I used to think concrete was just for sidewalks and brutalist architecture.
Then I watched a friend mix a batch in her kitchen—wearing an apron, no less—and pour it into a silicone cake mold she’d bought at Target for $8.99. She was making a clock. Not a stepping stone or a planter, but an actual timepiece she planned to hang above her couch. The gray sludge looked unpromising as it filled the circular mold, riddled with air bubbles that she poked at with a chopstick. But here’s the thing: when she pulled it out forty-eight hours later, tapped off the edges with a rubber mallet, and pressed in a $6 clock mechanism from Amazon, it looked expensive. Like something you’d see in a West Elm catalog for $120, tagged as “artisan” and “handcrafted by skilled makers in Portland.” She made it for roughly $15, give or take, not counting the beer she drank while waiting for it to cure.
Wait—maybe I should back up. Concrete isn’t actually that hard to work with, despite its reputation. It’s temperamental, sure, but so is sourdough starter, and people manage that.
The satisfying contradiction of pouring your own industrial-style clock face from a bag of Quikrete
There’s something deeply satisfying about buying a bag of Quikrete from Home Depot—the kind construction workers use to set fence posts—and transforming it into decor. The base process is absurdly simple: mix the concrete powder with water until it resembles thick brownie batter, pour it into a mold, let gravity do its work. The industrial aesthetic comes free. You don’t have to distress it or antique it or apply seven layers of technique. The material itself carries that raw, unfinished quality that interior designers charge extra for. Honestly, the imperfections—the tiny pockmarks, the slight color variations, the rough texture—are what make it work. I’ve seen people try to sand them out, which misses the point entirely. You’re not making porcelain. You’re making something that looks like it was salvaged from a repurposed factory, even though it cured on your kitchen counter next to the coffee maker.
The clock mechanism is the easiest part, which feels wrong somehow.
You’d think the technical component would be the hard part, but inserting the actual timekeeping guts into your concrete disc is almost comically simple. The mechanisms—available online for $5 to $15—are designed for this exact purpose, originally meant for crafters making wooden clocks or decorating pre-made blanks. They come with a threaded shaft that pokes through a hole you’ve either molded in (using a straw or dowel as a placeholder) or drilled after the concrete sets. You thread on a nut from the back, attach the hands to the front, pop in an AA battery, and you’re done. I guess it makes sense that clock companies would make this foolproof—they want to sell mechanisms, not troubleshoot your concrete mixing ratios. Still, there’s a weird cognitive dissonance between the primal satisfaction of working with a material that’s basically just fancy stone-mud and the anticlimactic modern convenience of battery-powered quartz movements that keep better time than a $300 watch.
Why silicone molds are your best friend and why you’ll definately ruin at least one
The mold determines everything—the shape, the finish, the ease of removal, whether you’ll spend twenty frustrating minutes chipping away stuck concrete or whether your clock will pop out clean. Silicone molds, the flexible kind sold for resin casting or baking, are ideal because concrete releases from them with barely any coaxing. I’ve used everything from actual cake pans (disaster—needed a chisel) to custom-built wooden forms (fine if you oil them heavily, annoying if you don’t) to those trendy geometric silicone planters (surprisingly great). The catch is that silicone molds eventually degrade. The alkalinity of concrete isn’t what they’re designed for, so after maybe five or six uses, they start to tear or lose their shape. You’ll ruin one. Probably your favorite one. It’s part of the process. Some people get precious about this and only use molds specifically rated for concrete, but those cost more, and where’s the fun in that?
Turns out, adding pigment and aggregates is where you either elevate the project or make it look like a middle school art class experiment gone wrong
Plain gray concrete is fine—classic, even—but you can tint it with concrete pigments (iron oxide powders in black, rust red, charcoal, cream) or mix in aggregates for texture. I’ve seen crushed glass, metal shavings, coffee grounds, small pebbles, even glitter (which looked terrible, but points for trying). The pigments need to be concrete-specific; regular paint or dye won’t bond properly and you’ll end up with a mottled, streaky mess that flakes off. The ratio matters too—too much pigment weakens the structure, too little barely shows. It’s a delicate balance, which is irritating because the instructions on the pigment bottles are uselessly vague, like “add to desired color intensity.” Thanks for nothing. Most people learn by wasting a batch or two. The aggregates are more forgiving. Stir them in before pouring, and they’ll suspend throughout the mix, creating visual interest without compromising strength. Or they’ll all sink to the bottom if your concrete is too wet, which teaches you to adjust your water ratio next time. It’s all very trial-and-error, very hands-on, very opposite of the instant-gratification culture we’re supposedly drowning in.
