To walk past Karen Swami’s door will not leave one unscathed.

We already suspect it, as our inquisitive eye flies across the window through the timeless coloured ceramics.

We fear it even more as we, without us knowing, find ourselves in a sea of vases, each expressing an insatiable hunger for perfection. Suddenly, it is too late. What shall we do? Conquer one of these never-before-seen shapes and endlessly enjoy caressing it with our eye or our hand, or endlessly dream about it, like one does of a silhouette briefly glimpsed around a street corner, a foreseen happiness forever lost.

Not much left to do but play for time. Though pleasure may rhyme with torture! Karen Swami speaks. No one will, better than she does, talk about these ceramic pieces borne out of her hands that say so much about her: her beaming energy, vibrant reds flowing like a vermilion lava on the dried earth; her quietness, subtle water greens, softly distilled in a reinvented aquatic world; her telluric strength, raw materials gushing forth; and her more troubled side, knowingly hid behind her smoke fired ceramics.