They are made to be held
Each figure fits inside two hands. The weight is real, the surface catches on skin, and the face is found by turning it slowly toward the light.
No two hold the same expression
Eyes are pressed with a single tool, once. Whatever mood the pressure leaves is the mood the piece keeps.
Fired, not finished
The kiln decides the last of it: how far the speckle blooms, where the grey goes to green, which pores stay open.

