orig pottery inscribed clay

We had been talking about it for years...

Might it possible to live a different kind of life? Simpler? More sustainable? More creative? We both worked in stressfull jobs; Chris as social worker/manager of mental health services, Michaela as a community worker. We had the usual financial pressures, a family growing fast, and time was sliding by. It came to the point where we knew that we had to just take a leap into the unknown. That was the beginning of seatree...

We aleady loved to create things. Michaela worked mainly in ceramics. Chris made things from wood, took photographs and wrote poetry. Seatree became a way to bring these elements together as a business. 

Inspiration for what we make is never far away. We are based on the Cowal peninsula (if you have never been, why ever not?) We are blessed with wild seascapes, mountains, forests and beautiful empty beaches. Our work often deliberately seeks to engage with spirituality; the undefinable beautiful beyond.

 

In November 2016, we moved to a new location, and established our new workshops. Come and see us! We also run classes and workshops for those who want to get their hands on some clay.

Please contact us if you are interested in hearing more, or follow Michaela's blog.

Chris is also a long time blogger, writing around themes of spirituality, poetry, theology, ecology, politics and all sorts of other ways to get out of doing actual work...

By the way, the name seatree comes from a poem that Chris wrote a few years ago. Here it is;

 

High on the shore line

Above the storm berm

The winter sea gave out a pilgrim trunk

It was thrown up the beach

Like you or I might flick a pebble

The corpse of the old tree

Has been gnarled and shaped

By encounters with deep reefs

Where it rolled and shoaled with the fish

And bore the barnacles and wracks

Of the deep blue sea

Now it lies here

Like bone of leviathan

It has taken on the colours of the deep-

Sea green

Shadow black

Red like the eye of a shark

Grey like the dripping tail of a whale

All faded a little by the blown sand

But jewelled instead by salt crystals

Drawn out in the low sun

Who knows where its roots are

Or what of its seed

Still remains