Rise Above It All

What can you do or I do to lift up ourselves right now?

Rise above it all?

Stay strong and healthy and true?

Health and surgery and recovery are not easy. And they take time. The biggest recovery, I’m discovering is trauma/emotional recovery. I didn’t sign up for any of this, none of us do. It happens. It’s shocking to the core. At first, it takes all you’ve got to get up and deal with the pain.

But, I got up. Walked. Climbed the stairs. My body got stronger. Now, I can do yoga. Lift weights. Carry my 2 year old grandchild. I went back to ‘normal’ life. Or so I thought. But somewhere, in there, is a small scared voice. Will it happen again? Am I really fixed?

The answer: Yes, I am fixed. My body is ‘very healthy’ now according to my PCP. 

Another question: Why then, am I feeling anxious and sad?

Another answer: Because, I’m told, after physical healing comes emotional healing. 

It’s a process. Like life, it’s not always easy. What helps?

One word, one line, one thought at a time.

Art and writing have gotten me through many difficult times: surgery, family abuse and deaths, pandemic fears, job losses and now crazy politics. I journal often because getting my thoughts out on the page helps me release the bad and see the good in my life. 

You don’t have to be a professional writer, like I was at one time, you just have to be honest. Take a pen, some paper and let it all go. Sometimes I use a picture or word to get started. Or you can look out the window, see what catches your eye. Better yet, light a candle, get quiet and listen. Then write it down. No one has to see it or read it but you. You don’t have to keep it either.  

Time for me to show and tell.  

This weekend, I’ll be showing my Lily Vases at “Ceramics Showcase” in the Gallery. Making my Lily vases lifts me up. The feel of the cool clay. Rolling out shapes. Pressing fabric, old earrings, hardware bits into the clay takes focus.

I don’t know why I like making my Lily Vases so much. And I don’t have to know. All I have to do is feel the cool clay and let it help me rise above it all.  

A world where different textures meet

A place where all colors work together 

And individual pieces join

And rise and form a beautiful whole. 

Perfect Doesn’t Live Here

I am getting ready for a ceramics show. Actually, I’ve been working towards this show for the last six months. Right after the holidays, I got busy throwing bowls and cups and hand building lily vases and jars. I love that part of the process and it goes pretty smoothly.

Drying doesn’t. The porcelain clay I work with does not like to be rushed. It likes to sit, nicely covered for weeks and weeks and weeks. After some time has passed, I can paint the first layer of color. Then, I wait some more.

Patience doesn’t mean perfect. 

I have worked on patience for years and I have gotten much better because, if I push porcelain to the next phase before it’s ready, it cracks. Or worse, it blows up. 

So I waited. I made more pieces. I waited some more. Finally, it was time to do the first bisque fire. I put on another layer of color, and did the second bisque fire. Everything came through looking pretty good. 

But not perfect. I’d love to say that my handmade work is perfectly done. I’d love to say that my technique is flawless. I’d love to say that I have the perfect clay and glaze combination that works consistently every time. Yeah, right. 

Snap. Crackle. Pop. 

The last time I did mugs using my favorite black glaze on the handle, it literally came out of the kiln and flaked off. I’ve never had that happen before and I’ve been using that same glaze for 5 years. 

This time, I eliminated the black handle and put the red or turquoise color on the inside, leaf and side decoration only. I left the handles in the clay body and clear glazed them instead. Well, this handle not only snapped on this mug, it decided to sculpt itself into an entirely different shape. Unusable. 

I had one wine cup that went in perfect and came out with a small pinhole crack in the bottom. It leaks. Unusable. I had two bowls come out with small cracks on the bottom but the inside is perfect. Usable. But not perfect. 

On one mug the red color, again a long time favorite, popped off in a very small area. The clay is vitrified and the area is tiny, so it is still usable. But not perfect. 

So here I am. I do have many nice pieces ready to go to the show. And I’d like to say all my work is perfect but as you can see, perfect doesn’t live here. Not in my studio anyway.   

All I can say is I am an artist, working in the clay that I love and doing the very best that I can.

Showing my Work is Work.

For the last 5 days, I’ve been working to get ready to show my work. This is much like a marathon. It requires months of preparation, hours working out at the wheel, strength training in the area of packing, hauling and set up and pacing yourself as you near the finish line. 

As a studio artist, I work alone and I like it. I spend my days at the wheel throwing, rolling slabs of clay, painting on underglaze colors, glazing and loading and unloading the kiln. I experiment with different clays and ideas. Lately, I’ve been finding new characters popping up on my shelves. 

While there is a definite presence in my studio, there are no people present. And the loudest sounds I hear are singers on Pandora. 

Don’t get me wrong: I love the challenge, exercise and connections.

But moving my work to the areas largest convention center, surrounded by hundreds of other artists, thousands of art lovers and musicians playing live music.   

Packing up my work is the easy part, even though this year I broke a vase trying to fit into one of my plastic bins. Then the work has to be loaded into the car, driven to the site, unloaded and set up. But before I can unload, I help haul, unpack and set up the group booth where I will eventually show my own work. I zip tie shelf units, haul shelves, unfold boxes, unpack LED lights and hope they work. 

By afternoon of the first day, I get to set up my shelves and display my work. That’s the fun part and where I learn and get help from my fellow artists. It’s so much easier for me to see display opportunities with other people’s work than my own. 

Thank goodness, I’m not alone. 

Working together to surmount the obstacles setting up the large group booth helps us work together setting up our own small spaces. I help one person and two others help me. If I’m not there and a piece of mine sells, another artist restocks my shelf. I do the same for them. 

Saturday, sick with a cold, with two work shifts back to back, I was beyond hungry. I was at that dazed stage when another artist came up to chat, seeing where I was at, he went to his booth and got me two cheese sticks I could eat right then and there. 

Working by myself, I am alone. Showing my work, I am not.

There are so many fun, happy, silly and crazy moments in this kind of huge show. Seeing new work from my artist friends. Sharing silly stories. Hearing an entire shelf of work crashing down. People mistaking me for another artist(even though our work is totally different) loving my ‘new work’. And, of course, finding wonderful new homes for my pieces. 

Making my work is a labor of love. Selling my work is a lot like labor and delivery. But as with any birth, the struggle is always forgotten in the end. 

Art Shows from the Inside and Out.

                                      (My booth in last year's show)

There's a lot that goes into any artist show.  Much more than most people would think.  I know, because before I was an artist, before I had any kind of show, I went to art shows.  Decades and decades of art shows. As an art show viewer and buyer, I went and looked and, sometimes, bought.  I was on the outside side of the experience. 

Now that I've been an artist showing in exhibits, galleries and open studios, I am on inside of the experience.  I work and work and work to make art for a show.  Sometimes this work takes days, weeks and, yes, even years.  Because everything I've ever learned or drawn or painted or sculpted or thrown or sewn or beaded all feeds whatever I'm creating and showing now.  

                                     (My sculpture, "Leaf Fairy #1", in this year's gallery show)

Being an outsider and, now, an insider gives me a unique perspective.

From the outside, I see the show as an overall experience.  Is it overwhelming?  Is it too loud? Too crowded? Do I immediately see art that intrigues me?  Do I feel a sense of curiosity?  Do I want to explore more or get in and get out?  If I have found treasures before, I look forward to more.  Some shows feel warm, cozy and inviting.  Others feel cold, competitive and uncomfortable.

From the inside, I see the show as a personal experience.  Is it fun?  Is it friendly?  Is there enough work for the visitors?  Will they see something they love?  Will I answer their questions?  Will I help them connect to art with their hearts and their budgets?  Will I be able to connect with other artists with support and community? If I've sold before, I look forward to selling well again.  Some shows feel good and fun and easy.  Others feel difficult, stressful and tiring.

At my shows, I feel a bit torn.  As an insider, I wish for connections and appreciation and, yes, sales.  As an outsider, I wish for an open, warm and inviting experience.  

                                   (My leaf plate on sale this year in the gallery)

This weekend, as one artist in Portland's Ceramic Showcase, a large, local ceramics show, I hope for both.  

Will it happen?  I don't know.   

 

Great Expectations.

I've been getting ready for the Ceramics Showcase for weeks, well maybe, for years actually.  

Lately, I've been throwing and glazing and horsehair raku-ing and waxing.  This week, I've been packing and pricing and hauling and unpacking and setting up.  Driving across town in rush hour   traffic to set up booths and lights and an installation to make money for a non-profit that helps needy families grow their own food.

I spend half my time selling plates to benefit a non-profit and half my time selling my own work.  I'm much more comfortable talking to people about the plates and the non-profit than I am talking about my own work.  

But I do have expectations.  I try, as I said to another artist, not to expect a lot so I won't be disappointed.  But that's old programming.  Is it greedy and selfish to want to sell my work and make money?  Don't we all want to use our skills and work to make money?  Why is it that artists seem to be so skittish about money?

Art is work.  Work that requires time and skill and dedication.  So, I'm changing my mind set.  Now.  

I'm going to lift my head up, talk to people about my work and expect them to buy it.  And when I slip down the rabbit hole of fear, I'm going to shake it off and make my self see that expectations are, indeed, great.