A vessel is rarely one continuous gesture. Look closely and it begins to divide itself into parts. A foot. A body. A shoulder. A neck. A rim. An opening. Sometimes handles. And between them, a series of transitions that determine how the whole object feels.
This is one of the reasons ancient vessels have become such an interesting reference for my work. I don’t look at them as shapes to reproduce. I look at how they are constructed.
Reading the profile
As an architect, I instinctively read objects in section. The outside silhouette is only part of the story. There is also the interior. The thickness of the wall. The depth of the vessel. The relationship between its centre of gravity and its base. The size of the opening compared with the volume it contains. The point at which the body reaches its greatest width. The way it meets the surface beneath it.
These decisions are small, but together they create the character of an object. Move the shoulder upwards and the vessel becomes more upright. Lower it and the same volume becomes heavier. Narrow the neck and the body suddenly feels larger. Widen the opening and the object begins to behave more like a bowl. Extend the foot and it appears to lift away from the table. Change one relationship and the whole composition changes.
The spaces between the parts
What interests me most are often the places that don’t have names. The transition from body to neck. The moment a wall begins to turn towards an opening. The small curve where an object meets the table. The point at which a handle leaves the body and becomes independent before returning to it.
Architecture works through these moments too. A wall meets a floor. A façade turns a corner. A stair arrives at a landing. One material meets another. A building meets the ground. We tend to describe architecture through its larger elements, but its character is often determined by how those elements meet. A ceramic vessel is remarkably similar.
Proportion before decoration
Looking at ancient Greek vessels makes this especially visible. Even when their surfaces are richly decorated, the underlying geometry remains incredibly strong. Before the image comes the object. The relationship between opening, neck, shoulder, body and foot establishes an order that decoration can then respond to.
This is something I find increasingly important. A beautiful glaze cannot rescue a proportion that doesn’t work. Decoration can add another layer of meaning, but the object must first hold itself together. Its architecture comes first.
The void is part of the design
There is another element that makes vessels particularly interesting: they are designed around emptiness. A vessel is not simply a ceramic volume. It is a boundary around a void. The material creates the edge, but the empty space inside gives the object its purpose. It can receive water. Wine. Oil. Food. Flowers. A branch. Or nothing at all.
This makes the opening especially important. It is not simply the top of the object. It is the threshold between outside and inside. A narrow opening protects. A wide opening invites. A deep bowl conceals part of what it contains. A shallow plate exposes almost everything. The geometry influences not only what an object can hold, but how we approach it.
The body and the hand
Architecture is understood through the body. So are ceramics. Only the scale changes. A building is entered. A vessel is held. A doorway responds to the dimensions of a person. A handle responds to fingers. A bench considers the body at rest. A cup considers the mouth, hand and weight of what it contains.
This relationship between geometry and the body is one of the things that connects my work in landscape architecture with ceramics. Neither is simply about making forms. Both are about designing relationships between form, material and use.
Why old forms remain interesting
Many vessel typologies have existed for thousands of years. That longevity is not accidental. Generations of makers adjusted them through use. A neck became narrow because something needed to be poured. A handle appeared because something needed to be carried. A foot stabilised or elevated a vessel. A wide bowl allowed food to be reached. A rim changed because the hand or mouth encountered it.
Function gradually produced geometry. And then makers worked within that geometry, stretching it, compressing it, decorating it and giving it character. This is what makes historical objects so useful as references. They contain accumulated design knowledge.
Reference, not reproduction
For Me Meraki, studying these objects does not mean returning to ancient forms. I am not interested in making contemporary replicas of archaeological ceramics. What interests me is the intelligence embedded within them. Why does this proportion feel balanced? Why is the transition between these two volumes so satisfying? Why does one vessel appear monumental despite being small? What happens if a familiar relationship is exaggerated? What can be removed? What deserves to remain?
These questions allow historical material culture to become active rather than nostalgic. The past provides a background, not a blueprint.
Designing from relationships
I increasingly think that this is how I want to approach new Me Meraki forms. Not by beginning with the instruction: design a vase. But by beginning with relationships. Wide body, narrow opening. Heavy base, delicate rim. Low centre, elongated neck. Continuous curve, sudden interruption. Solid exterior, generous void. Symmetry, small deviation. The object can emerge from those relationships.
This creates a different kind of design process. Instead of drawing a silhouette and deciding whether I like it, I can construct a small architectural system and allow the final character to emerge from it.
A vessel may be only a few centimetres high. But within that small object there can still be structure, proportion, threshold, circulation, weight, balance, material and space. In other words, many of the same questions I encounter when designing a landscape or a building. The scale changes. The principles do not.
Perhaps that is why vessels continue to fascinate me. They are very small pieces of architecture built around empty space.