Lifestyle
This L.A. ceramist's vessels offer joy in uncertain times. Thank her 'weird imagination'
Linda Hsiao was standing at a weathered work table inside her ceramics studio in Altadena. It was the day after Halloween, and her two children, Saben Taylor, 5, and Wawona Hsiao, 3, worked alongside her, hand-sculpting clay vessels as wild as a child’s imagination. Like Saben’s handprints in the concrete patio outside the studio, Hsiao’s own wildly creative imprint is clear in the whimsical vessels that line the shelves of the former two-car garage: from long-beaked toucan pitchers and owl juicers to Japanese daruma wishing dolls and Venus of Willendorf lady tiki cups.
“I’ve always had a weird imagination,” Hsiao said as she continued to work on an emerging large-scale vase. “I like the idea of creating mythical creatures that are a hybrid. They are ambiguous and not quite what you would assume. I wish they existed.”
“Are we going to school today?” Saben asked.
“Yes,” Hsiao replied, to his disappointment.
Ceramist Linda Hsiao and her children Wawona Hsiao, 3, and Saben Taylor, 5, get to work in the studio behind their home in Altadena.
“They know I enjoy what I do,” Hsiao said of her children and working from home.
“Many of my vessels are inspired by my kids,” Hsiao said after Saben and Wawona left for school with their father, architect Kagan Taylor. “I feel like I’m constantly being filled … and emptied.”
Hsiao grew up in Laguna Hills, where her parents, Taiwanese immigrants, ran a farm specializing in Chinese fruits and vegetables such as bok choy and bamboo shoots. Her proximity to the ocean and their farm inspired her love of nature, which she describes as “a leading force” in her life. Looking back, she laughs as she recalls explaining to her elementary school teacher that “watermelons were not just red, but yellow too.” This love for nature is evident in her ceramics, which often feature elements of the natural world.
From a young age, Hsiao, now 42, was drawn to working with her hands and taking art and sculpting classes. Her parents wanted to support her and sent her to a summer program at Parsons School of Design in New York City as a teenager. “My parents thought, ‘That’ll get New York out of her system,’” she said with a chuckle. But it only fueled her passion further.
Hsiao takes holiday ornaments out of her kiln in her studio.
Whimsical ceramic creatures are designed to hold birthday candles.
After high school, Hsiao attended Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, where she studied industrial design. Following her graduation in 2004, she dedicated nearly a decade to designing eyewear, often spending 12 hours a day in front of a computer. This intense focus left her feeling “dizzy” and craving a more hands-on creative outlet.
So she joined a few community studios in Brooklyn and started doing ceramics. However, living in New York was hard, and she missed gardening and the easy access to nature in California.
After nine years, she moved back to California, where she took ceramics classes at Saddleback College and Glendale Community College at night while freelancing — designing everything from eyewear to jewelry for big brands to snowboarding gear — during the day.
A hand-building class with ceramics artist and teacher Biliana Popova at Glendale Community College changed her career path. “I didn’t take to wheel throwing because I didn’t want things to be perfectly symmetrical,” Hsiao said. “I always wanted to manipulate my forms and change them. My hands always wanted to sculpt. After I took a hand-building class, I never looked back.”
“I always wanted to manipulate my forms and change them,” Hsiao said. “My hands always wanted to sculpt.”
Hsiao’s ceramics are sweet and quirky — tiki cups, Japanese daruma wishing dolls, tiny creatures and bird pitchers and creamers.
Later, after she met her husband — and before they had children — the couple collaborated on a series of handmade wooden baby rattles they sold as part of Knotwork LA, and she began to do ceramics out of their home in Highland Park. (They have temporarily stopped making the rattles but hope to re-stock them again as the kids get older.)
“Knotwork LA was created as an outlet to identify the work we do in our spare time,” she said. “Precious pieces of wood saved from other projects or found while hiking, ideas that came to us in the middle of the night and a desire to create beautiful, useful things.” After juggling freelance work and producing ceramics in the evenings and on weekends for 10 years, she decided to take a leap of faith and do ceramics full-time in 2016.
She started with an order of more than 800 plates and dishes for Curtis Stone’s restaurant, Gwen, in Hollywood.
Since then, her studio has evolved as her work has become more sculptural, and her inventory has become more broad.
Ceramic bird pitchers are inspired by nature.
A completed ceramic bird pitcher in blue.
Hsiao’s handmade ceramics and figurines, many of which she cuts out using a cardboard template after rolling the clay flat with a slab roller, exhibit a playful style that is thoroughly her own. “It’s kind of like sewing,” she said of using patterns. “I cut them out with a knife and mold and sculpt them afterward.”
Her works are filled with whimsy and joy, including a collection of platters and plates featuring inlaid porcelain flowers, vaguely defined creatures that hold birthday candles, penguin pitchers and buddhas. Although she has made lamps, she prefers to focus on affordable goods that can go straight into someone’s home for them to enjoy. “I like having a price point that is somewhat attainable for most people,” she said. “Lamps are expensive.”
Her dream was always to have a studio at home, invest in a kiln and save money on studio expenses. After purchasing their first home in 2020, the couple spent eight months redoing the garage, which had a collapsed roof, last year. The studio is now an artist’s dream, with two kilns, ample space to work, storage and a dedicated area where Hsiao can pack her orders.
“I was using our bedroom as our showroom before,” she said. “It was rough.”
Sketches of empty vessels hang on the wall of Hsiao’s studio.
“The first thing my mom bought me for my studio was a slab roller,” Hsiao said. “She said, ‘I don’t want you to hurt yourself. This is my gift for your studio.’”
But even though Hsiao is working from home most days, meeting people in person has always been a highlight of having a small business. In order to do even more of that, she, Heather Praun of Plant Material and designer Bianca D’Amico of Chaparral Studio launched a semi-annual craft show at Plant Material’s Altadena location. They’ve held “about five” of them so far; the next takes place Dec. 14 and 15. “The whole community shows up,” she said, smiling. “I’ve been lucky enough to participate in some of the most vibrant collections of makers throughout the years and made friends with many. It was a delight after moving to Altadena to find that so many of the makers have found themselves here raising families, going to the same schools and parks.”
“How she prioritizes creativity in all aspects of her life has always inspired me,” D’Amico said. “There is endless thought and time poured into her work, but she exercises that part of herself in every aspect of her life. Even dinner [at] home has a crafty element: food tossed colorfully into various homemade bowls, the kids always helping make the food and nothing needs to match; it’s all about the time spent together. There is a sense that life is happening NOW, and she is engrossed in the moment.”
“People can see that my work is hand built,” Hsiao said.
Hsiao said that balancing a small business in the backyard can be challenging while raising two young children, but she appreciates that she can return to the studio after she has put the kids to bed. “I’ve learned to love the quiet of working in the evenings, [and I ] try to take breaks on the weekends and fully spend time with the kids,” she said. “The balance is tough, but my kids see me trying to sneak in work since my studio is at home and always ask to help. They know I enjoy what I do, and I have no doubt they will spend more time with me in my studio as they get older.”
Despite feeling like an empty vessel sometimes — “much of it feels like there are never enough hours in the day,” she said — Hsiao knows time spent with her kids is fleeting. As she figures out what work/life balance means for her family, she often goes back to something artist and mother Megan Whitmarsh shared with her: “You will never regret all the work you didn’t make while your children were little because you decided to be a present and loving parent.”
In this series, we highlight independent makers and artists, from glassblowers to fiber artists, who are creating and producing original products in Los Angeles.
Lifestyle
‘How to Rule the World’ explores education and power at Stanford University
Students walk on the Stanford University campus on March 14, 2019, in Stanford, Calif.
Ben Margot/AP
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Ben Margot/AP
When Theo Baker arrived at Stanford University a few years ago, he joined the student newspaper, following the path of his journalist parents, Peter Baker, a White House correspondent for The New York Times, and Susan Glasser, a writer for The New Yorker.
Through his reporting as a student journalist, he eventually broke a story about manipulated data in Stanford President Marc Tessier-Lavigne’s neuroscience research that helped lead to the university president’s resignation.
Theo Baker’s book, How to Rule the World: An Education in Power at Stanford University was released May 19. In it, Baker describes Stanford as a place where proximity to Silicon Valley gives rise to a parallel system of influence, recruitment and money, with investors looking to identify promising students almost as soon as they arrive on campus.
He told Morning Edition host Steve Inskeep there was “a sort of Stanford inside Stanford,” where elite students are drawn into an “alternate reality” of excess and access to cut corners.
In the interview, he discusses how Stanford is not just a university but also a pipeline where status and power can matter as much as ideas.
We reached out to Stanford University for comment and have not heard back.
Listen to the interview by clicking play on the blue box above.
Lifestyle
OTB Takes Full Control of Viktor & Rolf
Lifestyle
How having zero points in tennis — or ‘love’ — came to sound so sweet
The scoreboard shows the results of the women’s singles final match between Iga Swiatek of Poland and Amanda Anisimova of the U.S. at the Wimbledon Tennis Championships in London, Saturday, July 12, 2025.
Kirsty Wigglesworth/AP
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Kirsty Wigglesworth/AP
Fifteen points in tennis? Nice. Thirty, 40 — even better. Advantage — that sounds good. “Love” — that also must be great, right? Well, not quite.
As the French Open rolls on and Serena Williams has announced her return to the sport, maybe you’ve been paying a little more attention to tennis. The sport’s scoring system is notably distinct, and can sometimes be hard to grasp for newcomers. But even tennis aficionados might not know why, or how, “love” became the unmistakable callout for zero points. For this installment of NPR’s Word of the Week, we’re exploring how a word that signifies trailing behind got such a sweet name.
“Love” comes from the heart — or an egg?
It’s hard to pinpoint when the first tennis ball went over the net. Tennis is a derivative of lots of other sports, such as “jeu de paume,” a handball game played in France, said JT Buzanga, the collections manager at the International Tennis Hall of Fame museum.

But tennis became a patented, official sport in 1874, said Steve Flink, a journalist whose tennis coverage got him inducted into the International Tennis Hall of Fame. It has retained its unique, mysterious scoring system ever since.
“By and large, the original system has held up almost entirely,” Flink said.
The use of “love” goes back to the late 18th century, said Jesse Sheidlower, a lexicographer. But it was used earlier than that in card games such as whist and bridge. Before the term made its way to tennis, the sport favored plain old “nothing,” or “nil,” he said.
Why love in the first place, though? Historians don’t really know for sure, but there are a few theories.
The French could have something to do with it. Some historians believe “love” derives from “l’oeuf,” which means “the egg” in French. Because eggs are shaped like zeros, terms such as “goose egg” and “duck’s egg” have been used in other contexts to mean zero, Sheidlower said.
It’s also possible English speakers mispronounced l’oeuf as “love.” But Sheidlower isn’t convinced that’s the answer.
“It’s the French equivalent of an English expression. But since that expression doesn’t appear in French, the French word wouldn’t have been used,” he said.
To be sure, France has had a lot of influence on tennis culture, Buzanga said. For example, “deuce” or a game tied at 40 points, comes from the French word for “two”: “deux.” But he prefers another prominent theory: that “love” comes from the idiom “for the love of the game.” Even if a player hasn’t scored, it doesn’t matter, because their heart is in it. It’s the theory Sheidlower said is the most plausible, because the idiom was used by the English before tennis was popularized.

Another variation of the “love of the game” theory is that the word could have come from the Dutch “lof,” or “honor” — or the Latin “amare,” meaning “to love,” Flink said.
But if tennis’ “love” doesn’t come from a French word, the theory at least has a French sensibility.
“I think the ‘for the love of the game’ is kind of romantic,” Buzanga said.
“Love” probably isn’t going anywhere
Tennis used to be a sport of leisure. The style of play has changed a lot over the years; players are more athletic and competitive, for instance, Flink said. But the rules of the sport are more steadfast, he said.
“There’s this incredible, enduring respect for tradition in tennis,” he said. “Changes are not made easily.”
There has been one major change in modern history: the tie-break. Matches can go on and on because players have to score two consecutive points to break a deuce, or by two games to break a tied set. But the onset of television meant matches would have to get shorter if the sport wanted to capture a larger audience, Flink said.

Change even came for “love.” An alternative sprouted up in the 1970s, and is still used today: “bagel,” named for its zero shape, Sheidlower said. Novices may say “zero,” and insiders will understand what they mean, but they “will needle them about it,” Flink said.
But “love” still prevails.
“People kind of like it,” Flink said. “It’s different. Why say zero when you can say love?”
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