What I learned at a Spanish majolica workshop

My day trip to a Spanish majolica workshop began with a short walk across Barcelona, clay dust under my shoes and a folder of colour references tucked under my arm. The studio was quiet and sunlit, with shelves of brushes, jars of pigment and completed plates waiting along the walls. I had booked the session for the experience of making something by hand, not for a flawlessly symmetrical souvenir.

Majolica is a decorative form of tin-glazed earthenware, but the name alone does not capture its appeal. The technique relies on an opaque white ground, hand-painted mineral colours and a final firing that transforms separate brushstrokes into a luminous surface. The workshop reflected the same nature-driven sensibility found in Amelia Johannsen’s work, where Pacific Northwest forests meet the Mediterranean shoreline.

I expected to paint a few simple leaves and call it finished. Instead, the teacher introduced us to borders, repeating petals, stylised waves and the visual grammar of Spanish decorative tiles. Plates and tiles were only the beginning; every mark needed to respect the shape beneath it while still allowing the maker’s hand to remain visible.

By sunset, my plate carried uneven cobalt lines, a confident orange flower and evidence of several second guesses. More valuable than the object itself was the change in how I approached it. I stopped treating a first mark as a permanent decision and began seeing each layer as part of a conversation with the material.

Before the first brush

The studio opened with aprons, water jars and a view of the workbench. Each place had a pale ceramic tile already prepared with its white ground, along with several brushes of different widths. We were told to test the bristles on a scrap piece and to keep one brush for each colour. Simple rules created a calm starting point in a room filled with energetic conversation.

The teacher demonstrated how a loaded brush leaves a broad, watery mark while a drier stroke produces a broken edge. She showed us how pressure changes the width of a petal and why a single painted line should sometimes stop short of perfection. A shared screen displayed decorative references, including the Julian Eltinge Project, which offered a useful contrast between flat digital imagery and the slight irregularity of brushwork on clay.

I copied a curling wave in my notebook before touching the tile. Once the brush reached the surface, careful planning gave way to quicker movements. The white ground swallowed some pigment, while other strokes remained sharply defined. That variation felt less like failure than evidence of the process.

Painting with a Spanish grammar

Our instructions arrived through a mixture of Spanish and English. Phrases such as “more pressure,” “less water” and “let it dry” became practical tools rather than foreign vocabulary to translate. When a direction was unclear, the teacher picked up the brush and demonstrated the movement. We pointed, watched and understood.

That lesson stayed with me, and Amelia’s guide to teaching in a foreign language explains why demonstration, repetition and visual cues work so well in a multilingual studio. A hand gesture can communicate a curved stroke instantly, while a shared picture makes instructions accessible even when confidence in the spoken language is limited.

The colours provided another form of communication. Cobalt blue established a strong outline, yellow softened the design and a trace of green changed the mood of an orange flower. I learned to check the underside of my tile as well as the face, since a painted edge becomes part of the object when it is lifted.

Mistakes were rarely discarded. A leaf that crossed a border became an abstract shape, and a smear of blue was incorporated into a wave. This approach made the work feel less precious. I could keep moving, observe what had happened and adjust the next line with less anxiety.

What the kiln changes

Once the painting was complete, each tile received a clear glaze and was placed on a shelf for drying. This was the point at which the workshop shifted from decoration to ceramics. The brushwork would remain temporary until heat bound it to the clay and brought out the depth of the colours.

The kiln firing made some marks richer and others softer. The cobalt lines appeared darker, while the white ground gained a gentle shine. Small variations in thickness became more noticeable under the glaze, including one orange petal whose edge had been slightly heavier than intended. Rather than hiding these traces, the teacher encouraged us to read them as part of the plate’s character.

The waiting period also changed the social rhythm of the day. We cleaned the tables, washed the brushes and shared wine and tapas while the kiln did its work. The meal felt integrated with the craft rather than separate from it, with conversation moving between the table, the studio and the patterns we had painted.

That combination of making and sharing is central to Amelia’s hands-on clay experiences. It lowers the pressure to produce a technically perfect result and gives participants time to understand what the material is doing. By the time the kiln opened, we already regarded our plates as the result of a day together.

Bringing the craft home to Australia

Back in Australia, the finished plate looked at home among familiar objects. Sydney’s coastal light and Melbourne’s changing skies offer a natural reference for the workshop’s botanical and oceanic motifs. The Mediterranean patterns felt distant, yet their sense of wind, plants and weathered surfaces translated easily into an Australian setting.

Practical habits also influenced what I would do differently next time. Australians are accustomed to reusable takeaway cups, tap-and-go cards and temperatures expressed in Celsius. In a pottery studio, those everyday details matter: a kiln controller uses the same numerical scale as an oven, but reaches temperatures no domestic oven can handle. I would also bring a smaller water bottle and choose clothing that can handle splashes without distraction.

At weekend makers’ markets in Melbourne and Sydney, hand-finished tableware attracts attention because shoppers can see the variation between pieces. A single plate with a visible brushstroke tells a different story from a uniform collection, while its Australian retail price generally includes GST. Stallholders often explain the firing process, local clay and design influences, giving buyers a connection that mass-produced ceramics cannot easily provide.

Selling or gifting decorated ceramics also carries legal responsibilities under the Australian Consumer Law. Claims such as “food-safe” or “dishwasher-safe” need proper support, and decorative pieces should not be marketed for food use unless they meet the relevant Australian requirements for ceramic tableware. Clear labelling protects both the artist and the customer, particularly when one-off work crosses between a studio and the public market.

Keep the clay moving

The strongest lesson was to work with uncertainty instead of waiting for certainty. Majolica rewards observation: the way pigment settles, how a brush loses moisture and which marks improve after firing cannot be fully predicted. Allowing that unpredictability made the process more relaxed and more engaging.

I also learned that good teaching crosses language barriers. Clear examples, repeated gestures and patience are often more useful than elaborate explanations. These principles apply equally to a beginner workshop, an experienced class or a group of visitors arriving with different levels of confidence.

Amelia’s workshops combine clay, nature-inspired design and sociable food breaks, creating a setting where participants can try something unfamiliar without feeling judged. Explore Amelia Johannsen’s ceramics and workshop calendar, follow the studio on Instagram and join the mailing list to discover upcoming events. Then choose a blank surface, make one confident mark and let each following layer change the work.