MAKERS | AFRICA | TUNISIA | CERAMICS

Habib El Ghoul | Potter 

It is on a hill of clay in Guellala, on the southern coast of Djerba, Tunisia, that the workshop of Habib El Ghoul stands. The village is known for its pottery, its underground galleries carved into the earth, and the quiet presence of its kilns. Behind a modest storefront open to the street, craftsmanship is passed on in steady silence. A potter for more than five decades, El Ghoul works entirely by hand, overseeing every stage from raw earth to fired vessel, guided by a belief in objects that are both useful and possessed of presence.

How did you begin?

We are in Guellala, a hill of clay. The village exists because of this clay. Without it, there would be no potters here. My family has always worked with earth. My father was a potter. My grandfather was a potter. I grew up in the workshop.

In the 1950s, there were around 600 potters in Guellala. Almost every family was connected to the craft. I have been in this workshop since the 1970s. I did not plan it, but I stayed; the work suits me. Guellala is organized around pottery. The underground clay galleries in the hills, the kilns, the workshops, the small shops — everything is linked to this material. It is a simple life, but it is complete. When the clay is good and the firing goes well, that is enough.

How did you learn?

I learned everything from my father, Messaoud El Ghoul. Here, the craft is passed from father to son. During the French Protectorate in Tunisia, my father had the opportunity to study at the Manufacture de Sèvres in France. He had already mastered the traditional techniques of Djerba, but in France he discovered ceramics, porcelain, and the art of enamel. Above all, he understood that there were other ways of working.

When he returned to Guellala, he brought back a different vision. He believed that tradition could evolve without losing itself. But the villagers did not follow him. They chose to remain faithful to the ancestral pottery. He initiated me into this craft, and into the idea that an object is not only made to be useful. It must also have presence. It must exist on its own — unique and sincere.

I began at the age of 15. I learned to use the wheel, to control its speed, to hold and prepare the clay, to center it, and above all to think about the piece before shaping it. After five years, I was able to work independently. I could manage every stage myself — from preparing the clay to shaping the form and controlling the fire of the kiln. From earth to fire, the whole process was in my hands.

How do you plan, prepare and execute your works?

Apart from extracting the clay from the underground galleries — demanding work carried out in narrow and unstable passages — I manage the entire process myself. The clay is dried in the sun, crushed, and cleaned of stones and gypsum. It is then mixed with water in a deep basin and kneaded with the feet. The type of water determines the final color: fresh water gives red pottery, while salty water produces yellow tones.

After drying again for about 15 days, the clay is ready to be worked on the wheel. My process is entirely artisanal. I do not use machines. My wheel is manual, and I have two traditional kilns that I fire with branches and wood — one for large pieces and a smaller one for my miniatures. I prefer to work slowly, alone, without mechanization. In this way, the piece remains authentic. From beginning to end, everything passes through my hands. The fire requires patience and attention. Nothing can be rushed.

Who or what most influences your work?

My work is deeply influenced by my family heritage and by the territory of Guellala. I am part of a long tradition, but I try to evolve it through precision in finishing, burnishing and firing. The forms I create are often simple and functional. I am drawn to essential shapes that highlight the material itself. Each piece must feel coherent from beginning to end. Working alone allows me to maintain this continuity. The preparation of the clay, the shaping, the polishing and the firing are all connected. There is no separation between the creative and technical aspects — they are part of the same gesture.

What does a typical day look like?

I spend most of my time in my workshop and shop. It is here that I shape my pieces, receive clients, and sometimes introduce them to pottery. There is a darker room used for storage. I keep the clay in a basin about sixty centimeters underground, away from light, so it does not dry too quickly. In the main room, the wheel faces the entrance. 

The walls are lined with my pieces, and the windows serve as display cases, showing the pottery to the street. A few meters from the workshop, on land that belonged to my grandfather, are my two kilns — one for large pieces and one for smaller works. There I also keep the wood and olive branches for the fire, the raw clay brought directly from the quarries, a basin for mixing clay and water, and a small storage space where the pieces dry before firing. Everything is close. Each space has its purpose.

What are the joys and difficulties of being a craftsman today?

The work is demanding. It requires strength and patience. With time, the body grows more tired. Today, many things move quickly. I work at my own pace. I do not produce only to sell. I make a piece because I feel the need to make it, because the form seems right to me. If someone loves it and wishes to take it, then it leaves. Otherwise, it stays here. The joy is when my work is recognized. When someone understands the time and attention behind each piece. That is enough for me.

An object you’ll never part with?

The hazamîya: a piece of woven wool, marked with white and maroon bands, tied around the waist before going down to work the clay. It is a simple gesture, but an important one. My ancestors wore it. My father did too. When I tie it, my day begins. It is a way of entering the work. It protects me from the cold and the damp, but above all, it connects me to those who practiced this craft before me.

Interview and Images by Mehdi Allani