I work in clay because I love the constant engagement with learning and trying to get life right. Clay is a teacher of exacting discipline and a close friend. It doesn’t care that I’ve moved my house, or that my shoulder aches, or that the pots I made 20 years ago look somewhat better or worse than the one I am are getting ready to cut from the wheel. Clay wants me to sit up, pay attention and get on with getting better. It is a life force and a metaphor. At once, it wants my success and doesn’t care whether I’m successful or not.
Clay imposes its will when I am with it. But if I choose to be apart, I lose that time, and clay doesn’t care that it is gone forever. It does let me continue to love it, and if I come back with focus and affection, it will play with me decently. It will give me a new kind or ardor or a different caress from the one I expected. I’ve simply got to be with it again and not stray. Relearn its nuanced behavior, and give it respect and a little passion.
In my current pots I am retrieving bits and pieces of my forever devotion to the material. The Grolleg porcelain is sensuous and responsive, and its whiteness begs for color. I am returning to clay with half a year gone. That time is lost, but our history is not forgotten. Clay doesn’t quite trust me yet; I have to prove my fidelity. I have moved it closer to me, into the center of the house, not away into the basement or garage. I see and touch it every day and spend more time working on trust. The work will grow. I’m learning and trying to get life right.
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