If you’ve ever seen Ghost, you’re well aware of the magic of a pot rising from the skilled hands of a potter at her wheel. Sans Demi, the sight retains its mystique—even at the wheel of professional potter Rob Barnard.

Barnard, in town for the opening of his new exhibition at Boston’s Genovese Sullivan gallery, gave a full-day workshop entitled “The Good, The Bad and the Ugly—The Process of Discovery” at the studio of Harvard’s Ceramics Program, run by the Office For the Arts. The workshop, part of the OFA’s Visiting Artist Program, consisted of a slide show and lecture, followed by a demonstration and informal discussion.

The Ceramics Program, which is open to all members of the Cambridge/Boston community in addition to undergraduates and Harvard affiliates, is the frequent meeting ground of local professional potters who regularly work in the well-equipped 10,000 square foot space. The popularity of the program among professional artists may explain why none of the ten attendees of Barnard’s workshop were undergraduates or, for that matter, under the age of 50.

Nancy Selvage, the program’s director, realized that holding the day-long workshop on a Friday would prevent most undergraduates from attending but added that other, similar workshops were often held on weekends. Such workshops, which are offered free or at a reduced price to undergrads, supplement the program’s semester-long courses, drop in clay modeling sessions, and Clay All Night party.

Some of Barnard’s more technical points may have been lost on amateur clay enthusiasts anyway. When, at one point during the demonstration, Barnard asked for a bat, at least two participants rushed off to the back, returning moments later with a round board used to enlarge the wheel’s surface for bigger projects. Soon after, while watching Barnard manipulate the clay, one observer marveled cryptically to another, “look at how he uses the spiral there, brings it in and pushes it out again.”

On a less technical level though, Barnard’s reflections about art and aesthetics are interesting for a general audience. Barnard lived and studied in Japan, and many of his beliefs about the value of art are derived from his experiences there. In Japan, where pottery has both a practical use in tea ceremonies and an aesthetic value, Barnard learned to carefully balance the beauty and usefulness of pottery. Even today, this concern shapes his work, as Barnard always asks himself, “Why would someone buy my pitcher instead of a five dollar one from Walmart?”

A signature of Barnard’s work––and one way Barnard tries to answer this question––is an imperfect, hand-made appearance. To this end, he intentionally leaves his little blunders untouched, and, if a piece on the wheel looks too immaculate, he will purposely damage it.

At one point, placing a huge chunk of reddish clay on the wheel, Barnard alternatively pressed and stretched the shapeless mass into an imposing two-foot tall tower. Within minutes, he reshaped the mound into an attractive vase. He lifted it off the wheel and began to prod it with his fingers, smushing in the smooth, round sides and denting the upper lip quite a bit. “Now,” he says, satisfied, “it feels heavy.”

In the end, this “feeling,” the transcendent quality of a piece, is for Barnard what makes his art worthwhile––not necessarily the process of forming clay into vessel. According to him, throwing is “just a technical thing…some people just have a facility, you know, they can take clay and they can really stretch it and get a lot out of it. I always feel like I’m struggling. I’m struggling right now.”

One attendee, by now well-schooled in the Barnard doctrine, responds pointedly: “But you like that, that’s what you’re going for.”

The pieces on display at the Genovese Sullivan gallery, located in the South End, are glazed and fired, unlike the dozen demonstration pots he has left to dry in Cambridge. The majority of the work is finished with a cracked white glaze; the rest is dark and partially metallic, a result of the wood-firing technique Barnard sometimes uses. An assortment ranging from small white teacups to huge cracked plates is spread out on stands and shelves in the gallery. Multimedia artist Kelly Spalding shares the show, and her brightly striped canvases hang above the pottery.

The blemishes, cracks, tilts, and dents of the pieces help them to stand up to the cold whiteness of the gallery space and to hold their own next to the less austere Spaldings. Barnard’s hand is evident on the piece, explaining, perhaps, the great price difference between one of his teacups and one of Walmart’s.

Rob Barnard’s show, at Genovese Sullivan, 47 Thayer St., will be up until March 30.