Droid Forms
Tracy Wilkinson, born in Yorkshire and shaped by Los Angeles, moves between clay, glass, and wood—crafting tactile relics of imagined worlds where past, present, and future quietly blur.
You grew up in Yorkshire and ended up in sunny L.A. (via New York)—tell me a bit about that journey, and where you think it’s all heading next.
Growing up in Yorkshire for 18 years obviously shaped my personality. The straightforward, hardworking outlook of Yorkshire people is well known, and I’m proud to be from that part of the world. It’s a beautiful corner of the UK, and I love going back—not just for the people and their attitude, but for the natural beauty of the landscape. Still, when I left for college, I was ready to experience a wider world. I moved to London for school and then to New York, where I’d been offered a job.
New York was exciting, fast, and loud—and I loved it, until I didn’t. I began to feel trapped, unable to escape the chaos. Coming from a small rural place, I missed open spaces and quiet. I came to Los Angeles on a work trip, and I remember stepping out of the airport into that warm breeze and thinking how amazing it would be to live somewhere where you could wake up to sunshine and palm trees every day—like a permanent vacation.
Los Angeles gave me space to think. I found a better work-life balance, and although the transition was difficult, once I found my community, it became a place where I felt more freedom. Living here allowed me to imagine different paths. I started a business and ran a fashion company for 10 years—something I doubt I could’ve done in New York. Los Angeles encourages reinvention and exploration, and I’ve embraced that. The sense of freedom here has sustained me, and I think that’s why I’ve stayed so long.
As for what’s next, I see it as an evolution rather than a fixed destination. The world is changing rapidly, and I’m changing with it. I feel drawn to a more nomadic existence—spending more time in Europe while still maintaining a place in California… maybe?
“Los Angeles encourages reinvention and exploration, and I have embraced that.”
Fashion was your first world—what pulled you toward clay, glass, and wood instead of staying with fabric?
I’ve loved working in fashion. It has fed me and put a roof over my head. I enjoy the process of fashion design and would miss it if I didn’t still do it.
Fashion gave me an understanding of materiality, form, and movement—elements that translate into my work in ceramics and glass. But working with fabric is inherently flexible and ephemeral: textiles drape, stretch, and conform to the body. What drew me to ceramics was working with materials that demand precision and permanence.
With ceramics, I found I could explore structure and texture differently. Unlike fabric, which is manipulated through cutting and sewing shapes, ceramics are shaped through controlled pressure, sculpting, and chemical reactions during firing.
The shift wasn’t just about moving from one material to another—it was about expanding my approach to design. I wanted to engage with materials that require both scientific and technical understanding as well as artistry. This transition allowed me to work with permanence and push boundaries in ways fashion didn’t.
What was your time at the Royal College of Art like? Did it shape how you think about making today?
It prepared me for the world of fashion. The late nights, the often cruel critiques, the demand for flexibility and just the sheer hard work—it all really changed me. It was also fun. Lots of dancing. It gave me my love of Pilsner and some lifelong friendships. It wasn’t easy, but I’m happy I went.
Mount Washington has a reputation for being a little mystical. Do you feel that energy in your day-to-day, or is it more about a quiet space to work?
Mount Washington certainly has a reputation for mysticism, and that energy is undeniable. The combination of elevation, rolling fog, and the quietness of the neighborhood creates an atmosphere that feels almost suspended in time. Then the fog rolls out, and your cocoon breaks, and the city is below you, just doing its thing.
In day-to-day life, it’s a grounding space. Some days it’s just a peaceful refuge to focus on work. Other days it feels magical. I feel lucky to live here. This area has a strong connection to creativity and reflection.
I can see the mountains from my house, and the beauty is stunning. I think seeing that every day is reflected in my work, just as, historically, the rolling patchwork hills of the Yorkshire Dales are.
“Glass represents how our fragility can possess extraordinary beauty, emanating light.”
You mix materials in ways that feel unexpected but natural—ceramic with cane, glass, wood. How do those combinations come together in your head?
In my previous work, ceramics provided a solid, grounded base, while the cane introduced lightness and flexibility. The contrast between rigid and organic created tension but also harmony. The flow and shape of the cane allowed for airflow and movement. That series—clay and cane—was focused on repair: putting things back together with care and a soft, vulnerable touch.
My most recent work focuses on combining clay with glass, again for that sense of contrast. Clay’s strength is complemented by the soft translucency of glass. Glass refracts, reflects, and transforms its surroundings depending on how it’s shaped and placed.
For me, it’s about using materials that elevate each other—creating a dialogue between the transparency of glass and the structure of clay that feels effortless. Glass in my work represents frozen elements in nature. It’s about stopping the devastation and moving toward preservation and protection.
Are you mostly running on intuition when you work, or is your process clearly mapped out from the start?
My creative process is a blend of intuition and planning. I usually begin with a general vision—considering form and technique—but I let spontaneity guide me as I shape and refine each piece. The materials themselves often influence my decisions in real time. Clay responds to touch more than glass does.
I usually sketch ideas in my diary, then draw them out on paper. Since they’re 2D, there’s always room for spontaneity once I start to build. That gives me the initial shape, and I go from there. The glass process is more structured: I create the shapes in foam core, then trace them onto fused glass before cutting. It’s a more delicate, detailed process.
This balance between structure and fluidity allows my work to be both intentional and organically expressive.
“The fusion of alien-droid aesthetics with ancient relics is a natural evolution of how I explore form.”
Tell me about Spacebloom—what sparked that show?
Seventies science fiction influenced the shapes I created in this work. As a kid, I was drawn to the ancient futurism of Tatooine—so alien to the brick boxes of my rural English hometown. I loved its primitive, rounded forms—both ancient and modern.
In Spacebloom, I explore how our past connects with the distant future. Sci-fi movies where space travel once seemed hopeful and adventurous now feel more like escape plans for survival. In this series, solid, simple clay shapes—reminiscent of aged space stations, docking doors, and hatches—are topped with flower crowns: glass gardens blooming into dark skies. Changing with the light, the glass forms appear skeletal, cloudy, or bright and full of color. The work, like a planet, shifts as the light moves.
The clay represents the strength of the earth, our ingenuity, and resilience. The glass refers to our vulnerability. A fragile material, yes—but reinforced, layered, fused. The flowers reach outward, supported by the ceramic base. The glass shows how our fragility can hold extraordinary beauty, emanating light.
Lately your forms have this alien-droid-meets-ancient-relic vibe. Are there any direct references here, or just letting the shapes get weird in the best way?
The fusion of alien-droid aesthetics with ancient relics is a natural evolution of how I explore form. There are definite influences—Tatooine’s weathered, utilitarian structures, the retro-futurism of ’70s sci-fi, the tactile feel of aged artifacts. Those references shape how I approach texture, proportion, and detail—but there’s also plenty of room for spontaneity.
Sometimes shapes take on their own weird logic, morphing into something unexpected yet strangely familiar. I love the tension between something that feels futuristic yet worn, as if it carries a story from another time or civilization.
You’re working on a series of symbols or “icons” to embed in your pieces—almost like secret messages from another world. What are you hoping to say with them (or not)?
Symbols in my work are whispers to unknown saviors. They’re the simplest and most primitive forms of communication. It’s quiet storytelling—a way to connect and communicate our transformed reality.
Your color palette has stayed pretty steady—soft neutrals, earthy tones, the occasional surprise. Is that a conscious decision?
Yes, it’s a conscious choice. Soft neutrals, earthy tones, and the occasional unexpected hue connect to natural elements, grounding the work in organic beauty. Muted colors emphasize form and texture, encouraging quiet reflection. The surprise color acts as a disruptor—offering contrast or emotion when the piece calls for it. It’s a balance between consistency and spontaneity.
Lately you’ve been working with clays from both the West Coast and the East—how does the feel or behavior of the clay shift what you make?
The visual qualities of clays from the West and East Coasts reveal subtle differences. I did a few residencies on the East Coast in the last few years—one in New York, one in Baltimore—and I relished using clays specific to those regions.
West Coast clay often has a smoother, softer tone—warm beige and sandy hues that evoke coastal landscapes. East Coast clay tends to have a more rugged, earthy presence—richer reds or deeper browns, reflecting the land’s mineral composition. One lends itself to fluid, organic forms, while the other supports structured, weighty pieces.
These differences shape not just the tactile experience but the final aesthetic of each piece. I like that I can tell which pieces were made where. I miss the East Coast clays—their natural grit and coarseness suit my work really well.
A few East Side L.A. tips?
– Sam’s Place on Monte Vista
– Walking the Arroyo
– Sam Maloof House in Claremont
– All of Sierra Madre Old Town
– Alto Beta Gallery in Altadena
– The Raymond for cocktails
Droid Forms
Tracy Wilkinson, born in Yorkshire and shaped by Los Angeles, moves between clay, glass, and wood—crafting tactile relics of imagined worlds where past, present, and future quietly blur.
You grew up in Yorkshire and ended up in sunny L.A. (via New York)—tell me a bit about that journey, and where you think it’s all heading next.
Growing up in Yorkshire for 18 years obviously shaped my personality. The straightforward, hardworking outlook of Yorkshire people is well known, and I’m proud to be from that part of the world. It’s a beautiful corner of the UK, and I love going back—not just for the people and their attitude, but for the natural beauty of the landscape. Still, when I left for college, I was ready to experience a wider world. I moved to London for school and then to New York, where I’d been offered a job.
New York was exciting, fast, and loud—and I loved it, until I didn’t. I began to feel trapped, unable to escape the chaos. Coming from a small rural place, I missed open spaces and quiet. I came to Los Angeles on a work trip, and I remember stepping out of the airport into that warm breeze and thinking how amazing it would be to live somewhere where you could wake up to sunshine and palm trees every day—like a permanent vacation.
Los Angeles gave me space to think. I found a better work-life balance, and although the transition was difficult, once I found my community, it became a place where I felt more freedom. Living here allowed me to imagine different paths. I started a business and ran a fashion company for 10 years—something I doubt I could’ve done in New York. Los Angeles encourages reinvention and exploration, and I’ve embraced that. The sense of freedom here has sustained me, and I think that’s why I’ve stayed so long.
As for what’s next, I see it as an evolution rather than a fixed destination. The world is changing rapidly, and I’m changing with it. I feel drawn to a more nomadic existence—spending more time in Europe while still maintaining a place in California… maybe?
“Los Angeles encourages reinvention and exploration, and I have embraced that.”
Fashion was your first world—what pulled you toward clay, glass, and wood instead of staying with fabric?
I’ve loved working in fashion. It has fed me and put a roof over my head. I enjoy the process of fashion design and would miss it if I didn’t still do it.
Fashion gave me an understanding of materiality, form, and movement—elements that translate into my work in ceramics and glass. But working with fabric is inherently flexible and ephemeral: textiles drape, stretch, and conform to the body. What drew me to ceramics was working with materials that demand precision and permanence.
With ceramics, I found I could explore structure and texture differently. Unlike fabric, which is manipulated through cutting and sewing shapes, ceramics are shaped through controlled pressure, sculpting, and chemical reactions during firing.
The shift wasn’t just about moving from one material to another—it was about expanding my approach to design. I wanted to engage with materials that require both scientific and technical understanding as well as artistry. This transition allowed me to work with permanence and push boundaries in ways fashion didn’t.
What was your time at the Royal College of Art like? Did it shape how you think about making today?
It prepared me for the world of fashion. The late nights, the often cruel critiques, the demand for flexibility and just the sheer hard work—it all really changed me. It was also fun. Lots of dancing. It gave me my love of Pilsner and some lifelong friendships. It wasn’t easy, but I’m happy I went.
Mount Washington has a reputation for being a little mystical. Do you feel that energy in your day-to-day, or is it more about a quiet space to work?
Mount Washington certainly has a reputation for mysticism, and that energy is undeniable. The combination of elevation, rolling fog, and the quietness of the neighborhood creates an atmosphere that feels almost suspended in time. Then the fog rolls out, and your cocoon breaks, and the city is below you, just doing its thing.
In day-to-day life, it’s a grounding space. Some days it’s just a peaceful refuge to focus on work. Other days it feels magical. I feel lucky to live here. This area has a strong connection to creativity and reflection.
I can see the mountains from my house, and the beauty is stunning. I think seeing that every day is reflected in my work, just as, historically, the rolling patchwork hills of the Yorkshire Dales are.
“Glass represents how our fragility can possess extraordinary beauty, emanating light.”
You mix materials in ways that feel unexpected but natural—ceramic with cane, glass, wood. How do those combinations come together in your head?
In my previous work, ceramics provided a solid, grounded base, while the cane introduced lightness and flexibility. The contrast between rigid and organic created tension but also harmony. The flow and shape of the cane allowed for airflow and movement. That series—clay and cane—was focused on repair: putting things back together with care and a soft, vulnerable touch.
My most recent work focuses on combining clay with glass, again for that sense of contrast. Clay’s strength is complemented by the soft translucency of glass. Glass refracts, reflects, and transforms its surroundings depending on how it’s shaped and placed.
For me, it’s about using materials that elevate each other—creating a dialogue between the transparency of glass and the structure of clay that feels effortless. Glass in my work represents frozen elements in nature. It’s about stopping the devastation and moving toward preservation and protection.
Are you mostly running on intuition when you work, or is your process clearly mapped out from the start?
My creative process is a blend of intuition and planning. I usually begin with a general vision—considering form and technique—but I let spontaneity guide me as I shape and refine each piece. The materials themselves often influence my decisions in real time. Clay responds to touch more than glass does.
I usually sketch ideas in my diary, then draw them out on paper. Since they’re 2D, there’s always room for spontaneity once I start to build. That gives me the initial shape, and I go from there. The glass process is more structured: I create the shapes in foam core, then trace them onto fused glass before cutting. It’s a more delicate, detailed process.
This balance between structure and fluidity allows my work to be both intentional and organically expressive.
“The fusion of alien-droid aesthetics with ancient relics is a natural evolution of how I explore form.”
Tell me about Spacebloom—what sparked that show?
Seventies science fiction influenced the shapes I created in this work. As a kid, I was drawn to the ancient futurism of Tatooine—so alien to the brick boxes of my rural English hometown. I loved its primitive, rounded forms—both ancient and modern.
In Spacebloom, I explore how our past connects with the distant future. Sci-fi movies where space travel once seemed hopeful and adventurous now feel more like escape plans for survival. In this series, solid, simple clay shapes—reminiscent of aged space stations, docking doors, and hatches—are topped with flower crowns: glass gardens blooming into dark skies. Changing with the light, the glass forms appear skeletal, cloudy, or bright and full of color. The work, like a planet, shifts as the light moves.
The clay represents the strength of the earth, our ingenuity, and resilience. The glass refers to our vulnerability. A fragile material, yes—but reinforced, layered, fused. The flowers reach outward, supported by the ceramic base. The glass shows how our fragility can hold extraordinary beauty, emanating light.
Lately your forms have this alien-droid-meets-ancient-relic vibe. Are there any direct references here, or just letting the shapes get weird in the best way?
The fusion of alien-droid aesthetics with ancient relics is a natural evolution of how I explore form. There are definite influences—Tatooine’s weathered, utilitarian structures, the retro-futurism of ’70s sci-fi, the tactile feel of aged artifacts. Those references shape how I approach texture, proportion, and detail—but there’s also plenty of room for spontaneity.
Sometimes shapes take on their own weird logic, morphing into something unexpected yet strangely familiar. I love the tension between something that feels futuristic yet worn, as if it carries a story from another time or civilization.
You’re working on a series of symbols or “icons” to embed in your pieces—almost like secret messages from another world. What are you hoping to say with them (or not)?
Symbols in my work are whispers to unknown saviors. They’re the simplest and most primitive forms of communication. It’s quiet storytelling—a way to connect and communicate our transformed reality.
Your color palette has stayed pretty steady—soft neutrals, earthy tones, the occasional surprise. Is that a conscious decision?
Yes, it’s a conscious choice. Soft neutrals, earthy tones, and the occasional unexpected hue connect to natural elements, grounding the work in organic beauty. Muted colors emphasize form and texture, encouraging quiet reflection. The surprise color acts as a disruptor—offering contrast or emotion when the piece calls for it. It’s a balance between consistency and spontaneity.
Lately you’ve been working with clays from both the West Coast and the East—how does the feel or behavior of the clay shift what you make?
The visual qualities of clays from the West and East Coasts reveal subtle differences. I did a few residencies on the East Coast in the last few years—one in New York, one in Baltimore—and I relished using clays specific to those regions.
West Coast clay often has a smoother, softer tone—warm beige and sandy hues that evoke coastal landscapes. East Coast clay tends to have a more rugged, earthy presence—richer reds or deeper browns, reflecting the land’s mineral composition. One lends itself to fluid, organic forms, while the other supports structured, weighty pieces.
These differences shape not just the tactile experience but the final aesthetic of each piece. I like that I can tell which pieces were made where. I miss the East Coast clays—their natural grit and coarseness suit my work really well.
A few East Side L.A. tips?
– Sam’s Place on Monte Vista
– Walking the Arroyo
– Sam Maloof House in Claremont
– All of Sierra Madre Old Town
– Alto Beta Gallery in Altadena
– The Raymond for cocktails
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA © MR. WREN 2025
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA © MR. WREN 2025