An Ode To My Wheel

 

At first, I was afraid of you just a little bit. I’d taken classes to learn how to use you, but I wasn’t sure you’d act the same as the other wheels. I mean, everything has its unique rhythm and character. Right? But slowly and quietly with a little soft instrumental music playing, we became friends. 

Sometimes, especially at first, I rushed you a little too fast and, well, the clay slipped off you onto the floor. Shocking, yes. But not your fault, obviously. I had to get to know you and learn to lean into you and trust. When I turned you to the left to center a ball of clay and turned you to the right to shape a cup or bowl, it was magic. 

We made many, many things together. Big bowls and small ones. Teacups and mugs. Even small sculptured “Party Animals” who helped get me through Covid. 

It’s not you, it’s me. 

I still love clay. And I’m still making clay sculpture and vases and other pieces using the slab method. But abdominal surgery made it too painful for me to sit with you and throw. Bending forward and pressing to center just didn’t work the way it used to anymore. 

But still you sat there stalwart, waiting quietly in the garage for me. Ready to move into action the moment I plugged you in. 

You’ve been there for every change I’ve gone through in the last 20 plus years. 

Helping me. Delighting me. Calming me. And most of all giving me a chance to right a wrong that happened all the way back in high school art class: when my ball of clay spun off the wheel and hit the wall behind me. You never did that to me. 

Now it’s time for me to let you go. It’s time for you to move on. It’s time for you to find someone, like me, ok maybe someone with more experience, to turn you on. It’s time for you to help transform chunks of messy mud into beautiful things again. 

Thank you for all the messy, gooey, luscious fun we had together.

Sigh. I’m going to miss you. 

Wheel Keep On Turning

 

It was time. Ok, beyond time actually, still I hesitated. Was it in the right place? What kind of adjustments would be needed? Would it still work? Most important, would I remember how to work on it? 

I used to love throwing, but would I still love it after almost a year away? If you read my blog, you’ll know about the trials over the last year. Let’s just say, it’s hard to create when your home is torn apart, your studio is a storage space and your wheel is covered to protect it from construction debris. 

Thankfully, reconstruction is done. 

Studio time.  

I headed back to my clay with a notebook full of new ideas. Small sculptures. Luminaires. I collected new leaves at the park. Still, it took some time and patience to get the joy of clay back into my life again. 

Slab building was my first clay love and I still love it. Rolling out clay with music playing in the background is wonderful. Trying out new forms and figures was a challenge, too. Sometimes what I draw doesn’t look the same in clay as it does on paper. 

But sometimes, if I don’t fight it, I find my way to something else instead. Something new and unexpectedly joyful. 

Facing the wheel at last. 

My wheel sat silent and still for a year. There was dust, debris and bugs. The clay I had left out in the garage was hard and spotted with mold. I’ll admit, I just had a hard time getting out there. But the boxes were gone. The debris was cleared. My wheel area was set up and clean. 

It was time. I opened a new bag of clay, cut a few chunks and settled at the wheel. Would I remember how to throw? Would I just make a mess? I decided it didn’t matter, if I made anything at all. What mattered was sitting down and putting my hands in the clay. 

Sigh. It was everything I remembered about throwing. Cool clay turning into a warm round mound. Pushing and pulling and smoothing and coaxing the blob into a bowl. Or two. 

But here’s the biggest reasons for my wheel to keep on turning. 

The wheel helps me:

Sit in one place. 

Use my hands instead of my head. 

Center myself from imbalanced to balanced. 

And feel anxiety replaced by peace. 

Clouds and Sun and a Village

In Oregon, it’s been a record breaking hot summer. But today, the clouds have moved in and I’m basking in the cool, dampness. I smell the possibility of rain. It’s a refreshing relief. 

Another relief, we finally have a contractor to fix our home. After living with mold and soggy floors, with no sink or dishwasher and removed cupboards and countertops, I’m breathing easier knowing there is an end in sight for this unsightly mess. 

Back to work. 

Working in clay is not just what I do but who I am. I’ve written before about the difficulty of working in clay in hot and dry weather.  And how I work around it anyway because I love what I do. This last month challenged me to find a way to work around a damaged house and wash dishes in the same sink I use for my studio clean up. 

I almost gave up but lucky for me, I had an outdoor show coming up. I needed to get my new work finished.

Getting out with a little help from friends. 

I’ve never done an outdoor show where I’ve had my own booth. I’ve done gallery shows. Group shows. And member shows where I had a set of group shelves. But I’ve never had to set up my own display tent, table, chairs and shelves. 

Luckily, I didn’t have to go it alone. I was invited to join a group of potters for a one day outdoor show. One potter is loaning me an 8x8’ tent booth. Another friend is loaning me a folding table. My daughter is giving me her camping chairs for the day. And my husband is helping me with set up, take down and tech support. 

I’m grateful for my village. 

I’ve always been independent and hard working. I was taught to go it alone and be strong. But what I’ve learned lately is working together works much better for everyone. 

Asking questions. Sharing information. Learning from others who have more experience. And being able to admit I need help, scary as that is, is teaching me more than I could ever learn on my own. 

I know the old saying, “It takes a village”, is wise. But I didn’t ever think I’d need one, or had one, but I’m sure glad I do. 

As the Wheel Turns: The Good, Bad and Ugly.

Working in ceramics presents many opportunities for creativity. I do throwing, slab building and sculpting. Many other people and companies use press molds or slip molds to produce hundreds of identical pieces. But what you may not know is how many pieces are lost in the process. I know I didn't know that when I started creating in clay. 

I've worked in many art media over the years. I've made a lot of ugly art, too. It's frustrating at times, but it's part of the process of creating. The visions in my head didn't always land on the canvas, copper or paper as I envisioned them. Disappointing, yes. But it was usually easy to fix, too. You just re-prime the canvas or paper, smooth out the copper and start over. 

Clay doesn't always work that way. Good can turn ugly really fast.  

Throwing on the wheel does give me the opportunity to make changes, fix a wobble or redo a slipped lip. If it's not working, I can scrape it off the wheel, re-wedge and start over later. I can do similar things with slab building, too. As long as the clay is at the early stages, I can take something bad, do a make-over and make it good.

But there are so many parts of the working in clay that can go bad. Adding color, drying too fast, using an underglaze that doesn't fit the clay, all these elements can mean a piece that never makes to the kiln at all. Even a good piece can crack, warp, or fall apart. If it gets through the bone dry phase and goes into the kiln, I keep my fingers crossed and pray to the kiln goddess. 

Fire it up and watch it crash, crack, bubble and burn.

This time, when I did my first bisque fire, I thought everything went well. I was wrong. When I had a maintenance check and a kiln coil replacement, I found out my lower coils were broken and not firing at all. I did a re-fire at bisque to be safe and set some underglazes. 

Some pieces are good. The vase is perfect, good color, no cracks. Most of the cups came out ok. Two plant pots and two bowls are nice. 

Some pieces are bad. The black glaze on the outside of these two bowls is full of bumps. Some of the glaze slid off into a thick, shiny mound and some slid away completely. The inside is good and completely functional but the outside problems make them bad bowls. 

Some are just ugly. The glaze on the two red cups bumped, bubbled up, and crawled back. It makes them completely unusable. I thought they were such cute cups when I put them in the kiln but now, they're just ugly. 

That's the difference with clay. Once it's fired, there's nothing you can do to turn bad into good. I just have to toss them in the trash, accept ugly happens and go turn on the wheel and start again. 

Creating an Image.

At first glance, you might think I'm going to write about hair, makeup and clothes or resumes, social media and contacts. As an artist, some would feel the above isn't important, but of course, it is. No matter what you do or who you really are, image matters. 

Think of all the images that fly by you everyday online, news, social media. And of course, the ultimate image, the selfie or glamour shot. Images abound because they speak to us in wordless wonder. They touch our hearts, minds and pocket books in good ways and bad. 

How do I create a good image of my work?

When I'm creating, sometimes I have an image in mind. A sketch. A concept. A color. But I don't follow it step by step. In fact, most of the time, these images fade away as my hands work. Sometimes, it's only years later, that I stumble on an old sketch and realize where those pieces came from. Studio work is magic to me. 

But after the piece is done, I also have to create an image of my work that goes out into the world. For years, I had a professional photographer who took wonderful pictures of my work. He was truly talented with lighting, which by the way is key to good photography, not digital editing. If the lighting is not right, the image looks all wrong. 

I know because now I struggle with getting the lighting right. If the lighting is flat, the colors are dull. The red, blue or black colors look dark or gray. If the lighting is too bright, the colors look faded or pale. Then there's hot spots where the light hits the piece and creates glare. 

Googling doesn't always help. But, maybe, Crate and Barrel can. 

No matter how many articles I google, I am not a professional product photographer, which is what we used to call them in advertising. Traditional art photography is all about the 'glamour shot' using a seamless background, professional lighting and solitary pieces. That's what my wonderful photographer did for so many years and that's what got me into gallery shows, art publications, online sites and studio tours. Jurors expect good, professional photography. 

I loved that my old photographer was an artist himself and understood the importance of being true to the pieces I created. He didn't photoshop my work and I've always been ok with that. 

So how can I stay true while creating a good image?

I've always been a big fan of Crate and Barrel catalogs and their online site is just a lovely. I still open every email and savor every page. Why? Because the design, staging, vignettes of the  photos were just wonderful. 

What if I take a clue from Crate and Barrel? Take pictures of my work in normal settings? Group my work in a way that real people with real homes would use them? 

I love to create vignettes in my own home, so why not use that idea for my ceramic pieces? I tried it and it just felt right. I know it's not what jurors will expect to see. And it may keep me out of galleries and some shows. 

But suddenly, it feels like what I'm creating is being seen in its own image. And I like that.

Creating and Walking.

I love to walk. As far back as I can remember, walking around the block, the neighborhood, the woods was one of my favorite things. Even in college when everyone else was whizzing around town in their cars, I walked. 

While walking to me is calming, please understand when I walk, I walk fast. I just love the feeling of moving through the air, past the houses and down the road at my own quick pace. It's exhilarating to breathe in the outside world around me as I exhale tension, stress and the monkey mind within. 

Seeing the world through new eyes. 

Yes, that's part of a Marcel Proust quote, "The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new lands but seeing with new eyes." A long time ago, I realized how easy it is to whiz through life without really living. I hung a copy of that quote on my wall to remind me to not just look but really see. It's not always easy. 

Walking through the park everyday, it's easy to slip into autopilot. Last week, I almost missed the great blue heron near the bridge, the egret on the island and the otter swimming by. But thank goodness I didn't because those birds with their ruffled feathers and the sleek, swiftness of the otter lifts my spirits and awakens my heart to the beauty of life all around me. 

Walking follows me into the studio. 

Creating is a step by step process. Some days it flows quickly and smoothly and some days it's a path filled with unexpected dips, curves and bumps where it's easy to slip and fall into frustration. But smooth or bumpy, it's still as essential to me as walking. 

Walking back into the studio this week after almost a month, I saw shelves of unfinished work waiting for me. Some waited patiently, some not. I had a few cracked, overly dry pieces that just had to be trashed. But I also had many begging for color. I put on the music, got out the brushes and painted away. Each piece was a step from the past into the present. What colors did it want? How many layers did it need?

I got my hands in fresh clay with only a foggy idea, like clouds in the distance, of what to create. A new mask emerged from the block of clay. Then with the leftover pieces rolled up, a new little creature took shape. 

I thought the painting would take most of the week, but I was done in two days! The new pieces popped up in one afternoon. 

Creating, just like walking, flowed at a quick pace this week and I'm refreshed, revived and relieved. And just like my favorite quote reminded me, I didn't need the landscape at the park and in the studio to change, I just needed to open my eyes.