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There’s something universal about blue and white ceramics. They exist almost everywhere—on every continent, in countless cultures—and yet each piece feels like a singular discovery. I didn’t set out to collect them. I just kept being drawn to them, instinctively. Over time, a small group of objects became a conversation. And then, a collection.

What I love about blue and white ceramics is how much they contain. They speak in the language of porcelain and pigment, of glaze and gesture. But they also speak in the language of influence: how Chinese porcelain shaped Dutch Delftware, how both appear in Mexican Talavera, how aesthetics migrate and adapt. These pieces hold craft, commerce, empire, invention. They are beautiful—but also deeply layered. And because they’re made almost everywhere, I make a point of seeking them out wherever I go. Finding a blue and white piece in a new place is like uncovering a thread in a much bigger tapestry—it’s a way of connecting to that culture’s past and present through something tangible, made, and shared.

At home, my blue and white ceramics live mostly on my dresser, but also in rotation. I have a bit of a ritual at the end of the day: when I take off my rings, I choose which tray or bowl to place them in. It’s a small moment, but one I love—an act of care and play, a way to be in relationship with these objects. Collecting isn’t just about owning. It’s about living with things, letting them continue to speak, quietly, over time.