A quantum leap to what was being produced in the colonies.
In the rock garden of a Tasmanian home, a chipped vase half-buried in the dirt held a secret that would take four decades to fully surface. What Rod Goss purchased for a small sum in the 1980s turned out to be a rare surviving object from colonial Sydney's convict potteries — a piece of decorative ambition made by transported Staffordshire craftsmen in the 1820s, at a time when such refinement was not supposed to exist in the colonies. The discovery quietly reframes what we understand about the skills, aspirations, and hidden contributions of those who were sent to the ends of the earth as punishment.
- A single phrase stamped on a vase's base — 'New South Wales' — made no historical sense, and that impossibility became a four-decade obsession for one Tasmanian collector.
- Decorative colonial pottery of this quality was not meant to exist: historians had long assumed early Australian manufacturing was too crude and survival-focused to produce anything approaching English refinement.
- Piece by piece, Goss connected the vase to archaeological finds, an Italian artist's original drawing, and ultimately to two convict potters — John Moreton and Jonathan Leak — skilled Staffordshire craftsmen who had been transported for burglary and put to work by Governor Macquarie.
- Heritage experts describe the vase as exceptional, one of only a handful of comparable colonial objects in all of Australia, representing a dramatic leap beyond the coarse utilitarian wares that defined the era.
- The object now stands as both artifact and emblem — made by a convicted man, for an aspiring colonial class looking to England for dignity, and nearly destroyed by a child throwing pebbles in a garden.
Rod Goss was leaving a house in Sorell, Tasmania, when a damaged vase half-buried in a rock garden stopped him. It was the 1980s. The piece showed a chariot drawn by a lion — intricate, refined, the kind of thing you'd expect in an English drawing room. He bought it. The elderly owner mentioned that as a child, she and her brother used to throw pebbles at the lion.
When Goss washed away the dirt at home, he found a marking on the base: New South Wales. That phrase would consume the next four decades of his life. Decorative pottery from the colonies wasn't supposed to exist — early colonial wares were rough, utilitarian, made for survival. Without the internet, Goss followed lead after lead, eventually connecting with Sydney archaeologists who had found a similar marked piece in a cesspit. Then he traced the vase's design to an original drawing by Italian artist Giovanni Battista Cipriani, placing its creation between 1825 and 1830. The colonial marking, he learned, had a practical purpose: it allowed the piece to be exported to Van Diemen's Land without incurring a tariff.
Heritage adviser Graham Wilson, part of what Goss calls the 'pottery underground,' examined the piece and called it exceptional — one of only a handful of comparable objects from colonial potteries in all of Australia. The likely maker was John Moreton, a Staffordshire potter transported as a convict for burglary. Moreton and fellow convict Jonathan Leak had been placed in charge of Governor Lachlan Macquarie's government pottery unit, and when that operation ended, they continued producing wares privately — ginger beer bottles, ale bottles, and apparently, something far more ambitious.
Wilson described the vase as a product of a particular colonial moment: a class emerging from the wreckage of a society built on lawbreakers, former convicts striving to establish themselves as respectable, looking to England for models of taste and refinement. The vase was both object and symbol of that impossible reach — English in quality, colonial in origin, made by a man sent to the other side of the world as punishment.
Goss still owns the piece. He's unsure whether it belongs in a museum, but he knows how close it came to being lost — one more pebble, and it would have shattered into nothing. Instead, a collector's stubborn refusal to let a mystery rest has returned it to history.
Rod Goss was leaving an elderly woman's house in Sorell, Tasmania, when a damaged vase half-buried in her rock garden stopped him cold. It was the 1980s. The piece showed a chariot drawn by a lion—intricate, refined, the kind of thing you'd expect to find in an English drawing room from the late 1700s. He asked if he could buy it. She said yes, and mentioned that as a child she and her brother used to throw pebbles at the lion.
When Goss got home and washed away the dirt, he found a marking on the bottom: New South Wales. That single phrase would consume the next four decades of his life.
Goss, who describes himself as a "mad collector"—glassware, furniture, art, anything with a story—became obsessed with understanding what he held. The marking made no sense. Decorative pottery from the colonies? That wasn't supposed to exist. Early colonial wares were utilitarian, rough, made for function not beauty. Without the internet to guide him, he pursued every lead, following what he calls rabbit holes that opened into other rabbit holes. Eventually his search connected him with Sydney archaeologists who had uncovered a similar piece in a cesspit, also marked New South Wales. Then came the breakthrough: he found the original drawing that appeared on the vase, created by Italian artist Giovanni Battista Cipriani. That gave him a date—likely between 1825 and 1830, after New South Wales and Van Diemen's Land had separated. The marking itself served a practical purpose: it allowed the vase to be exported to Van Diemen's Land without triggering a tariff.
Heritage adviser Graham Wilson, part of what Goss calls the "pottery underground," examined the piece and called it exceptional. There were only a handful of objects of similar quality and date from the colonial potteries in all of Australia. Early colonial pottery was extraordinarily coarse, Wilson explained—rough and ready, made for survival. Goss's vase represented a quantum leap. The likely maker was John Moreton, a Staffordshire potter who had arrived in the colony as a convict, sentenced for burglary. Moreton and fellow convict Jonathan Leak, also skilled potters, had been placed in charge of Governor Lachlan Macquarie's government pottery unit. When that operation ceased, they continued producing wares for private clients and commercial use—ginger beer bottles, ale bottles, pieces now highly collectable.
The vase would have been made in the Brickfields area of Sydney for someone in Van Diemen's Land with money and aspirations. Wilson described a particular moment in colonial history: a class emerging from the wreckage of a society composed primarily of lawbreakers, former convicts trying to establish themselves as an upper class, looking to England for models of refinement and taste. The vase was both product and symbol of that impossible ambition—English quality, colonial origin, made by a man who had been sent to the other side of the planet as punishment.
Goss still owns the piece. He's uncertain whether it belongs in a museum, but he knows it could easily have been lost. Another child with a rock, another garden, and the vase would have shattered into nothing. Instead, a collector's stubbornness—his refusal to let a mystery rest—has returned it to history. He continues collecting, always looking, always following the threads that lead somewhere unexpected.
Notable Quotes
It's an exceptional piece. There are literally a handful of objects of a similar quality and date coming from the colonial potteries in Australia.— Graham Wilson, heritage adviser
History is made and lost and it could have just as easily been left in someone's garden and be broken by another child with a rock.— Rod Goss, collector
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
What made you keep going for forty years on a single vase?
I'm like a dog with a bone. Once I found that marking—New South Wales—I had to know. Without the internet, it was detective work. Dead ends, then suddenly a connection that opened everything up.
Did you ever think it might be worthless?
No. I knew it was old, I knew it was well-made. But I didn't know it was impossible—that's what made it matter. Nobody thought the colonies could make something like that.
The convicts who made it—Moreton and Leak—they were sent there as punishment.
Exactly. They were burglars from Staffordshire, skilled craftsmen, and they ended up running the government pottery. They made things equal to what was being made in England. That's the story nobody was telling.
Do you think it belongs in a museum?
Probably. But I'm not ready to let it go yet. It could have been smashed in someone's garden. Instead it's here, and its history is finally known. That's enough for now.
What does it tell us about colonial Australia?
That it was trying desperately to be England while being something completely different. A society of lawbreakers building refinement. A convict potter making beauty. That contradiction is the whole story.