In conversation with Pascale Zintzen, founder of Oikos Estudio, we explore the world she builds from her Barcelona home-studio — a place where motherhood, archaeology, and the beauty of imperfection merge into a daily practice with clay at its center.
Photo by Bèla Adler
LOSTLANDS: Where are you from, and how have your roots shaped your relationship with making?
Pascale: I’m from Belgium. I was born in Belgium, but I’ve been away from my home country for more than 20 years now. I studied archaeology and history of art, and I guess that made me dive into ceramics as a way of understanding art and domestic life — daily art, I would call it. From there, I was already interested in clay and art, but studying it gave me a whole vocabulary. I wasn’t making ceramics back then, but I was surrounded by them through my studies. Eventually, that became part of my internal landscape — like a language inside me.
Why ceramics? What led you into ceramics in particular? When I was a teenager, I went to art school every day after normal school. During the day I had regular classes, and after school I went to my art school. I did a bit of everything — painting, drawing, sculpture — and there was clay. I completely fell in love with the material already at that time. Then somehow I left it aside because I went to university and studied archaeology and history of art. I specialized in domestic ceramics. So for five years I was studying all those shapes, completely passionate about them — not making them, but studying them, excavating them. I worked in Syria and Crete several times, which was absolutely fascinating. Later I continued drawing, doing what I could with what I had near me. When I had kids, it became more complicated to work with clay. Then a friend invited me to a ceramics class for my birthday — and that was it. Bye-bye. I was gone. I was back to clay. Since then, I have worked with it every single day.
You mentioned your passion for archaeology. Does that mean you're inspired by the past? Yes, I think I'm inspired by the past. When you do that kind of study, the best part is being shown hundreds of images every day — Roman, Greek, prehistoric, every period. All the lessons were based on images, which was the best part. So I was constantly splashed with images. That became like a vocabulary, an alphabet inside me. I don’t go into books now to look for antique objects for inspiration — it’s more like a memory. All those years of studying and excavating created a reservoir in me. So when I work, I have that memory inside. It’s not a direct reference but a presence. It’s more a memory than a straightforward inspiration.
What is the difference between making a vase or a sculpture 2000 years ago and making one today? Why are we still making ceramics after all this time?I don’t know if there is such a difference. I think we are still trying to tell stories. We still crave having beauty around us. I really believe in the magical beauty of daily objects — even a plate or a cup of coffee can be a piece of art. As human beings, we are often lost, sad, living difficult lives, and we crave small moments of joy, little aesthetic crushes, a sense of sorority or fraternity throughout our days. I think we crave the same things now as in the past. The difference today is that as an artist I clearly state that I want my art to be created, seen, sold, appreciated. I want to live through my art. That might be the difference. But the first gesture, the first emotion behind making — I like to think it’s the same.
Is there any moment in your process where you think about being remembered in 2000 years through your work?Yes, sometimes. The idea crosses my mind, because I’ve been in that position myself as an archaeologist. When I worked in Syria, for instance, I excavated a kitchen from around 1800–1700 BC. It was fascinating — you’re diving into the domestic daily life of people from thousands of years ago. So yes, sometimes I wonder if someone will excavate my studio one day. I like the idea of leaving materiality behind — objects filled with stories, memories, emotions — to share with people now, and maybe in the future too.
Tell me more about what someone would find if they excavated your surroundings. What does your daily life look like?My daily life is the daily life of a single mother. My children take all the space they deserve — they are the center of our home. Being a single mother is not just a statement; it’s how my life is shaped. I am with my kids 24/7, and have been for many years. That means my house is my studio and my studio is my house. There’s no border between working and being, cooking and talking, creating and cleaning. It wouldn’t be feasible otherwise. Instead of suffering it — and I won’t lie, sometimes I do suffer it — I decided to embrace it. So I think my studio would “smell” like motherhood, childhood, loneliness, femininity, feminism — all mixed together.
When you choose the word “smell” for your ceramics, is that intentional?Yes, it’s intentional. It’s a taste. I like the idea that a pottery piece or sculpture feels alive — that behind its shape there’s a story, a smell, memories. It’s all about sharing emotions and showing vulnerability. The more confident I become, the stronger my shapes grow. It just happens naturally.
Can you talk more about your technique? Is technique something you care about, or are you more free in your approach?I guess I have a strong internal vocabulary — shapes, forms — but technically, I’m not academic. I never thought about taking more classes. I got one class as a gift from a friend, and that’s how I returned to clay. I had an artistic, practical school background from ages 12 to 18, so I believe strongly in learning by doing. I’m a big believer in making mistakes, failing, falling, reshaping. Most of the time I’m not happy with what I make — until one day I am. There isn’t a single day without clay. If I don’t touch clay, I feel sad, dry, moody, weird. But I’m not a technician at all. I make so many mistakes — and then suddenly magic happens. That’s really how I work.
It ties back to this wabi-sabi philosophy you mentioned — the beauty of imperfection. Is that something you connect with?Yes, I do. I connect with the beauty of imperfection because it mirrors the beauty of being human. Life is super imperfect — it’s a bit shit, no? And then you have those moments of beauty, those dots of happiness. Clay is a mirror of ourselves. It’s full of imperfections, organic, alive. And yes, wabi-sabi has become a kind of trend, but if you think about it, a beautiful face is asymmetric, a beautiful building or garden is not perfectly straight — it’s the freedom, the irregularity that makes it beautiful. I let things go when I create. But it doesn’t mean I’m easily satisfied — I’m usually not. But sometimes something reaches a “perfect imperfection,” at least for me.
Speaking of trends — Instagram, fashion, visibility. How do you reconnect with today’s audience?I think ceramics became a trend. I reentered clay right before the pandemic, and then ceramics exploded everywhere. I don’t mind. I love clay so much that I understand why it became a trend. Touching clay is magical — everyone should do it once in a while. About Instagram — it’s a nasty animal, but also very useful. I try to approach it happily, like a game, but it’s also serious, because this is my life. I’m an artist; I want to be seen, loved, sold. But I try to stay honest. I don’t fake. I post what I do, how I work. I’m not great at filming myself working — it doesn’t feel natural — so I do less of that. But I love making compositions of my ceramics and taking photos. It’s artisanal, not a professional setup. Just my phone and the light in the studio or the house — but it works. And when people like it, it feels amazing.
What does home mean to you? What does your dream home look like?Home has been a shelter for the last five or six years. As a single mom with two small kids, if you don’t have the money for babysitters — or if you don’t want that life — you spend a lot of time at home. So home became sacred. But it was also a prison. I won’t hide it: single motherhood is a jail. A very difficult mental and physical space, especially if you didn’t choose it. But through art, that prison became the best place to create. My home became my studio, and my studio became my home. Clay is good for this because it doesn’t require much — a table, your hands, and later a kiln.
The house in the countryside is humble, very humble, but it has the ultimate luxury: nature, silence. Everything was shaped slowly — poco a poco — with local workers, whenever I had a bit of money. Home has been a jail, but through art it became wonderful. I’m a home person because I have to be — but also because it’s my happiest place.
Can you talk about one piece that represents you or your collection? Yes, the Buffalo — or Buffalo Moon. It’s one of the emblematic pieces I’ve made in the last couple of years. It was one of the first works where I completely closed the form, moving fully into sculpture. For me, it’s a feminine piece. A woman. A strong she. A strong me. It’s me who follows me. The name came because I was listening to a podcast about mythology while making it. There was a story about a goddess who escaped a male god by turning herself into a cow — a smart cow. I loved that idea. So the Buffalo became a mix of strength and softness, feminine and feminist. The Buffalo is me.
Is there a place in the world where you would like your ceramics to be shown? I don’t have long-term objectives. I go a lot with my instincts. I manifest things. Like, “I’d love to connect with that place, that gallery, that showroom.” A few months ago, for example, I thought, “It would be amazing to start having visibility in New York,” and then suddenly I’m talking to you. I don’t visualize a specific perfect place, but… if I have to choose one, I can say it. I’m obsessed with Jacquemus. I always have been. I adore the story of Simon Porte Jacquemus — his resilience, courage, being himself.
So yes, one place I would love my ceramics to be one day is in a Jacquemus store.
Is there something you want to say to a fellow artist or someone passionate about art? For fellow artists — I believe in work. Just do the job. Every single day.
It’s like automatic writing: you can’t stop. Five minutes, seven minutes, ten minutes — you keep going no matter what. I love those exercises. I do them with my kids.
And I believe in that for all art forms: Do it, do it, do it, do it — badly, badly, badly — and then something good will come. That’s it. Work. Consistency. Emotion.
It makes sense that you’d like Jacquemus. His creativity feels so free. I always imagine him waking up thinking, “I want to do a fashion show on a hill on the coast of France,” and then actually doing it—in the most creative and beautiful way. He seems to have the courage to execute ideas exactly as he imagines them. Exactly. He’s an obsessive hard worker. He started with nothing — no contacts, no money, no advantages. And he went through something catastrophic: he lost his mother when he was 17. He transformed that darkness into strength. I admire that so much. And I don’t think he talks about it too much — maybe too little. But I find him inspiring on every level: the visuals, the intimacy, the storytelling, the discipline. When I like someone’s work, I become obsessive. If I like a writer, I read all their books for six months. With Jacquemus, since the first time I listened to him in 2015 or 2016, I’ve been completely into it. I would love him to see my work. If he loved my work — that would be it. Bye, goodbye. That’s enough for me.
