curt

However, understand that “dry” doesn’t necessarily mean leaving a pot just sitting out on a shelf somewhere.  If you live in a climate that cycles through wet and dry seasons, and  cold and hot temperatures extremes, humidity levels in the air can also move up and down substantially over time.   This affects things made out of clay which have not yet been fired.  Dry pots absorb and desorb lots of water from humidity in the air, through the small channels in and around clay particles.  Unfired clay effectively inhales and exhales humidity over time.  Think of it a bit like a rigid sponge.
This matters because clay shrinks and swells as it’s water content changes.  While most of the shrinking happens in the day or two after we take a pot off the wheel, shrinking and swelling stresses are still at work in a small but meaningful way even when we think of the pot as “dry”.  
And different temperatures also promote water movement, in the pot as a whole, and also in different parts of the same pot.
Humidity fluctuations may or may not matter, depending on your clay body and what is in it.  Big, gutsy clay bodies which are relatively “open” ie a good range of large and small particles sizes with grog, silica sand or other aggregate strengtheners, along with sufficient colloidal material may have very good “dry” strength.  Fine porcelain bodies have larger smaller particles, greater surface area, and smaller pore channels, but little in the way of aggregates to strengthen the body, and can be more fragile.   
Different clay body ingredients can also impact how well a clay body withstands humidity cycling.  Sodium Bentonite, for instance, which shrinks and swells dramatically, is a common clay body plasticiser, and small colloidal particles like this are actually the main source of green strength in dry pots.   It is mostly not a a problem since our clay bodies have so little of it, but should not be forgotten, as some bodies lean on bentonite more heavily.   Ball clay shrinks and swells less than bentonite, but there is usually a lot more of it than bentonite in clay bodies we use.
Point of all of this is that pots can be negatively impacted by humidity cycling, and to a lesser extent temperature cycling, causing weakness, cracks which show up later during glaze firing, and in extreme circumstances even dry pots disintegrating where they sit.   The longer you leave them exposed, the greater the risk.  
The extreme version of all this would be if your studio is in a rainforest, and you leave a pot on top of the kiln you fire every couple of weeks, and which is also exposed to the sun on one side.   That should be the perfect storm. 
Moral of the story is if you want your dry pots to last and fire OK later,  try to avoid putting them through conditions like this.

I test fired my kiln with the new controller to 1000F last night.  It included some fast ramps of 1200F/hour to 800F and from there 600F/hour to 1000F plus a soak of a few minutes.  This was just to work out any glitches before I do a bisque fire.  The software is configured to run every 2s and I grabbed some stats from that...

average error in degrees F 0.7665486726 solid state relay cycles 977 schedule length in hours 1.00 elements on (s) 1934.91 element percent on 53.75 element watts 9640 cost per kwh 0.126 schedule total cost $0.65 I'll pack the kiln today and bisque fire tomorrow.  I'll post details after that.

I think some ideas are getting intermingled here that are not the same.
Learning about other cultures is not at issue here. No one disagrees with this.
Producing something that coincidentally resembles something else is not the issue.
Doing something because one feels, or gets richer, for it is not  adequate reason to take an action that hurts others.  When people produce knockoffs of something, say, and make a business of selling them, they do this precisely because they will be richer for it.  We need to be conscious when something that makes one group richer makes another poorer, whether you think it should make them feel poorer or not.
And the fact that something is beautiful is not adequate defense for reproducing it as ones own.  I am imagining an art forger making this case.
 

Pres I like your question and understand that my comments here are offered in the spirit of provocative analysis rather than attempting to invalidate the issue.  Maybe I don’t need to say this, but this topic may be emotive for some.
Theft is a pretty strong term.  Almost makes it seem like there was something private that you have taken away from the owner without permission.  I do not view cultural symbols, icons or art in this way.  They are in fact public, meant to be seen, acknowledged and interpreted by others.  
Further,  “cultural theft” may almost be a contradiction in terms.  Culture cannot be owned.  On the contrary, it is a shared construct.   Its  manifestations are an invitation from insiders to outsiders to engage and participate.  A culture’s ability to survive and thrive depends critically on its ability to be communicated and understood - and potentially adopted, or adapted - by those coming to it for the first time.   Those treating culture like a secret birthright that only the high priests can discuss are missing the point.  Success is where everyone is discussing it, learning it, sharing it.
However, since art is a primary vehicle for communcating culture, using imagery or symbols from a culture other than your own in your artwork, possibly out of (cultural) context, is risky business.   If misused, or possibly even when appropriately used, it could be misinterpreted, or seem like a cliche’, or possibly offend those who (legitimately) identify with those symbols as part of their own personal value system.  A bit akin to driving without a license, or sufficient training or experience - you probably just shouldn’t be out there.  Objects may be closer than they appear.

Pres I like your question and understand that my comments here are offered in the spirit of provocative analysis rather than attempting to invalidate the issue.  Maybe I don’t need to say this, but this topic may be emotive for some.
Theft is a pretty strong term.  Almost makes it seem like there was something private that you have taken away from the owner without permission.  I do not view cultural symbols, icons or art in this way.  They are in fact public, meant to be seen, acknowledged and interpreted by others.  
Further,  “cultural theft” may almost be a contradiction in terms.  Culture cannot be owned.  On the contrary, it is a shared construct.   Its  manifestations are an invitation from insiders to outsiders to engage and participate.  A culture’s ability to survive and thrive depends critically on its ability to be communicated and understood - and potentially adopted, or adapted - by those coming to it for the first time.   Those treating culture like a secret birthright that only the high priests can discuss are missing the point.  Success is where everyone is discussing it, learning it, sharing it.
However, since art is a primary vehicle for communcating culture, using imagery or symbols from a culture other than your own in your artwork, possibly out of (cultural) context, is risky business.   If misused, or possibly even when appropriately used, it could be misinterpreted, or seem like a cliche’, or possibly offend those who (legitimately) identify with those symbols as part of their own personal value system.  A bit akin to driving without a license, or sufficient training or experience - you probably just shouldn’t be out there.  Objects may be closer than they appear.

I pug clay.  
There is no pressure.  Nothing that must be done.  No finish line.  No phones, no computers, no TV.   No control.  The pug mill tells me how fast to go,  gently ignoring any pleas to go faster...
Just lovely plastic handfuls of clay, Iike the first time you touched it.  In. Out. In. Out.  In. Out.  The mineral earth smell, cold and damp, squeezing through my fingers.  Slap into the hopper.  Down comes the plunger, extra force applied right to the bottom to leave no doubt about who is really in charge of everything in this little world.
Endless, rhythmic repetition (cut, smash, cut smash, cut smash), the low steady drone of the motor, the slow but inevitable extrusion of perfect worms, again, and again.
... hypnotic....like a wheel going round...and round....
...the mind wanders, ...  sequences of thoughts lead strangely down side paths.  Ideas occur, new but vaguely familiar, coming  from somewhere like things that happen in a dream.  Forms appear in your minds eye, once known, then forgotten and now rediscovered...  
have hours passed or only minutes?  No idea.  Cut slap smash.  It goes on.  You are far away now.
a distant call to dinner shakes you awake.. back to earth.  switch off the pugmill.  As the dream fades you quickly you scribble down a few thoughts, rough out a shape or two... 
tomorrow is another day.   As you drift off you know fresh pugs of clay wait silently in a neat stack, filled with possibility, daring you to try something new...
 
 

I pug clay.  
There is no pressure.  Nothing that must be done.  No finish line.  No phones, no computers, no TV.   No control.  The pug mill tells me how fast to go,  gently ignoring any pleas to go faster...
Just lovely plastic handfuls of clay, Iike the first time you touched it.  In. Out. In. Out.  In. Out.  The mineral earth smell, cold and damp, squeezing through my fingers.  Slap into the hopper.  Down comes the plunger, extra force applied right to the bottom to leave no doubt about who is really in charge of everything in this little world.
Endless, rhythmic repetition (cut, smash, cut smash, cut smash), the low steady drone of the motor, the slow but inevitable extrusion of perfect worms, again, and again.
... hypnotic....like a wheel going round...and round....
...the mind wanders, ...  sequences of thoughts lead strangely down side paths.  Ideas occur, new but vaguely familiar, coming  from somewhere like things that happen in a dream.  Forms appear in your minds eye, once known, then forgotten and now rediscovered...  
have hours passed or only minutes?  No idea.  Cut slap smash.  It goes on.  You are far away now.
a distant call to dinner shakes you awake.. back to earth.  switch off the pugmill.  As the dream fades you quickly you scribble down a few thoughts, rough out a shape or two... 
tomorrow is another day.   As you drift off you know fresh pugs of clay wait silently in a neat stack, filled with possibility, daring you to try something new...
 
 

I pug clay.  
There is no pressure.  Nothing that must be done.  No finish line.  No phones, no computers, no TV.   No control.  The pug mill tells me how fast to go,  gently ignoring any pleas to go faster...
Just lovely plastic handfuls of clay, Iike the first time you touched it.  In. Out. In. Out.  In. Out.  The mineral earth smell, cold and damp, squeezing through my fingers.  Slap into the hopper.  Down comes the plunger, extra force applied right to the bottom to leave no doubt about who is really in charge of everything in this little world.
Endless, rhythmic repetition (cut, smash, cut smash, cut smash), the low steady drone of the motor, the slow but inevitable extrusion of perfect worms, again, and again.
... hypnotic....like a wheel going round...and round....
...the mind wanders, ...  sequences of thoughts lead strangely down side paths.  Ideas occur, new but vaguely familiar, coming  from somewhere like things that happen in a dream.  Forms appear in your minds eye, once known, then forgotten and now rediscovered...  
have hours passed or only minutes?  No idea.  Cut slap smash.  It goes on.  You are far away now.
a distant call to dinner shakes you awake.. back to earth.  switch off the pugmill.  As the dream fades you quickly you scribble down a few thoughts, rough out a shape or two... 
tomorrow is another day.   As you drift off you know fresh pugs of clay wait silently in a neat stack, filled with possibility, daring you to try something new...
 
 

I pug clay.  
There is no pressure.  Nothing that must be done.  No finish line.  No phones, no computers, no TV.   No control.  The pug mill tells me how fast to go,  gently ignoring any pleas to go faster...
Just lovely plastic handfuls of clay, Iike the first time you touched it.  In. Out. In. Out.  In. Out.  The mineral earth smell, cold and damp, squeezing through my fingers.  Slap into the hopper.  Down comes the plunger, extra force applied right to the bottom to leave no doubt about who is really in charge of everything in this little world.
Endless, rhythmic repetition (cut, smash, cut smash, cut smash), the low steady drone of the motor, the slow but inevitable extrusion of perfect worms, again, and again.
... hypnotic....like a wheel going round...and round....
...the mind wanders, ...  sequences of thoughts lead strangely down side paths.  Ideas occur, new but vaguely familiar, coming  from somewhere like things that happen in a dream.  Forms appear in your minds eye, once known, then forgotten and now rediscovered...  
have hours passed or only minutes?  No idea.  Cut slap smash.  It goes on.  You are far away now.
a distant call to dinner shakes you awake.. back to earth.  switch off the pugmill.  As the dream fades you quickly you scribble down a few thoughts, rough out a shape or two... 
tomorrow is another day.   As you drift off you know fresh pugs of clay wait silently in a neat stack, filled with possibility, daring you to try something new...
 
 

I pug clay.  
There is no pressure.  Nothing that must be done.  No finish line.  No phones, no computers, no TV.   No control.  The pug mill tells me how fast to go,  gently ignoring any pleas to go faster...
Just lovely plastic handfuls of clay, Iike the first time you touched it.  In. Out. In. Out.  In. Out.  The mineral earth smell, cold and damp, squeezing through my fingers.  Slap into the hopper.  Down comes the plunger, extra force applied right to the bottom to leave no doubt about who is really in charge of everything in this little world.
Endless, rhythmic repetition (cut, smash, cut smash, cut smash), the low steady drone of the motor, the slow but inevitable extrusion of perfect worms, again, and again.
... hypnotic....like a wheel going round...and round....
...the mind wanders, ...  sequences of thoughts lead strangely down side paths.  Ideas occur, new but vaguely familiar, coming  from somewhere like things that happen in a dream.  Forms appear in your minds eye, once known, then forgotten and now rediscovered...  
have hours passed or only minutes?  No idea.  Cut slap smash.  It goes on.  You are far away now.
a distant call to dinner shakes you awake.. back to earth.  switch off the pugmill.  As the dream fades you quickly you scribble down a few thoughts, rough out a shape or two... 
tomorrow is another day.   As you drift off you know fresh pugs of clay wait silently in a neat stack, filled with possibility, daring you to try something new...
 
 

I pug clay.  
There is no pressure.  Nothing that must be done.  No finish line.  No phones, no computers, no TV.   No control.  The pug mill tells me how fast to go,  gently ignoring any pleas to go faster...
Just lovely plastic handfuls of clay, Iike the first time you touched it.  In. Out. In. Out.  In. Out.  The mineral earth smell, cold and damp, squeezing through my fingers.  Slap into the hopper.  Down comes the plunger, extra force applied right to the bottom to leave no doubt about who is really in charge of everything in this little world.
Endless, rhythmic repetition (cut, smash, cut smash, cut smash), the low steady drone of the motor, the slow but inevitable extrusion of perfect worms, again, and again.
... hypnotic....like a wheel going round...and round....
...the mind wanders, ...  sequences of thoughts lead strangely down side paths.  Ideas occur, new but vaguely familiar, coming  from somewhere like things that happen in a dream.  Forms appear in your minds eye, once known, then forgotten and now rediscovered...  
have hours passed or only minutes?  No idea.  Cut slap smash.  It goes on.  You are far away now.
a distant call to dinner shakes you awake.. back to earth.  switch off the pugmill.  As the dream fades you quickly you scribble down a few thoughts, rough out a shape or two... 
tomorrow is another day.   As you drift off you know fresh pugs of clay wait silently in a neat stack, filled with possibility, daring you to try something new...
 
 

I pug clay.  
There is no pressure.  Nothing that must be done.  No finish line.  No phones, no computers, no TV.   No control.  The pug mill tells me how fast to go,  gently ignoring any pleas to go faster...
Just lovely plastic handfuls of clay, Iike the first time you touched it.  In. Out. In. Out.  In. Out.  The mineral earth smell, cold and damp, squeezing through my fingers.  Slap into the hopper.  Down comes the plunger, extra force applied right to the bottom to leave no doubt about who is really in charge of everything in this little world.
Endless, rhythmic repetition (cut, smash, cut smash, cut smash), the low steady drone of the motor, the slow but inevitable extrusion of perfect worms, again, and again.
... hypnotic....like a wheel going round...and round....
...the mind wanders, ...  sequences of thoughts lead strangely down side paths.  Ideas occur, new but vaguely familiar, coming  from somewhere like things that happen in a dream.  Forms appear in your minds eye, once known, then forgotten and now rediscovered...  
have hours passed or only minutes?  No idea.  Cut slap smash.  It goes on.  You are far away now.
a distant call to dinner shakes you awake.. back to earth.  switch off the pugmill.  As the dream fades you quickly you scribble down a few thoughts, rough out a shape or two... 
tomorrow is another day.   As you drift off you know fresh pugs of clay wait silently in a neat stack, filled with possibility, daring you to try something new...