LUBBOCK — Every winter, after the sea of cotton has been harvested in the South Plains and the ground looks barren, technicians with the High Plains Underground Water Conservation District check the water levels in nearly 75,000 wells across 16 counties. For years, their measurements have shown what farmers and water conservationists fear most—the Ogallala Aquifer, an underground water source that’s the lifeblood of the South Plains agriculture industry, is running dry. That’s because of a century-old law called the rule of capture. The rule is simple: If you own the land above an aquifer in Texas, the water underneath is yours. You can use as much as you want, as long as it’s not wasted or taken maliciously. The same applies to your neighbor. If they happen to use more water than you, then that’s just bad luck. To put it another way, landowners can mostly pump as much water as they choose without facing liability to surrounding landowners whose wells might be depleted as a result. Following the Dust Bowl—and to stave off catastrophe—state lawmakers created groundwater conservation districts in 1949 to protect what water is left. But their power to restrict landowners is limited. “The mission is to save as much water possible for as long as possible, with as little impact on private property rights as possible,” said Jason Coleman, manager for the High Plains Underground Water Conservation District. “How do you do that? It’s a difficult task.” A 1953 map of the wells in Lubbock County hangs in the office of the groundwater district. [Photo: Annie Rice for The Texas Tribune] Rapid population growth, climate change, and aging water infrastructure all threaten the state’s water supply. Texas does not have enough water to meet demand if the state is stricken with a historic drought, according to the Texas Water Development Board, the state agency that manages Texas’ water supply. Lawmakers want to invest in every corner to save the state’s water. This week, they reached a historic $20 billion deal on water projects. High Plains Underground Water District General Manager Jason Coleman stands in the district’s meeting room on May 21 in Lubbock. [Photo: Annie Rice for The Texas Tribune] But no one wants to touch the rule of capture. In a state known for rugged individualism, politically speaking, reforming the law is tantamount to stripping away freedoms. “There probably are opportunities to vest groundwater districts with additional authority,” said Amy Hardberger, director for the Texas Tech University Center for Water Law and Policy. “I don’t think the political climate is going to do that.” State Sen. Charles Perry, a Lubbock Republican, and Rep. Cody Harris, a Palestine Republican, led the effort on water in Austin this year. Neither responded to requests for comment. Carlos Rubinstein, a water expert with consulting firm RSAH2O and a former chairman of the water development board, said the rule has been relied upon so long that it would be near impossible to undo the law. “I think it’s better to spend time working within the rules,” Rubinstein said. “And respect the rule of capture, yet also recognize that, in and of itself, it causes problems.” Even though groundwater districts were created to regulate groundwater, the law effectively stops them from doing so, or they risk major lawsuits. The state water plan, which spells out how the state’s water is to be used, acknowledges the shortfall. Groundwater availability is expected to decline by 25% by 2070, mostly due to reduced supply in the Ogallala and Edwards-Trinity aquifers. Together, the aquifers stretch across West Texas and up through the Panhandle. By itself, the Ogallala has an estimated three trillion gallons of water. Though the overwhelming majority in Texas is used by farmers. It’s expected to face a 50% decline by 2070. Groundwater is 54% of the state’s total water supply and is the state’s most vulnerable natural resource. It’s created by rainfall and other precipitation, and seeps into the ground. Like surface water, groundwater is heavily affected by ongoing droughts and prolonged heat waves. However, the state has more say in regulating surface water than it does groundwater. Surface water laws have provisions that cut supply to newer users in a drought and prohibit transferring surface water outside of basins. Historically, groundwater has been used by agriculture in the High Plains. However, as surface water evaporates at a quicker clip, cities and businesses are increasingly interested in tapping the underground resource. As Texas’ population continues to grow and surface water declines, groundwater will be the prize in future fights for water. In many ways, the damage is done in the High Plains, a region that spans from the top of the Panhandle down past Lubbock. The Ogallala Aquifer runs beneath the region, and it’s faced depletion to the point of no return, according to experts. Simply put: The Ogallala is not refilling to keep up with demand. “It’s a creeping disaster,” said Robert Mace, executive director of the Meadows Center for Water and the Environment. “It isn’t like you wake up tomorrow and nobody can pump anymore. It’s just happening slowly, every year.” [Image: Yuriko Schumacher/The Texas Tribune] Groundwater districts and the law The High Plains Water District was the first groundwater district created in Texas. Over a protracted multi-year fight, the Legislature created these new local government bodies in 1949, with voter approval, enshrining the new stewards of groundwater into the state Constitution. If the lawmakers hoped to embolden local officials to manage the troves of water under the soil, they failed. There are areas with groundwater that don’t have conservation districts. Each groundwater districts has different powers. In practice, most water districts permit wells and make decisions on spacing and location to meet the needs of the property owner. The one thing all groundwater districts have in common: They stop short of telling landowners they can’t pump water. In the seven decades since groundwater districts were created, a series of lawsuits have effectively strangled groundwater districts. Even as water levels decline from use and drought, districts still get regular requests for new wells. They won’t say no out of fear of litigation. The field technician coverage area is seen in Nathaniel Bibbs’ office at the High Plains Underground Water District. Bibbs is a permit assistant for the district. [Photo: Annie Rice for The Texas Tribune] “You have a host of different decisions to make as it pertains to management of groundwater,” Coleman said. “That list has grown over the years.” The possibility of lawsuits makes groundwater districts hesitant to regulate usage or put limitations on new well permits. Groundwater districts have to defend themselves in lawsuits, and most lack the resources to do so. A well spacing guide is seen in Nathaniel Bibbs’ office. [Photo: Annie Rice for The Texas Tribune] “The law works against us in that way,” Hardberger, with Texas Tech University, said. “It means one large tool in our toolbox, regulation, is limited.” The most recent example is a lawsuit between the Braggs Farm and the Edwards Aquifer Authority. The farm requested permits for two pecan orchards in Medina County, outside San Antonio. The authority granted only one and limited how much water could be used based on state law. It wasn’t an arbitrary decision. The authority said it followed the statute set by the Legislature to determine the permit. “That’s all they were guaranteed,” said Gregory Ellis, the first general manager of the authority, referring to the water available to the farm. The Braggs family filed a takings lawsuit against the authority. This kind of claim can be filed when any level of government—including groundwater districts—takes private property for public use without paying for the owner’s losses. Braggs won. It is the only successful water-related takings claim in Texas, and it made groundwater laws murkier. It cost the authority $4.5 million. “I think it should have been paid by the state Legislature,” Ellis said. “They’re the ones who designed that permitting system. But that didn’t happen.” An appeals court upheld the ruling in 2013, and the Texas Supreme Court denied petitions to consider appeals. However, the state’s supreme court has previously suggested the Legislature could enhance the powers of the groundwater districts and regulate groundwater like surface water, just as many other states have done. While the laws are complicated, Ellis said the fundamental rule of capture has benefits. It has saved Texas’ legal system from a flurry of lawsuits between well owners. “If they had said ‘Yes, you can sue your neighbor for damaging your well,’ where does it stop?” Ellis asked. “Everybody sues everybody.” Coleman, the High Plains district’s manager, said some people want groundwater districts to have more power, while others think they have too much. Well owners want restrictions for others, but not on them, he said. “You’re charged as a district with trying to apply things uniformly and fairly,” Coleman said. Can’t reverse the past Two tractors were dropping seeds around Walt Hagood’s farm as he turned on his irrigation system for the first time this year. He didn’t plan on using much water. It’s too precious. The cotton farm stretches across 2,350 acres on the outskirts of Wolfforth, a town 12 miles southwest of Lubbock. Hagood irrigates about 80 acres of land, and prays that rain takes care of the rest. Walt Hagood drives across his farm on May 12, in Wolfforth. Hagood utilizes “dry farming,” a technique that relies on natural rainfall. [Photo: Annie Rice for The Texas Tribune] “We used to have a lot of irrigated land with adequate water to make a crop,” Hagood said. “We don’t have that anymore.” The High Plains is home to cotton and cattle, multi-billion-dollar agricultural industries. The success is in large part due to the Ogallala. Since its discovery, the aquifer has helped farms around the region spring up through irrigation, a way for farmers to water their crops instead of waiting for rain that may not come. But as water in the aquifer declines, there are growing concerns that there won’t be enough water to support agriculture in the future. At the peak of irrigation development, more than 8.5 million acres were irrigated in Texas. About 65% of that was in the High Plains. In the decades since the irrigation boom, High Plains farmers have resorted to methods that might save water and keep their livelihoods afloat. They’ve changed their irrigation systems so water is used more efficiently. They grow cover crops so their soil is more likely to soak up rainwater. Some use apps to see where water is needed so it’s not wasted. A furrow irrigation is seen at Walt Hagood’s cotton farm. [Photo: Annie Rice for The Texas Tribune] Farmers who have not changed their irrigation systems might not have a choice in the near future. It can take a week to pump an inch of water in some areas from the aquifer because of how little water is left. As conditions change underground, they are forced to drill deeper for water. That causes additional problems. Calcium can build up, and the water is of poorer quality. And when the water is used to spray crops through a pivot irrigation system, it’s more of a humidifier as water quickly evaporates in the heat. According to the groundwater district’s most recent management plan, 2 million acres in the district use groundwater for irrigation. About 95% of water from the Ogallala is used for irrigated agriculture. The plan states that the irrigated farms “afford economic stability to the area and support a number of other industries.” The state water plan shows groundwater supply is expected to decline, and drought won’t be the only factor causing a shortage. Demand for municipal use outweighs irrigation use, reflecting the state’s future growth. In Region O, which is the South Plains, water for irrigation declines by 2070 while demand for municipal use rises because of population growth in the region. Coleman, with the High Plains groundwater district, often thinks about how the aquifer will hold up with future growth. There are some factors at play with water planning that are nearly impossible to predict and account for, Coleman said. Declining surface water could make groundwater a source for municipalities that didn’t depend on it before. Regions known for having big, open patches of land, like the High Plains, could be attractive to incoming businesses. People could move to the country and want to drill a well, with no understanding of water availability. The state will continue to grow, Coleman said, and all the incoming businesses and industries will undoubtedly need water. “We could say ‘Well, it’s no one’s fault. We didn’t know that factory would need 20,000 acre-feet of water a year,” Coleman said. “It’s not happening right now, but what’s around the corner?” Coleman said this puts agriculture in a tenuous position. The region is full of small towns that depend on agriculture and have supporting businesses, like cotton gins, equipment and feed stores, and pesticide and fertilizer sprayers. This puts pressure on the High Plains water district, along with the two regional water planning groups in the region, to keep agriculture alive. “Districts are not trying to reduce pumping down to a sustainable level,” said Mace with the Meadows Foundation. “And I don’t fault them for that, because doing that is economic devastation in a region with farmers.” Hagood, the cotton farmer, doesn’t think reforming groundwater rights is the way to solve it. What’s done is done, he said. “Our U.S. Constitution protects our private property rights, and that’s what this is all about,” Hagood said. “Any time we have a regulation and people are given more authority, it doesn’t work out right for everybody.” Rapid population growth, climate change, and aging water infrastructure all threaten the state’s water supply. [Photo: Annie Rice for The Texas Tribune] What can be done The state water plan recommends irrigation conservation as a strategy. It’s also the least costly water management method. But that strategy is fraught. Farmers need to irrigate in times of drought, and telling them to stop can draw criticism. In Eastern New Mexico, the Ogallala Land and Water Conservancy, a nonprofit organization, has been retiring irrigation wells. Landowners keep their water rights, and the organization pays them to stop irrigating their farms. Landowners get paid every year as part of the voluntary agreement, and they can end it at any point. Ladona Clayton, executive director of the organization, said they have been criticized, with their efforts being called a “war” and “land grab.” They also get pushback on why the responsibility falls on farmers. She said it’s because of how much water is used for irrigation. They have to be aggressive in their approach, she said. The aquifer supplies water to the Cannon Air Force Base. “We don’t want them to stop agricultural production,” Clayton said. “But for me to say it will be the same level that irrigation can support would be untrue.” There is another possible lifeline that people in the High Plains are eyeing as a solution: the Dockum Aquifer. It’s a minor aquifer that underlies part of the Ogallala, so it would be accessible to farmers and ranchers in the region. The High Plains Water District also oversees this aquifer. If it seems too good to be true—that the most irrigated part of Texas would just so happen to have another abundant supply of water flowing underneath—it’s because there’s a catch. The Dockum is full of extremely salty brackish water. Some counties can use the water for irrigation and drinking water without treatment, but it’s unusable in others. According to the groundwater district, a test well in Lubbock County pulled up water that was as salty as seawater. Rubinstein, the former water development board chairman, said there are pockets of brackish groundwater in Texas that haven’t been tapped yet. It would be enough to meet the needs on the horizon, but it would also be very expensive to obtain and use. A landowner would have to go deeper to get it, then pump the water over a longer distance. “That costs money, and then you have to treat it on top of that,” Rubinstein said. “But, it is water.” Landowners have expressed interest in using desalination, a treatment method to lower dissolved salt levels. Desalination of produced and brackish water is one of the ideas that was being floated around at the Legislature this year, along with building a pipeline to move water across the state. Hagood, the farmer, is skeptical. He thinks whatever water they move could get used up before it makes it all the way to West Texas. There is always brackish groundwater. Another aquifer brings the chance of history repeating—if the Dockum aquifer is treated so its water is usable, will people drain it, too? Hagood said there would have to be limits. Disclosure: Edwards Aquifer Authority and Texas Tech University have been financial supporters of The Texas Tribune. Financial supporters play no role in the Tribune’s journalism. Find a complete list of them here. This article originally appeared in The Texas Tribune, a member-supported, nonpartisan newsroom informing and engaging Texans on state politics and policy. Learn more at texastribune.org.

Last year, I noted that OpenAI’s view on copyright is that it’s fine and dandy to copy, paste, and steal people’s work. OpenAI is far from alone. Anthropic, Google, and Meta all trot out the same tired old arguments: AI must be free to use copyrighted material under the legal doctrine of fair use so that they can deliver top-notch AI programs. Further, they all claim that if the US government doesn’t let them strip-mine the work of writers, artists, and musicians, someone else will do it instead, and won’t that be awful? Of course, the AI companies could just, you know, pay people for access to their work instead of stealing it under the cloak of improving AI, but that might slow down their leaders’ frantic dash to catch up with Elon Musk and become the world’s first trillionaire. Horrors! In the meantime, the median pay for a full-time writer, according to the Authors Guild, is just over $20,000 a year. Artists? $54,000 annually. And musicians? $50,000. Those numbers are all on the high side, by the way. They’re for full-time professionals, and there are far more part-timers in these fields than people who make, or try to make, a living from being a creative. What? You think we’re rich? Please. For every Stephen King, Jeff Koons, or Taylor Swift, there are a thousand people whose names you’ll never know. And, as hard as these folks have it now, AI firms are determined that creative professionals will never see a penny from their work being used as the ore from which the companies will refine billions. Some people are standing up for their rights. Publishing companies such as the New York Times and Universal Music, as well as nonprofit organizations like the Independent Society of Musicians, are all fighting for creatives to be paid. Publishers, in particular, are not always aligned with writers and musicians, but at least they’re trying to force the AI giants to pay something. At least part of the US government is also standing up for copyright rights. “Making commercial use of vast troves of copyrighted works to produce expressive content that competes with them in existing markets, especially where this is accomplished through illegal access, goes beyond established fair use boundaries,” the US Copyright Office declared in a recent report. Personally, I’d use a lot stronger language, but it’s something. Of course, President Donald Trump immediately fired the head of the Copyright Office. Her days were probably numbered anyway. Earlier, the office had declared that copyright should only be granted to AI-assisted works based on the “centrality of human creativity.” “Wait, wait,” I hear you saying, “why would that tick off Trump’s AI allies?” Oh, you see, while the AI giants want to use your work for free; they want their “works” protected. Remember the Chinese AI company DeepSeek, which scared the pants off OpenAI for a while? OpenAI claimed DeepSeek had “inappropriately distilled” its models. “We take aggressive, proactive countermeasures to protect our technology and will continue working closely with the US government to protect the most capable models being built here,” the company said. In short, OpenAI wants to have it both ways. The company wants to be free to Hoover down your work, but you can’t take its “creations.” OpenAI recently spelled out its preferred policy in a fawning letter to Trump’s Office of Science and Technology. In it, OpenAI says, “we must ensure that people have freedom of intelligence, by which we mean the freedom to access and benefit from AGI [artificial general intelligence], protected from both autocratic powers that would take people’s freedoms away, and layers of laws and bureaucracy that would prevent our realizing them.” For laws and bureaucracy, read copyright and the right of people to be paid for their intellectual work. As with so many things in US government these days, we won’t be able to depend on government agencies to protect writers, artists, and musicians, with Trump firing any and all who disagree with him. Instead, we must rely on court rulings. In some cases, such as Thomson Reuters v. ROSS Intelligence, the actual legal definition of copyright and fair use has found that wholesale copying of copyrighted material for AI training can constitute infringement, especially when it harms the market for the original works and is not sufficiently transformative. Hopefully, other lawsuits against companies like Meta, OpenAI, and Anthropic will show that their AI outputs are unlawfully competing with original works. As lawsuits proceed and new regulations are debated, the relationship between AI and copyright law will continue to evolve. If it comes out the right way, AI can still be useful and profitable, even as the AI companies do their damnedest to avoid paying anyone for the work their large language models (LLMs) run on. If the courts can’t hold the wall for true creativity, we may wind up drowning in pale imitations of it, with each successive wave farther from the real thing. This potential watering down of creativity is a lot like the erosion of independent thinking that science fiction writer Neal Stephenson noted recently: “I follow conversations among professional educators who all report the same phenomenon, which is that their students use ChatGPT for everything, and in consequence learn nothing. We may end up with at least one generation of people who are like the Eloi in H.G. Wells’s The Time Machine, in that they are mental weaklings utterly dependent on technologies that they don’t understand and that they could never rebuild from scratch were they to break down.”

Quebec Culture Minister Mathieu Lacombe has introduced Bill 109, which would require streaming platforms like Netflix and Spotify to feature and prioritize French-language content. CBC.ca reports: Bill 109 has been in the works for over a year. It marks the first time that Quebec would set a "visibility quota" for French-language content on major streaming platforms such as Netflix, Disney and Spotify. [...] The legislation, titled An Act to affirm the cultural sovereignty of Quebec and to enact the Act respecting the discoverability of French-language cultural content in the digital environment, would apply to every digital platform that offers a service for watching videos or listening to music and audiobooks online. Those include Canadian platforms such as Illico, Crave and Tou.tv. It would amend the Quebec Charter of Human Rights and Freedoms to enshrine "the right to discoverability of and access to original French-language cultural content." If the bill is adopted, streaming platforms and television manufacturers would be forced to present interfaces for screening online videos in French by default. Those interfaces would need to provide access to platforms that offer original French-language cultural content based on the government's pending criteria. Financial penalties would be imposed on companies that don't follow the rules. If the business models of some companies prevent them from keeping to the letter of the proposed law, companies would be allowed to enter into an agreement with the Quebec government to set out "substitute measures" to fulfil Bill 109 obligations differently. "We don't want to exempt them. We're telling them, 'let's negotiate substitute measures,'" Lacombe told reporters. Read more of this story at Slashdot.

Three Formerly Enslaved Artists Created Beautiful Pottery 150 Years Ago, and Now Their Wares Are Coveted Around the World The stunning vessels from the H. Wilson & Company were forgotten for generations, only to gain new appreciation for the craftsmanship that went into them Photographs by DeSean McClinton-Holland Jacoba Urist June 2025 A jar made by H. Wilson & Company in Capote, Texas. Right, the muddy banks of Salt Creek, a tributary of the Guadalupe River about 50 miles northeast of San Antonio, where Wilson’s pottery company sourced its fine red clay.  The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston; DeSean McClinton-Holland In 1856, the Reverend John McKamie Wilson Jr., a Presbyterian minister and entrepreneur interested in clay science, relocated from North Carolina to Texas. There in the Capote Hills—a rural, sparse enclave in Guadalupe County, 12 miles from the town of Seguin—Wilson opened a business called Guadalupe Pottery. Wilson mainly sold jugs, churns, crocks and cemetery flower jars. The pots featured crescent handles and a deep chocolate-colored interior of liquefied clay. Before refrigerators and iceboxes, high-fire, nonporous pottery was essential to life—the Tupperware or Ziploc bags of the 19th century. Clay pots preserved everything from grains, beef and butter to whiskey and even drinking water. The potters who worked under Wilson’s direction mostly used alkaline glaze, one of the oldest methods in ceramics, to create a glassy exterior from a slurry of wood ash, sand and clay. An arduous process in the 1850s, it took days to stoke underground wood-burning kilns to a high enough temperature for a successful firing. Three of Wilson’s potters were enslaved servants who traveled to Texas with him—Hiram, James and Wallace. For more than a decade, these men were responsible for nearly every facet of Guadalupe Pottery’s production: from mixing clay and expertly “throwing” the pots on a kick wheel to glazing and stacking vessels and meticulously controlling the temperature and duration of the kiln’s flames. The men kept working for the reverend even after Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation on January 1, 1863. In Texas, slavery didn’t end until June 19, 1865, when Major General Gordon Granger arrived in Galveston and issued General Order No. 3, informing the people of Texas that all who’d been enslaved were free—the event commemorated as Juneteenth.  Paula King Harper, a descendant of Hiram Wilson, sits on the steps of the Sebastopol House in Seguin, Texas, with Wilson vessels from her own collection. Harper leads the Wilson Pottery Foundation and coordinates the Wilson Pottery Show each October. DeSean McClinton-Holland Subscribe to Smithsonian magazine now for just $19.99 This article is a selection from the June 2025 issue of Smithsonian magazine In 1869, Hiram founded his own stoneware business at a new site with James and Wallace, H. Wilson & Company. (Though not biologically related, all three took their enslaver’s surname, the practice of some Black Americans at the time.) Some scholars believe that H. Wilson & Company was the first business in Texas founded and owned by formerly enslaved people.  Pots created by the hands of Hiram Wilson and his colleagues have been passed down through households and sold at garage sales over the course of many generations. Today, their rich history, as well as their distinctive styles and glazes, make the jugs sought-after acquisitions for museum collections. Left to right: A preserve jar, a three-gallon butter churn and a large jar with a lid from the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston; a stoneware jar from the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History.  The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston (3); NMAH A century and a half later, the pots they made are celebrated in the ceramics world. In silvery grays and greens, with uneven salt drips and textured glazes that resemble the moon’s surface or, sometimes, an orange peel, Wilson wares are coveted both as objets d’art and for their extraordinary story of Black self-determination in the postwar South. Wilson pottery now resides in museums across the United States, from the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History to the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston—an indelible part of the country’s entrepreneurial and creative heritage.   The story of Hiram, James and Wallace Wilson is woven through with threads of folklore, given the sparse records kept at that time, particularly for people born into slavery. But over the last 50 years, researchers have uncovered more details about the Wilsons. Georgeanna Greer—a San Antonio pediatrician and ceramics collector-aficionado—was passionate about locating abandoned kilns, and she left a trove of Wilson information behind, including a 1973 taped interview with James Wilson’s son, James Wilson Jr.  Capote Baptist Church has been in the midst of a restoration since 2012. After a new pastor, Terry Williams, arrived, its membership surged from 4 congregants to 85. DeSean McClinton-Holland A wooden cross on the property of the Capote Baptist Church that Hiram Wilson founded in 1872 DeSean McClinton-Holland Emancipation offered the Wilsons an opportunity none had ever expected. Establishing a pottery business was complex and costly. It meant finding a suitable site, testing clay, constructing a kiln and hiring proficient workers. And the men did all this in an “intensely dangerous environment,” said Ashley Williams, a recent fellow at the Smithsonian American Art Museum. In the late 1860s, Black residents of Guadalupe County “filed almost 200 complaints with the Freedmen’s Bureau for unpaid wages and violent crimes” perpetrated against them. A Baptist missionary from Maine, the Reverend Leonard Ilsley, helped Hiram buy 600 acres of land for $500 and likely either gave Hiram a personal loan or served as a guarantor in the transaction. When Hiram died in 1884­—survived by his wife, Senia, and 11 children—Ilsley served as administrator of his estate. One of Hiram’s great-great-granddaughters, LaVerne Lewis Britt, first discovered her connection to the potters after her retirement, when she became interested in genealogy. Over the course of five years, she researched and wrote a book called In Praise of Hiram Wilson, which describes how her ancestor created a thriving post-slavery community in Capote. Hiram set aside 10 of his 600 acres for a Baptist church and became its minister. The white steepled chapel remains active today, beside a cemetery with cedar and crape myrtle trees. Many Wilsons have been laid to rest there, including Hiram, whose grave is marked by a tall obelisk.  Pastor Terry Williams has been leading the Capote Baptist Church since 2015. When he arrived, he says, he felt the spirit of Hiram Wilson and other former slaves who founded the church in 1872—“a cold breeze coming up in the summertime.”  DeSean McClinton-Holland A Bible rests on the piano at Capote Baptist Church. Right, the building has been in the midst of a restoration since 2012. After Pastor Williams arrived, its membership surged from 4 congregants to 85. Hiram also founded a one-room schoolhouse where Paula King Harper, another of his descendants, says her grandmother once taught. King Harper is the current president of the Wilson Pottery Foundation. On the phone, she described how interest in her celebrated ancestor’s technique has spread in collector circles since the organization’s founding in 1999. A pottery collector in San Antonio was at a garage sale and noticed the green salt glaze drip from underneath dirt that had dried on a gallon jug. “They purchased it for less than $10, went home, cleaned it up, and guess what it was? A stamped H. Wilson.” Finding that stamp is now the equivalent of finding a signed painting by a renowned artist. King Harper once sat at an auction that included several pieces of Wilson pottery from someone’s private estate. “There was a beautiful, pristine five-gallon jug I watched sell for $12,000,” she said. Traditionally, clay artists, who made quotidian jugs and jars rather than purely aesthetic works, have been considered second-tier makers, ranking below sculptors. But over the last few decades, contemporary and historic ceramicists like the Wilsons are receiving new scholarly and art-world attention. Williams, the recent Smithsonian fellow, is researching the Wilsons as part of her doctorate at Columbia University. She notes that most enslaved potters wouldn’t have been able to inscribe their names or initials on a pot. But once the Wilson potters were free, they added a maker’s mark, which made all the difference. Future generations were able to dive into the records and find out more about the remarkable potters. “Because we can tie the makers to these objects, which is so rare, it allows us to see the story about the resilience of the Wilson potters during slavery, and their extreme success and survival,” Williams said. Elmer Joe Brackner Jr. was a graduate student in anthropology at the University of Texas when he unearthed buried ceramic shards and located the original kilns at two different H. Wilson & Company sites. DeSean McClinton-Holland Ashley Williams, a recent pre-doctoral fellow at the Smithsonian American Art Museum, has been researching the Wilson potters as part of her PhD dissertation on crafts made by enslaved and imprisoned artists. DeSean McClinton-Holland The Wilsons’ style may have been influenced by the works coming out of the Edgefield district in South Carolina, a place then known as a kind of pottery Mecca. It was famous for massive, bulbous jars and glazes, features that the early Wilson pots share. Edgefield has its own significant history of highly skilled Black craftsmen, including David Drake, the earliest known enslaved potter to inscribe his work. CollectorsDeSean McClinton-Holland Later, the Wilsons’ pottery took on more distinctive features. The men started out using alkaline glaze, but once they opened their own business they switched to salt glaze, likely for its strength and waterproofing properties. Salt glaze also produces more consistent colors and textures, such as the bumpy orange-peel finish admired by H. Wilson & Company collectors. At the time, the method was uncommon in Texas, according to Michelle Johnson, project manager of the William J. Hill Texas Artisans and Artists Archive at the Bayou Bend Collection and Gardens, part of the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston. “And it was dangerous,” she said, because salt glaze produces highly toxic chlorine gas from the wet salt thrown into the kiln during firing. (For this reason, contemporary ceramicists avoid the method altogether.) The Wilsons may have learned the technique from Isaac Suttles, an Ohio-born potter known for salt glazing, who is listed in the United States census as living in Seguin at the time.  The Sebastopol House, a Greek Revival home, was built in the 1850s by enslaved laborers who had advanced skills in working with concrete. Today, the building houses the Wilson Pottery Museum.  DeSean McClinton-Holland Lid rims are another notable element of H. Wilson & Company’s jars. At the first pottery-making site, during their enslavement, the men made more tie-down rims—jars without lids that require paper or cloth as a cover, which were easier and faster to make. Later, at their own shop, they crafted rims fitted for lids. Those lid rims allowed for more watertightstorage, but they also required more sophisticated expertise.If you think you may have stumbled on one of these treasures at a garage or estate sale, look for a horseshoe-like handle—the most significant visual identifier of a Wilson pot. It’s still unclear why Hiram, James and Wallace switched to these thicker, rolled handles from their original Edgefield-inspired crescents. It may have been because horseshoe handles are sturdier, offering more surface connection to the pot’s body. It’s another puzzling question that Williams is pursuing and hopes to answer in the future.  It took a long time for the art world to discover the Wilsons’ creations. After Hiram’s death in 1884, James and Wallace Wilson went on to work at another pottery site run by Marion Durham, a potter from South Carolina who had moved to Texas with John Chandler, who was most likely his enslaved servant at the time. By the time the Wilsons joined them, Durham and Chandler were in business together. That site closed in 1903. These pots remained in circulation, but many details of their story were lost.  Modern replicas of the Wilson pottery logo created by Earline Green. DeSean McClinton-Holland Earline Green, an educator and a member of the Wilson Pottery Foundation’s board of directors. Green helps promote the potters’ legacy by demonstrating their innovative 19th-century techniques.  DeSean McClinton-Holland Decades later, an anthropology graduate student named Elmer Joe Brackner Jr. conducted a magnetometry survey to find buried pottery. (Clay contains iron oxides that can become magnetized.) At the original Guadalupe Pottery site he found what’s known as a “groundhog kiln,” a uniquely Southern, semi-subterranean kiln used in the 19th century for firing alkaline-glazed pottery. At the second site, home of the independent H. Wilson & Company, Brackner found ceramic-glazed shards and another groundhog kiln. His research, and that of Georgeanna Greer, the ceramic historian, helped piece together the Wilsons’ unusual story. After many years of advocacy by the Wilson Pottery Foundation, art historians and curators began scouring land deeds, court documents and handwritten capacity marks (numbers that denote the volume of each jug) to present a fuller picture of the Wilsons, sometimes correcting previous theories about their methodology and timeline. Texas ceramic artist Earline Green researches the Wilsons’ past while creating her own pottery to honor their legacy. In 2018, she interviewed Wilson descendants and collectors and visited historical societies in Texas for archival information. Two years later, she curated an exhibition on her campus in Fort Worth; the show also displayed ceramic pieces she created based on the work of the Wilson potters. Deacon Willie Hightower Sr., a descendant of Hiram Wilson and one of the current deacons at Capote Baptist Church. DeSean McClinton-Holland Hiram Wilson’sDeSean McClinton-Holland The narrative continues to evolve, due in no small part to proud descendants of Hiram, James and Wallace. Every three years, hundreds of people gather in Seguin, Texas, for a jubilant three-day Wilson family reunion that is open to the public. In 2023, festivities included the Wilson Pottery Foundation gala and a tenth anniversary celebration at the Wilson Pottery Museum. The last reunion fell on the weekend before Juneteenth, and the reunion committee arranged a kickoff concert Sunday evening followed by Juneteenth events in Seguin’s downtown square. “I was fortunate to grow up in Texas in the 1980s, around the time when our cousin LaVerne Lewis Britt had uncovered the history,” explains DeSean McClinton-Holland, the photographer of this story and a Wilson descendant through his maternal grandmother. “I grew up knowing bits of the story and visiting the church.” He describes the process of documenting Hiram Wilson’s legacy as a healing journey. “To think, he was born into slavery and was able to accomplish so much shortly thereafter,” he says. “It’s inspiring and motivating to think of all the freedoms we have now, and that we really have to push a bit harder.”  Get the latest Travel & Culture stories in your inbox.

OpinionMay 14, 20254 min readScience Tells Us the U.S. Is Heading toward a DictatorshipThe red flags abound—political research tells us the U.S. is becoming an autocracyBy Dan Vergano President Donald Trump delivers address to a joint session of Congress, split image seen from watching television, March 4, 2025. Andrew Lichtenstein/Corbis via Getty ImagesAs president, Donald Trump pretty much checks all the warning boxes for an autocrat. Last September Scientific American warned of Trump’s “nonsensical conspiracy fantasies,” that he “ignores the climate crisis” and has fondness for “unqualified ideologues,” whom he would appoint should he become president again. It’s now May and sadly, that all checks out.The U.S. is in a bad place, and scholars warn, looks to be headed for worse.Worse even than Trump’s relentless attacks on science have been his administration’s assaults on the law. His officials have illegally fired federal workers, impounded congressional appropriations and seized people off the street for deportations to foreign prisons, threatening the same for all U.S. citizens. “The depth and breadth of this administration’s disregard for civil liberties, political pluralism, the separation of powers and legal constraints of all kinds mark it as an authoritarian regime,” law professor David Pozen of the Columbia University School of Law told the New York Times in April.On supporting science journalismIf you're enjoying this article, consider supporting our award-winning journalism by subscribing. By purchasing a subscription you are helping to ensure the future of impactful stories about the discoveries and ideas shaping our world today.We should all be worried that the U.S. is headed toward an autocracy—government by one person—even without political science offering a warning. But scholarship on how nations descend into this unfortunate state, seen in places like Turkey and Hungary, might not surprise you with what it suggests about the U.S.“Since Donald Trump’s inauguration, the country has embarked on the slippery slope toward autocracy,” concludes political scientist Daniel Stockemer of the University of Ottawa, in a May report in Politics & Policy. Rather than a coup, Trump’s attacks on law firms, universities, immigrants and others constitute “a more incremental form of democratic erosion,” he writes, one that follows a six-step theory of incremental autocratization based on research on the democratic backsliding seen worldwide in recent decades. The model arose in major part from the work of political scientist Marianne Kneuer of TU Dresden. She looked at the last quarter-century’s collapse in Venezuela, examining how states turn from democratic to autocratic in stages, as opposed to a sudden coup.The U.S. has already breached the first three steps of Stockemer’s theory. The first step is one of social turmoil; this originated with the Tea Party movement during the Obama administration. Marked by angry politics, backlash against minorities and immigrants, and distrust in institutions, the U.S. has in the last two decades changed from a “full” to a “flawed” democracy, according to the Economist’s global democracy index.The second step requires a “project of radical change,” like the populist movement of Venezuela’s Hugo Chavez in the 1990s, or in the U.S. case Trump’s MAGA movement, which defends white, male privileges and holds prime loyalty for many Republicans.The third step is a “decisive electoral victory,” applicable to Chavez in 1999 or Trump in 2024, the latter a vote that also brought Trump control of a subservient Congress.That leaves us at the edge of the fourth step, the dismantling of checks and balances on executive power.“If my theory is correct, the U.S. is still in this transition phase between democracy and autocracy,” says Stockemer, by e-mail. “If they move more in the direction of autocracy, we would see that the administration tries to defy more court orders.” One key part of the fourth step is the declaration of fabricated emergencies, such as the “red scare” of the McCarthy era, to trample checks and balances, such as the judiciary’s control of the legal system. In May, for example, the White House deputy chief of staff suggested Trump could unilaterally suspend habeas corpus, a legal remedy for unlawful detention that dates at least to the Magna Carta and is in the U.S. Constitution, to summarily round up immigrants. He cited an imaginary “invasion”—even though border crossings are at their lowest point in U.S, history, according to Trump’s U.S. Customs and Border Protection agency—as a reason. The courts would likely resist such a move, as the Supreme Court did under the Bush administration in 2008, and whether the Trump administration abides by judicial decisions will determine whether the fourth step has occurred.Warnings of the fifth step on the road to autocracy, securing long-term power, come in Trump’s musing of seeking an unconstitutional third term as president. The final step, the infringement of basic rights and freedoms, also is flashing warning signs, says Stockemer. These are already evident in executive orders that disengage the U.S. from the United Nations Human Rights Council, remove transgender service members from the military and privilege Christianity. He predicts that attacks on minority voting rights in 2026 and 2028 would be an expected outcome of this step.A simpler “competitive authoritarianism” yardstick for measuring democratic collapse comes from political scientists Steven Levitsky, Lucan Way and Daniel Ziblatt earlier this month. “We propose a simple metric: the cost of opposing the government,” they write in the New York Times. By that measure, they add, the U.S. has already crossed that line, ordering Department of Justice investigations into perceived political enemies, donors to the Democratic Party and news outlets ranging from CBS News to the Des Moines Register. “The administration’s authoritarian offensive has had a clear impact. It has changed how Americans behave, forcing them to think twice,” they added.The good news is that the slide into autocracy isn’t inevitable for the U.S. The courts may hold, Congress may start listening to protestors as Trump’s approval rating slides, and the Republican coalition, described as “Big Tech on one side, white nationalists on the other,” in the Boston Review, may fracture.Even so, the damage already done is real: “It is very easy to destroy something such as USAID, but it takes a long time to rebuild it both physically and also in a trust sense, both in America and abroad,” says Stockemer, noting the rapid plummet of Canadian attitudes toward the U.S., from positive to sharply negative. “I can tear down a house in a day, but it will take a year or longer to rebuild it.”This is an opinion and analysis article, and the views expressed by the author or authors are not necessarily those of Scientific American.