. My body doesn’t always keep up with my mind. I’m still learning this.

Earlier, we talked about how life’s full of uncertainties and how, at times, we feel lost in our journey.  How has the new studio impacted your work? You’ve reached a new place—quite literally. What does the future hold for your practice? And what’s the view like now?

Since the new studio is located on a mountain, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about my relationship with both myself and the land during this long process of organizing the new space. While renovating, some soil was dug up from the studio floor, and I discovered that it had a certain stickiness that might be suitable for turning into workable clay. There are also crops planted in front of the studio, and after harvesting, there’s always agricultural waste. I’m thinking that after firing, the ashes could be used as new pigments. I’d like to experiment and make something new from it.

The new kiln just arrived today, but I haven’t yet made anything large enough for it. Before it came, I often found myself wondering, why did I order such a large kiln?

I bet it feels much more official and real now.

Yeah, exactly.

These moments can feel scary, but it could be a lot scarier if we don’t invest in ourselves and pursue our art! Your kiln is amazing and huge, by the way! It’s like a bank vault. What do you think you’ll make first?

I do have something in mind. Last year, while travelling with a friend on Matsu Island, I saw a giant deity statue nearly 30 meters tall. Whenever we got lost, we would look for that statue to find our way, and I’ve been thinking about this surreal scale ever since. This surreal scale has given me some thoughts.

That sounds like an exciting undertaking! Thank you for being so open and sharing your thoughts with me today. I really understand the simple desire to just have fun with our art. I also share in the feeling of being lost at times. It’s a lot to figure out, and it can be overwhelming to wonder if what you’re doing now will work out in the future.

That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking about over the past year. I questioned myself a lot but this year, it’s not such a big deal. If I fail, I’ll just try something else.

That’s really great. What led you to embrace this mindset? And how has this year been different from the last?

Last year, I was busy with many things at the same time, but I didn’t have enough time to think on what matters to me. This year, I’ve spent most of my time organizing the studio, and it’s turned out to be the pause I needed. During the renovation, I had to think about what I truly need, and I’ve become more used to things not going as planned. Over time, I’ve felt my pace and my breath gradually aligning with my actions.

And now you’re finishing renovations and you’re officially moved in!  How does it feel and what is next for you?

I used to work in a small apartment, so I was always very close to my pieces. But since moving into the new studio, I can now stand further away and view them from a distance. The scale of the space makes my previous pieces feel smaller. The distance has given me a different perspective on my work. As for what’s next, the rest of the year will likely be spent experimenting with new ideas and testing the new kiln. But before that, I’m ready for a break.

Vulnerable Works is about the quiet courage of making. At its core, this project is deeply personal. Through these conversations, I seek perspective and ways to navigate feelings of doubt, uncertainty, and the tension between vision and reality. These stories weave my reflections with those of the artists, offering a glimpse into the process, the trust it demands, the triumphs that keep us going, and the vulnerability inherent in creating. Sometimes I pick up a little more—the songs that fill artists’ studios, bits of their daily routines—but always, I return with photographs.