In the heart of Matakana, a chapter closes on a pottery legacy that has shaped both the community and its culture for nearly fifty years. Morris & James, more than a studio, was a kiln of resilience, artistry, and civic spirit. This farewell is not just about a factory shutting its doors—it is about honoring the stories, the hands, and the heritage fired into every piece of clay. Here begins a reflection on what it means to carry forward a legacy when the kiln’s last breath cools.
I stood in the courtyard of Morris & James, watching a young mother prop her baby in the cherry blossom tree for a photo. The factory tour had just ended—its final one. The kilns will cool, the clay will settle, and the doors will close on a legacy that shaped Matakana’s cultural and economic landscape for nearly half a century.
Founded in 1977 by Ant Morris and Sue James, Morris & James wasn’t just a pottery studio—it was a civic kiln. A place where artistry met semi-industrial grit, where glazes were tested, thrown, and fired with backbone. They created an industry from the ground—literally—from the clay beneath their feet. And now, with Ant in poor health and no succession plan in place, the legacy pauses. Not forgotten, but uncarried.
Behind the counter, I noticed family photos. Proof that the story was lived-in. Maybe there were children who chose other paths or weren’t positioned to take over, the absence of continuity stings. The Potters Society traveled five hours to witness the final tour—a gesture of respect, maybe even quiet audition.
But the reality remains: the factory closes, and the town will feel it. Jobs, summer courtyard buzz, café clinks—all will fade.
My own connection threads deeper. My mother loved their pots. Her grandchildren gifted her a couple for Christmas, and before she passed, she squeezed my hand twice when I mentioned the tiles Morris & James made for hospice fundraising. I bought the Pukeko tile as her memorial—she loved gardening and had a pukeko pot. Today, though I couldn’t afford much, I bought an umbrella holder. Practical, yes. But also a second memorial. A vessel for resilience.
I had a coffee and a pie from the café. Watched the cherry blossom moment. And felt the weight of a legacy not passed down, but still held. In tiles. In pots. In stories.
When the Kiln Cools
This wasn’t just a factory closing. It was the slow extinction of a craft too heavy to carry alone. The hands that shaped an industry—weathered, retired, and unsupported—can no longer hold the wheel. Morris & James didn’t fade from lack of love, but from the cost of staying alive in a world that rewards speed over care, and machines over makers.
New products will arrive. Mass-produced, glossy, and soulless. They’ll fill shelves, but not stories. They won’t carry the weight of a hospice tile or the memory of a grandmother’s garden. And in the town that once buzzed with courtyard clinks and café pies, more people will be out of work. The potters, the servers, the storytellers—all displaced by efficiency.
Another small town begins its slow drift toward ghosthood. Not all at once, but in quiet increments—each machine swallowing a job, a story, a reason to stay. Some will leave. Some will be forced to. And some will stay, but slip into poverty as the work dries up and the legacy fades. The cherry blossom will bloom next spring, but fewer hands will be there to witness it.
Craft doesn’t die all at once. It cools, quietly. And if we don’t notice, it disappears and so will our towns.
This is Nanny’s Corner. Where memory is fired, glazed, and documented. Where we observe the next generation—not with judgment, but with care—and ask: who will carry the clay next?
You are the star of your own story.
Bye Mum xx
