The internet’s favorite potter opens up about his life and craft in this inspiring, stunningly photographed ode to the beauty of small things that brighten life's daily rituals. Florian Gadsby has devoted his life to pottery, refining his technique towards the point of perfection—and as his skill has grown, he has shared his work online, inspiring millions with his meditative videos of gorgeous pottery. Based at a studio in North London, he releases three new collections per year, characterized by simple forms and sharp edges, which sell out in a matter of minutes. In By My Hands , Florian tells the story of his artistic awakening, his education in England, Ireland and Japan, and the sheer discipline which has led him to become the cultural sensation he is today. Arguing for the value in dedicating yourself to a craft, Florian weaves anecdotes about particular pots and processes into the narrative of his life. He explores what he has learned from specific pieces he was taught to create during his apprenticeships—including yunomi, a Japanese teacup, in Mashiko, Japan—and how they have informed his philosophy and approach to his work. By My Hands is a thoughtful, visual celebration of the simple things, such as a hand-thrown mug or bowl, that add meaning to our lives, as well as an inspiring testament to the power of perseverance. Florian Gadsby is a ceramicist currently working in High Barnet, North London. He produces ranges of reduction-fired functional pottery and sculptural objects that are refined, simple, and carefully crafted. Alongside his physical work, Florian has long been documenting his pottery and apprenticeships online. He has more than two million followers across various platforms that have accumulated hundreds of millions of views on Instagram, YouTube and TikTok. Where I Discover Clay I sometimes feel as if my life didn’t really begin until I started throwing pots. Until the age of sixteen I more or less lived online, peering into a virtual world. After arriving home from school, one that was so focused on craft, community and, often, spirituality, I would come in and switch on a screen to forget reality. My hands were moulded around a lump of plastic, a video-game controller, but this was soon to be replaced by a lump of soft, malleable clay. I was born two months premature, incubated, only a speck in my grandfather’s sturdy hands. We lived in a quiet village in Norfolk called Maypole Green, where hedges, dank ponds and furrowed fields make up a majority of my memories from this time and all I have left are fleeting sounds, smells and stories I’ve been told. Our home was surrounded by what I remember as dense, monolithic hedgerows and we spent our time outside in the garden, running in the neighbouring fields, building dens and climbing branchy, wavering trees. We followed the tails of our cats who lived happily in the abundant greenery, apart from Dotty, a mean, scrawny white cat, spotted black, who would hiss hellfire as soon as we tried to stroke her. I was six years old when we moved to London in 1998. My father’s commute into the city had become untenable and so we left the green surroundings for residential—and still comparatively green—north London, packing everything into a house on a corner next to Alexandra Park. We were downsizing, and my father still tells the story of how he burnt many of his belongings in a heaped bonfire prior to leaving, both as a means of accommodating his possessions in a smaller home and as an expression of protest, since he really loved the countryside. My father, Mark, spent decades working in advertising; he was a successful art director and travelled relentlessly, even assisting in introducing McDonald’s to the UK at one point, but his heart was really in making, in craft. Alongside his career he pursued this passion, and throughout his life he has also been, and still is, a woodworker, metalworker and jeweller, and an acclaimed illustrator. He has long blond hair, like me and my brother, a kindly, crooked smile and thick-rimmed spectacles—the resemblance we share is at times uncanny. My mother, Kate, is a photographer and gardener. As a parent she is carefree and never once questioned the choices I’d make in my life. She’s sharp and keen-eyed, quickly loses her temper and has a vast knowledge of the world, languages and the plants she surrounds herself with. She cared for Anatole and me, photographing gardens whilst we were in school. Tolly, which is what I’ve called my brother since I learnt to speak, is four years older than me. He has my dad’s blue eyes; I have my mum’s freckled brown. He’s left-handed like my dad, I’m right-handed like my mum. We grew up in houses crowded with pots, paintings and sculpture. My father even made pots of his own, the pieces once photographed by my mother, a picture that has come to sum up my life quite succinctly. The new house was in a leafy part of the city, in an area built up with rows upon r