Sculptural or functional? Does it really matter?

My pieces used to be sculptural not functional. I took classes to learn how to use the wheel, to only to prove to myself that I could conquer my past failures, but now things are merging in a new way. I hand build with more texture. I’m making more functional pieces like cups, bowls and platters. I started to think that my work was going to change completely from sculptural to functional.

But sculpture is sneaking in. It started very slowly and I didn’t even realize it.

On the wheel I struggled to make basic forms. Wheel work was functional and I worked hard to learn to make mugs, bowls and vases. My hand building was sculptural. With ease I played with coils, slabs and slump molds. Then one day, a wheel thrown cup sat on the hand building table just looking too plain. The next thing I knew, coils were winding in, on and around the cups and bowls. Small slab pieces were attaching to the sides and bottoms.

Surprise! Sculptural elements!

Sometime during this slow, unconscious process, I became obsessed with clay. My day would start out on the wheel in the cold with my dog, Jilly curled up on an old dog bed in the garage nearby.

Lunchtime came and went as I continued to throw just one more piece. These pieces started to take over my sculpture studio, and more afternoons disappeared as I added coils and leaves to the thrown cups, vases and bowls.

Not only did my functional work start to become sculptural, my former sculptural hand built pieces became functional. I was hand building jars that started to sprout leaves, too.

The questions raced in my head. Is it sculptural or functional? Is it pottery or art? Does it really matter?

No. I can hold a mug with a leaf handle and sip my coffee. I can display a hand built jar with coiled stems and leaves for the beauty (and I can hide something in it if I want).

I have the functional and the sculptural. What matters is that my heart and my hands are happy.

Olympic Message: Passion wins over losses.

I cheered and marveled at all the events. I am inspired and energized by all the athletes from every country. I don’t care if they won a medal or not. That’s not what the Olympic Games are about.

Medals don’t matter. Passion matters.

A deep passion was born within each and every one of them. It started out as curiosity and a deep natural feeling of joy that drove them to take those tiny toddler steps. Small beginnings like jumping into cool water to diving off a 20 foot board. From biking around the block to racing around Surrey, England. From doing somersaults in their living rooms to flying around uneven parallel bars in front of millions of people.

Inside each and every one of these athletes is a deep knowing, a deep sense that this one thing, is the right thing for them, above all else, here and now. It didn’t start out as a gold medal dream. In fact, they (or their parents) had to pay to do it. It didn’t start out as a career. It started out as fun, joy, a big ‘yes’ in a world of ‘no’. Are they special, different from you and me?

Yes. And no. They have it. But so do you and I. We all have that deep knowing and passion. We are all born with it.

It’s true. I know it and so do you.

But. Oh, yes, there’s always the but…

How did they know to go with it? They listened. Then, they stuck their foot in the water of life and jumped in.

And it grew as they grew.

From their first tiny splashes, it grew to include parents and teachers and coaches. Sometimes, they soared and sometimes they fell. Sometimes they got tired and disappointed and distracted. So they rested, found their way back to their path and kept going. Why? Because deep down inside, the passion was there, waiting for them to use it.

Mine is there. Yours is, too.
It’s not about winning or losing. It’s about using the passion and joy that you were born with. It’s simple. You can start anytime, any day. All you have to do is take one tiny step, then another and another. Here and now. Come on in, the water’s fine.

Telling a story in clay, copper and words.

This month, one of my mixed media story pieces in on exhibit at the Multnomah Art Center in Portland. It's part of the 'Broadsides' exhibit, focusing on the blending of art and words. There are watercolors, photographs and drawings with stories, poems; hand-made books with solar printed pages.

My piece is the only 3 dimensional piece in the show, I'm honored to be included. Every part of the piece; the sheep screening mask, the copper repousse lion head, the clay/copper leaf covered face, the copper repousse illustration on the front relates to the story mounted under glass on the back of the piece.

Here is the text of the story I adapted from a Zen folktale.

The Lion and the Sheep
A Zen Story


In the shadow of a mountain, a herd of sheep lived and grazed on the cool, green grass. One day, close to a tall oak tree, there lay a small copper-colored lump of fur. The ewe bent down sniffing carefully but the lump did not move. Others began to gather around listening, curious, cautious because you never know what dangers may hurt you or the others in the herd. The ewe tried prodding the lump with her nose but it wouldn’t move. She could see its small chest rise with each breath, so she decided to lie down beside it to give it warmth and see if it would wake up. Tired of standing around waiting, the rest of the sheep moved to graze on the tender grass nearby. As night fell, the small furry bundle began to stir, the ewe licked its face and it nuzzled closer finding warm milk to drink.

Time went on and the ewe continued to take care of the foundling as part of the herd. All the sheep could see that this animal was different. The animal was taller than the biggest ram and her coat was the color of the warm, summer sunset rather than the clouds. Her copper-colored face was broader and her mouth was filled with big, sharp teeth. But she went along with the herd up the mountain paths, drank out of the streams and nibbled the grasses like all good sheep.

She was a lion. But living her life among sheep, she only knew sheep. The sheep never having seen a lion, did not know she was a lion. They all lived together in the same meadow eating, sleeping and moving as a herd. She became very good at spotting dangerous animals, so she guarded the herd at night and moved in front of the herd during the day.

Until one day, on the meadow, a sound rang out and the herd ran together for safety, except the copper-colored female. She stopped and turned toward the noise. Around the tree, came the largest beast they had ever seen. The herd bunched closer. Out in front, she moved toward the strange beast. The ewe bleated out to warn her but she kept going, stopping inches away. A quiver ran through the herd. The copper one looked at the beast unafraid. The beast saw itself in the other and nodding its head went to the stream. She followed. As the strange beast bent down to drink, she saw her own reflection and looking over saw the face of the beast in the still water. The images looked alike. Shocked, she drew back from the edge of the water and toward the herd. But the big beast stepped into her path blocking her way.

The beast roared and as the other sheep backed further away in fear, she nodded in understanding. She listed to the stranger’s message, where the others heard only terrifying noise.

The stranger said, “Don’t run away from who you are. You may have grown up here with a herd of sheep, but you have grown into a beautiful lion. Lions are strong, independent and brave. There are many more things that you can do, places you can go and other animals than the sheep and this safe, green meadow. Come with me.”

She had always known she was different from the sheep. But she had grown up living a sheep’s life. She liked the cozy security of the herd but not the grass. She liked moving about the mountain but she would like to see higher, go farther and sometimes the calls on the wind stirred restlessness inside her she did not understand. Now she could see her true self for the first time reflected in the eyes of the lion. For the first time in her life, she was not different but part of another family, one that she had yet to discover. She had a choice, stay with the safety of what she had been taught with the herd or honor her true self and strike out with a stranger into a new world.

The ewe stepped forward and said to her, “Many years ago, I found you dying under a bush and I could not let you starve to death. So, I nursed you and kept you warm in the safety of the herd. Now it is time for you to go your own way. Make your life your own; your own choices not those of the herd. You've always helped done your part here. Now you must do your part out there. I knew this time would come and now that it has, I can say that I’m proud of you and I know you have everything you’ll need right there inside of you. Use it well.”

The Lioness stepped up, gently nuzzled the ewe’s muzzle and bowed her head to the herd. Then she turned to the lion and they moved off toward the mountains sniffing the wind.

Where is she? A real life mystery finale.

(I'm posting short installments of this true life experience. String them together and guess, where the main character is stuck.)To catch up and read the other three installments, click here and here and here. )


Silence. Although she was surrounded by people, no one said a word to her, to each other or to anyone on their cell phones. A phone. Isn’t that what everyone calls for in an emergency? Yet, here they all were stuck and no one was talking into their phones. Texting, yes. Talking, no.

Everyone around her seemed so patient and calm. She was hot and frustrated and tired of standing around waiting. But she wasn’t scared. Honest. Her life wasn’t in danger, yet. So, she wasn’t afraid. Ok. Maybe she was a little.

Who would’ve thought that going to a talk by a local mystery author downtown would get her stuck like this?

As she drove to the new venue through rush hour traffic, all she hoped for was a good parking space and an interesting lecture with a little insight from a published writer.

She got both. She found a great parking place. She found the building. The front door was locked and if it hadn’t been for the 3 students in the lobby, she wouldn’t have gotten to the lecture at all. Looking back, that might have been a very good thing. Maybe the locked door was a sign that she should have walked away while she could.

Now, she couldn’t walk anywhere. She was locked behind a door with a group of strangers. Yes, she could see how this could be the perfect set up for a play, movie or even a mystery book. There were more giggles as the women writers in the group came to that idea. She was not laughing.

And after she had yelled for someone to call 911, a muffled voice called back that the fire department was on the way. It was then, after all that waiting one of the women finally decided to open the call box and use the phone. She grabbed the handset and dialed the number printed on it.

“Hello?” she called into the plastic phone in the wall.

The texting in the group came to a halt as everyone leaned in to listen.

“Yes. We are stuck. The service number under the handset? 54823. Yes. That’s correct. What? Wait!” she jerked the handset away from her ear. A look of frustration turning to fury crossed her face as she faced the group, “They put me on HOLD!”

“What?” came a chorus from the group.

“Oh, wait a minute, she just said something.” The woman’s face again changed from stormy to calm and back again as she listened and replied, “Yes. We need assistance. It’s been over 45 minutes, now. Portland, Oregon. Ok. But, wait. Wait!”

She looked around wearily and said, “They’re reporting the situation to the company, and sending personnel. But they are in Illinois and can’t directly contact the local contractor here in Portland, Oregon.”

A general sigh went through the group. The woman at the front of the group took off her coat, brushed her hair away from her face and stared down at her feet. The woman with the phone went to hang it up but the heavy set woman next her, grabbed it instead.

“I won’t be ignored,” she said as she punched the emergency button again. “Yes. We are stuck. 54823. Don’t!” She turned to the group, “Hold, again.” Back into the handset she yelled, “Hello? Hello?” Her face beat red with rage, “It was a man this time, but I don’t think he’s coming back to the phone.”

“Great,” said the guy in the back.

“Well, at least we know that the phone works,” said the woman in the corner.

“Yeah, a lot of good that did,” grumbled the young woman with the bathroom jitters.
Groans went around the group. Eyes looked up and down. And a feeling of tired resignation filled the warm, stuffy air. She felt for her chocolate hearts and her cell phone, they might not help her survive, but it was something to hold on to. After some shifting around, everyone seemed to settle in again. They were stuck and there was nothing else to do but wait. Cell phones came out and the soft ticking of texting was the only sound she could hear. Again, no one moved or said a word.

She felt the walls shudder. The floor dropped a few feet and thudded to a stop.
Shocked silence exploded into a flurry of squeals. As the big metal doors started to part, everyone moved toward the crack, trying to fit in their hands and pull it further open.

A muffled voice from above said, “Stand away, please. Keep your hands and arms away from the opening,” the man shouted to us. “Once it moves, it could snap back and I don’t want anyone’s arms damaged.”

Hands moved down as we all moved carefully back. A feeling of relief, mixed with fear surged around the group. She was still stuck, but hoped it would end without anyone getting hurt. She looked around as everyone waited again. The gap widened again, this time revealing the two inch thick steel doors that had trapped them.

As the doors slowly parted, she saw the floor rise above her. Shoes, boots and pant legs were all she could see at first, there was only a three foot opening now. But it was enough.

She could see the carpeted hallway above her head and hands reaching down to pull her up and out. On her hands and knees, she crawled across the carpeted hallway away and stood up. One by one they all climbed out of their trap. It was a simple, calm, organized rescue. No heroics necessary. No one was injured. They were stuck in an elevator between the third and second floors in an old downtown building. And now they were free.

Still, as she walked out into the crisp night air, everyone chatting about how lucky and hungry and late they were, she knew two things. One, she’d think twice about going to another mystery author lecture, she didn’t need another evening wondering whether she’d make it out alive. Two, next time, she’d take the stairs.

She liked reading about a characters getting stuck in an elevator. Being the one stuck in the elevator for hours, she didn’t like at all.

“Expect the worst and you’ll never be disappointed.”

Driving to my friends the other day, this phrase popped into my head. I laughed out loud. This is a ridiculous phrase, isn’t it? This was a common saying in my family. Growing up, I heard it over and over. And now, that I’m an adult, I thought I’d grown up and away from this phrase.

Maybe, I have.

Because when it popped up like a bubble in my thought stream, I didn’t go with its flow. I didn’t listen to it or swallow it, ignore it or get angry like I did growing up.

I saw it. And I laughed. That old thought bubble just popped and disappeared into thin air.

But it did get me wondering about all those common phrases and sayings that we all hear as children and adults. Some are wonderful. If you’re like me, you copy them out and post them on your fridge, by your desk, in your studio. Some are not wonderful. They can hurt, scare or anger you. If you’re like me, you try to ignore them or fight them. If you do that, too, you know that it doesn’t make them go away. In fact, I think it makes them stick to your thought stream like a post a note to your fridge.

Here’s what happened to me that changed the flow of that old thought.

First, I laughed at it. I didn’t try to, it just happened but when it did, something changed in me. Somehow my own laughter at the absurdity of the saying turned it into harmless confetti that was now free to float away from me.

Second, I shared the experience with my friend. We both laughed. And I asked her if she grew up with a similar negative saying. She did. Her mother’s was, “Life’s a bitch, then you die.”

There was a pause as we both let those words hit the walls around us.

Then, we both laughed. Sitting there, we were both shocked and amazed at the nasty negativity of these parental mantras. How as parents, we would never have uttered anything like that to our kids. We sat there perplexed, trying to find some wisdom in it. We couldn’t. We laughed again.

A funny thing happened later, though. Walking through the woods, a new phrase bubbled up in my thought stream. This felt much more positive than my friend’s mothers mantra.

“Life’s rich, enjoy before you die.”

I wondered if I could find a new phrase for my negative childhood mantra. I worked at it, but nothing came. A few days went by and talking about it with my husband, a new mantra was born.

“Accept. don’t expect and you’ll always embrace life.”

I don’t know about you but both of these new mantras not only nurture me, they give me hope. I feel lighter accepting rather than expecting. And even if I’m not rich, I know that enjoying the riches of living my life each and every day on this amazing planet.

What were your family sayings? And how did they help or hinder you?

Process to Product.

I always love to see the process of other artists, so I thought I’d share a bit of mine here. Below is a wine goblet that went through the bisque just fine, but I think the top shelf of my kiln got a little too hot. Let's just call it the 'tipsy' wine goblet.

I throw porcelain on the wheel, sometimes it works out better than others.

Here is one bowl that got a little too wide for itself one day, so I hung it upside down and let gravity work. I played with the shape after it had set up a little.

Here it is bisque.

Here it is finished with two glazes layered on the inside and one on the outside.

Here is a series of vases and urns out of the first firing.

Here they are after final glaze firing.

I did the black and white group differently this time. Using the porcelain clay body as the ‘white’ and adding a black underglaze, then covering it all with clear in the final firing.

Empty bowls fill the Oregon Food Bank

Portland is known for its Fourth of July Blues Festival. Big name groups from all over the world come to play on the Waterfront and people line up to get into the park every year. This year was different for me.

I volunteered to sell bowls, cups, vases for the Oregon Potters Association's Empty Bowls booth. The proceeds from this booth are donated to the Oregon Food Bank. As I helped set up on Tuesday, I was amazed and a bit overwhelmed at the amount of pottery ready for sale. Little bowls sold for as little as a dollar and up.

What amazed me even more was that every box, and there were stacks of boxes, was emptied to fill the Oregon Food Banks fund. This wonderful booth was stocked from Wednesday, July 4th through Sunday, July 9th with ceramics from the members of the OPA and glass from the Oregon Glass Guild.

Bill and Sandy Sanchez were the real heros, working the booth all 5 days with the help of many OPA and Glass Guild members. It was a great cause and a great group of artists working hard to help others.

I helped unpack, price, stock, sell and wrap up purchases. I enjoy every minute of it. This was an amazing way to spend the 4th of July! Can't wait till next year!!