Layering glazes is where pottery stops feeling like following a recipe and starts feeling like cooking. You dip a mug in a satin white, let it dry, dip the rim in an iron tenmoku, and the kiln hands back something that looks like a storm front. It is also how a beginner ends up with two pots welded to a kiln shelf and a fresh dislike of the whole idea.
Test tiles take most of the risk out of it. Not because they are tidy, but because they let you be wrong at a scale you can afford. What follows is a working method: how to make tiles worth firing, what to write down, and which combinations to keep away from your good work.
Roll a slab to about 6 mm (a quarter inch) and cut rectangles roughly 5 by 8 cm. Punch a hole near one end with a straw so you can hang the finished tile on a wire later. While the clay is still leather hard, scratch a number into the back with a needle tool. Pencil and marker burn away in the bisque; a scratched number does not.
Use the same clay body as your pots. A glaze that sings on porcelain can look muddy on speckled stoneware, and a tile made from a scrap bag tells you almost nothing about the clay you actually throw. If you work in two bodies, make two sets of tiles. Label them with a clay code as well as a number, because “tile 4” means nothing when you have a drawer full of tile 4s.
Make more than you need. Twenty tiles is an afternoon and a fistful of clay. Stand some of them upright on their edges instead of laying them flat. A flat tile shows color and surface; a leaning tile shows movement, and movement is what welds pots to shelves.
If you want to test how a glaze behaves on a rim or a foot, make a few small pinch cups or thrown cylinders as well. Tiles are flat, and pots are not. A combination that looks calm on a tile can still pool in a mug’s interior or break over a rim. The tile is the first filter, not the final answer.
By the time you unload, you will not remember whether tile 7 was two dips of oatmeal with one dip of blue over the top, or the other way around. Record every tile before it goes in. A small notebook is enough; the format matters less than the consistency.
Photograph the finished tile next to its notebook page. Ceramic surfaces shift under different lighting, and a phone photo taken in the same spot every time will save you from arguing with your own memory six months later.
A simple naming system helps when a combination works. Try something like 240615-SW-OAT-BLU-2.5: date, clay code, first glaze, second glaze, and dip time. It looks ridiculous until the day you need to remake a winner and cannot remember whether “the blue one” was cobalt or rutile.
Commercial glazes are formulated to be applied at a specific thickness. Layer two of them and you are applying roughly twice that thickness, often more in the overlap. That extra glass is what runs.
If a glaze runs on its own, layering it does not make it polite. It makes it a bigger problem.
Once the kiln is cool, do not just pick the prettiest tile and start glazing mugs. Read each one like a mechanic reading a spark plug. The surface tells you what happened, and the edges tell you what will happen on a vertical pot.
Keep the ugly tiles. They are the ones that teach you where the edge is. A tile with a run you can trace back to a four-second dip is more useful than ten perfect tiles with no notes.
You do not need to test every glaze in the studio. Pick three base glazes you already trust and three accent glazes you are curious about. Make a set of tiles that covers each glaze alone, each base with each accent on top, and each accent with each base on top. That is twenty-four tiles, which sounds like a lot until you realize it is one afternoon of rolling and dipping.
Use short dips for every tile. Stand half of them upright. Fire them together, on the same shelf if possible. When they come out, arrange them in a grid on a table and photograph the whole grid. You will see patterns faster than reading twenty-four notes one by one.
For example, a simple test might give you oatmeal as a base and iron tenmoku as an accent. Oatmeal alone is a soft, satin tan. Tenmoku alone is dark brown where thick and amber where thin. Oatmeal under tenmoku can give you a warm, breaking rim that looks like toasted bread. Tenmoku under oatmeal can turn muddy and stiff. That one test tells you the order matters.
Another useful pair is satin white and blue rutile. Blue rutile over satin white often gives a soft, watercolor blue with speckles. Satin white over blue rutile can
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