Saturday, August 24, 2019

It Happened Down In Birdland

The fever of humid Hoosier summer finally broke yesterday and I’ve been enjoying the shop today with the windows pushed wide open.

Just now I had to turn off my audible book. As much as I’m enjoying the novel, the redbird in the burning bush thirty feet outside the window over my wheel is singing a song far more compelling than Leif Enger’s words. That’s saying something. Leif Enger is one of my favorite authors. But, God, how this bird can sing.

This morning the catbird stopped by for a visit. I was standing at the glass of the shop’s front door when I saw the little polyglot perched silently in the redbud branch a mere four feet and a pane of glass away. He dropped down to the sidewalk and hopped around a bit. 

I talked to him. I tried to convince him to stay. I pointed out the huge maples, the shrubs, the climbing hydrangea – all great places for a catbird to hang out. Then I confess it – I played the guilt card with him. 

“Look” I said, “I know I threatened to cut it down last year, but here it still is. I didn’t get rid of it. I saw how you liked it. You could still, you know, use it.”

I was talking about the crab apple tree that umbrellas my shop and drops fruit that makes a general mess of the driveway 8 months out of the year and barely makes up for that with a week's worth of blooming in Spring.

He was standing under it. Last year his family used it for nesting. It seemed to work out well for them. And for my part, I never had such a great selection of free music since the days of Napster.

I know it’s past catbird singing season, but I just thought if I could convince him to stay, he might start to think about this place as his regular summer home. Free music is something worth fighting for.

Monday, August 5, 2019

The By-Ways

It's become one of my favorite drives in this big country -- taking the cross-country, blue highway drive across Minnesota and Iowa.

The long way home.

Yesterday I followed the storm home (caught up with it just outside Chicago) and it gave me a light show to beat all. All the way across the prairie the sun dappled the fields with shafts of light through the breaking clouds.

If Ireland is green then Minnesota in summer must be Ireland.

There's a beautiful passage not too far south of the Twin Cities where the highway dips down into the Minnesota River valley and enters a little town called Henderson (pop. 874).

When life gets hard enough that I need to go somewhere pleasant in my mind, it will probably be to Henderson on a summer morning when the fog is still covering the low ground around the city park by the river, while the 150 year old brick main street rises above.

Henderson's Andy Taylor will have a Minnesota accent, but the same slow, deliberate style. The humor won't make me laugh. It will make me smile. And that for a very long time.

Friday, June 28, 2019

Hold the Dolby

I remember when I got my first cassette player with "Dolby® Noise Reduction". It was pretty cool. Gone was the hiss of the tape. Gone were the crackles and pops from the LPs I'd recorded into homemade cassettes.

But the polish came off that apple pretty quickly. Gone along with those vanished hisses, pops and crackles were the sounds of fingers on guitar strings, and breathing woodwind players, and sounds of picks on fretboard ends.

Dolby sucked the life right out of my favorite recordings. Perfect was, in this case, not perfect. Those extraneous noises were very much a part of the vitality of the recordings. The noise reduction that Dolby offered me came at a too high price -- lifeless listening.

Perfection, as a craftsman's goal is admirable. There's a strange balancing act. Always a balancing act -- achieving an end result that, in its perfection both appears to transcend the means of its production -- while at the same time leaving the hint of the humanity behind in the creation.

Craft has historically thrived when technology is perceived as a threat to our human expression. Man vs. Machine. The Steam Drill vs. John Henry romanticism. In this digital age when even much of our "art" is computer generated, there are still those of us who aren't ready to give up the hands-on exploration of human trial and accomplishment.

So, should thrown pottery be perfect?

Yes. In the sense of a craftsman's results coming close to meeting his intentions, yes. Perfection is a worthy goal. Control the medium. No excuses.

But just maybe that craft should also be a celebration of the idiosyncratic material -- clay -- a cussed substance that doesn't always stay where you put it, warps, shrinks, and cracks when handled poorly.

And just maybe the marks of the potter's hands as a reminder that process matters -- matters to lots of us humans -- should not be erased from surfaces, rather, be enjoyed as the part of a better whole.

It's not about celebrating imperfection or rationalizing lazy practice. It's not trying to accept a "it's good enough for..." mentality. The striving should always be there. The striving should always be evident.

I want my recordings to hiss and pop if it means I also still hear the squeak of fingers on strings letting me know that there was a living, breathing human behind the recording -- a human who was participating in the activity of filling the world with exciting, beautiful, thoughtful work.

And I want my pottery to have finger marks, double stamps, bent walls, irregular trailed lines -- not for their own sake -- not as added affectation to elicit calculated response -- but as evidence of process. I want those things that remind me that there was a striving human with lofty goals willing to risk time, talent, and not a small amount of hope that he/she'd be putting something of value into our shared world.

Wednesday, June 12, 2019

Me & David

Me and David*
*David is and always was unaware our our 30 year "collaboration" and may or may not have approved. ;)

Sunday, June 2, 2019


This is a pretty good metaphor in picture. There's been no bigger encouragement in my life of creative endeavors than my sister, Jackie, pictured here letting me out of an antique Wells Fargo trunk.

I'm guessing it's fairly unusual to have a sibling as such an encourager.

I mean, our siblings are the ones we grow up with. Our siblings know our weaknesses better than anyone else in the world does. They grew up sharing the medicine cabinet in which we hid our Clearasil, they saw our tantrums, they smelled our gym clothes.

Similarly, our siblings look out at the world from a same shared perspective that sees all the accomplished, smart, talented, creative people in the world and measures our collective selves -- our family -- not quite as accomplished, smart, talented, or creative. If you're one of us, you must be as ordinary as we are.

Our families see the errors by which we learn. It's hard to see past them. We don't see those same errors that were the avenue to success in the accomplished others.

But somehow Jackie heard the 6-8 year-old me tooting melodies poorly on dad's harmonica and she was the first to buy me a Yamaha chromatic harmonica of my own.

Somehow Jackie heard the 10-11 year old me stumble through Paul Simon and Peter, Paul, & Mary songs on a borrowed guitar and heard enough good to think me a guitarist worth listening to.

And when the only way I could cope with the rhymes and words and thoughts that crowded my mind as I worked at the wheel was by typing them into a blog, it was Jackie who first called me a "writer". And then she even compiled some of my early musings into a book.

So, yeah, the image of her letting me out of the trunk is apt. It's a good metaphor. I wish everyone could have a Jackie in their lives who sees more good than bad in them, who sees something worth encouraging and nourishing in them, who would tell them that no matter what else the world was saying about their creative offerings, there is still at least one person in that world who sees great value -- and who opens up the trunk for them and unleashes them on the world.

Saturday, June 1, 2019

It's A Wonderful Life

I took a break from making these to go across town to the art fair and say hi to my friends exhibiting there.

While there I bumped into Mark. I see Mark once every ten years or so since we both graduated from college back in the '70s. Odd that in a town as small as ours I don't run into him more frequently.

Anyway, every time I see Mark I'm prone to wonder about how things might have been. See, when the potter who gave me my start back in '76 was looking for an apprentice to help him out, I wasn't the first student he called. Mark was.

When I see Mark I always wonder what I might have become if Mark had been more interested in making pottery. I might be a rich stock broker or a famous musician today.

Damn you, Mark.

Friday, May 31, 2019

Sun Magic

If you spend a lot of time in the woods as I do, you've probably at some point observed a phenomenon I witnessed this morning.

It was early morning, so the sun was just over the horizon, but it was a curiously burning orange ball. I could see the sun if I looked to the east and found a break in the forest. Mostly, though, I couldn't see the sun for all the trees surrounding me.

It was also just late enough in the morning that the sky overhead was a combination of open blue and slightly overcast gray.

As I walked through the woods, almost everything in my field of vision was lighted cool -- reflecting the blue and gray of the sky above.

But -- and here's the phenomenon I'm talking about -- as I rounded a bend in the trail, deep in a surround of heavy underbrush was what appeared to be a glowing-orange campfire blazing.

It wasn't a campfire. Obviously. But what it was was a small spot of brush that was being illuminated by the orange sun I could not see. Somehow, through one small tunnel in all the tree's umbrella and past all the underbrush, the sun had found a way to light up one small bush in the middle of the darkest part of the morning forest.

There should be a name for that phenomenon. I'll have to come up with one.

Anyway, curiously that sun is still orange at midday. I'm guessing there must be something huge going on to the west that has cast debris way up into the atmosphere. That's what this color sky usually means.

Sunday, May 26, 2019

Honorable Work

The world's gatekeepers have lost control of the gates. In some ways an argument could be made that they served us well. In the examples that come to mind wherein one didn't get to be a gatekeeper without some special understanding of the thing he was keeping in or out -- either by education or seniority or some other meritorious route -- we were treated to a comfortably homogeneous menu from which we could pick the already culled servings. If we look at the best offerings on the menu, we conclude the gatekeepers did their job. If we look at the worst offerings, though....

We now live in a time where we can put creative products out to a world and leapfrog right over the gatekeepers. Josh Turner has done that with great success. He just started youtubing as a 13-year-old sorta prodigy and his videos caught on. People have been successfully self-publishing ebooks. The success rate is low. Josh Turner is one in a billion.

But really, exposure is the name of the game. There are still gatekeepers, but you're not going to get past them. Really. You aren't. Maybe you already know that. Maybe you know your song isn't pop enough for a recording studio to offer you a contract. Maybe you know that your book isn't of broad enough interest (maybe you write about pottery ;) )) for an actual publisher to take you on. Maybe you aren't going to get your paintings in a reputable NY gallery.

The real gatekeepers still need to make money and you're not their ticket. The only way you can prove your worth to them and the market is exposure. And getting exposure has traditionally been a humbling, grovelling activity. 

For some reason it seems to make some of us feel better to ridicule both the grovellers and the ones trying to give them a hearing. Maybe such ridicule is a reflexive rationalization for our own lack of facing that conundrum head on.

Sometimes that ridicule comes framed in the soft language of "Oh, I don't need validation."
Well, while that one's being painted, color me skeptical.

Maybe what I'm saying is that the gatekeepers aren't gone. They still exist and they still matter. But the system is tiered. And your only hope for getting to the gatekeepers is this grovelling for exposure. Not many are discovered anymore. Most people grovel. And I think such grovelling is honorable. It's striving. It's trying.

 So, God bless the open mic host.

And God bless the songwriter who walks through the door with a song to share. He's not seeking fame. He doesn't want to feel important. He wants to feel real.

Friday, May 24, 2019

Speaking In Tongues

Pottery seems to be a bit like speech. It comes in many different languages -- even different families of languages (just as language has Romance, Semitic, Indo-European families). And those languages sometimes break into dialects and accents with their distinct colloquialisms and conventions.

That's not particularly illuminating. It's obvious really.

What's interesting to me is the degree to which, just as I might enjoy the sound of a language without understanding a word of it, I can enjoy the look of a pot without fully "getting" it.

I can't do a convincing British accent, though I understand the words. Okay, I usually understand the words. 

But, unusually, I can affect a reasonably good French accent, though I don't understand a word of it.

But it's nearly impossible for me to produce a pot I don't understand....though, I don't fully understand the pots I make.

Thursday, May 16, 2019


There’s a laugh we blurt out upon being surprised. And there’s a laugh we do to keep from crying. We know that one too well. But there’s even a laugh that springs unbidden from revulsion. Much of modern comedy goes for that cheap one and counts on our confused emotions to keep us from sorting the categories sufficiently to realize we’ve been had. We’re laughing, right? Must be funny then, right?

Maybe. But maybe not really.

Dar was on a trail in the woods and Breeze and I were about 20 feet away on a parallel trail when I heard her loud, “Eww!!! “…followed by an uncomfortable laugh. Then she hollered, “Come here, you gotta see this!”

So Breeze and I cut through the brush and made our way over to Dar’s side. She was looking down at what appeared for all the world to be the hind end – butt and tail – of a pine squirrel that had managed to only get halfway into a hole of safety before getting smashed flat.

That’s what it looked like.

Upon rolling that squirrel half over with my shoe, however, I realized that it was ONLY the hind end of the squirrel. Some owl or hawk had been dining on the squirrel high above and had dropped the latter half to the ground. Serendipity had arranged the optical illusion of the burrowing squirrel sticking half out of a hole.

Later this same morning, while walking three abreast on the paved portion of greenway that parallels the creek just before it flows into Winona Lake, we were startled by the loud flutter of two mallards – a drake and his missus – that cleared our heads by only a few feet as they flew past us.

And just as quickly as we saw them fly past, we watched as they pitched into the creek twenty feet away. In quick succession – one, two, they hit the water. And they did what I’ve never before seen a duck do. They hit the water diving. 

The creek was high, flowing fast, and opaque with silt as it had been raining for days. We couldn’t see the ducks as they dove beneath the muddy surface of the water, but split seconds later the drake popped to the top.

The missus didn’t.

I kept watching. Waiting.

Still the missus didn’t surface.

I reluctantly walked away. Nothing could be done. But our walk had us circling back. A half hour later there sat the drake in the same spot creekside. Waiting.

Try as we might with prose, poem, or song, we could never tell a story as desperately sad or cruel as nature herself tells.

Sunday, May 12, 2019

Life's Scratch Offs

Life's worthwhile pursuits seem to come with a sufficient covering of that silver stuff that's on scratch off lottery tickets. Nobody would ever buy a losing ticket hoping for a winner if it didn't have that silver stuff covering it. And nobody would attempt to pursue an endeavor if they knew ahead of time the degree to which they might fail at it.

But we'll pursue things even if we know we won't be the "best" at it. For one thing, in the arts there is no "best". There are things like "favorite" and "successful", but not "best".

And in sports there are so many levels of satisfying achievement that even if there is another participant who is better, there still remains small victories like personal records.  There are even those times of elation when you managed to pull together a game that bested those players and courses and games you never before defeated.

In most pursuits I suspect that it's just as Tom Waits sang, "...the obsession's in the chasing and not the apprehending; the pursuit, you see, and never the arrest"

So, perhaps it's in the not knowing if we'll fail or succeed that we find the faith to plod on and practice.  We can still hope for success and we grow to understand failure as mere stepping stones that lead in new directions.

Saturday, May 11, 2019

Peeking Behind The Curtain

I'm still and always mystified by how some people can see or hear or feel the world in such a way that is something beyond most people's ability, and can convey that sound, that sight, that feeling -- translate it -- back at us. It's a magician's trick, really.

And I'm at least vaguely aware that just like a magician's trick, it can be learned.

I first realized this tiered world existed when I was very young. My first instrument was the harmonica. Without anything but instinct, I could play melodies on the harmonica. I was immediately aware that I couldn't play just anything. It had to fit on the harmonica's scale. But other than that, I could play it.

But then I started to hear people who could bend notes. That's fine. Explainable, even. But then I noticed they could improvise a heretofore unheard melody. That's what I couldn't grasp, and mostly still can't.

On the other hand, when I first saw my nephew's paintings I had that same sense of someone improvising on a harmonica. How did this happen? He must have been born with this vision, right?

....and then I went to the website of his school. On the one hand, my bubble was burst. It's not that the process was de-mystified for me. But it was immediately evident that what appeared to be intuitive or inborn was actually just a skill that was taught.

And once the skill is taught and caught, the "miracle" of it gets layer upon layer. Once someone has the requisite skill, then they can take it in another direction, further from the root. So, if your first exposure to a work happens to be a leaf, you will most likely be unaware of limb, branch, trunk, root. It's easy to believe the leaf was a spontaneous generation. That's what the artist counts on.

And sometimes having the miracle de-mystified ruins it for us. Sometimes we'd prefer the magic to the look behind the curtain. But we're just still dying of curiosity.

How did he DO that?

Thursday, May 9, 2019

The Illusion of Ease

He had such an easy way with clay. Effortless. No apparent strain of muscle or countenance. Watching him at his wheel, it was almost as easy to believe that the wet clay erupted spontaneously up from the wheelhead and his hands just happened to be there as witness to the miracle. His hands appeared not to be shaping, but as the exploring hands of a blind man as he learns contours and textures the only way he can.

I continued to watch as he filled a wareboard with pottery. The illusion never resolved. I continued to see the creator and his creation in reverse order. I continued to see the potter as witness, the pottery as something foregone that had merely leapt into dimension before my very eyes.

Wednesday, May 8, 2019

221B Baker Street

Everyone loves a good mystery, right?

Last year I mentioned (when it first happened) that I was experiencing a strange anomaly in my kiln: Cone 11 was melting faster than cone 10. Of course, it was then falling into cone 10 and keeping it from melting properly.
This happened in both the top and bottom cone plaques. It had never happened before, though I had fired this very kiln with that very set-up of cones for almost 30 years.

Even odder? continued to happen. Since last autumn, every firing has had the same thing occur. The cones go down in reverse order.

I got by. I know this kiln, and I figured out what to watch and I got by. But I remained curious.

As any potter knows though, problems never present on only one front. They always come in multiples just to keep life interesting. And this was no exception.

At the same time the 11 and 10 started acting up, my 010 started breaking off instead of bending.

Strange, huh?

The two things can't be related, right? I mean, they're in the same firing, so you have to suppose it has to do with where I've set them, right?
Except, as I said, I've fired this same set up for 30 years. Same cones.
Now my inner Sherlock starts wondering what, if anything, changed?
Though the two cones' situations don’t seem like they could be the same factor unless it WAS the kiln placement causing one to break and one to melt early, right? And, again, that could be it.

But here’s the strange thing. Against all reason, except the elimination of all other possibilities – or in the words of Sherlock Holmes himself, “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

…the one thing that changed after 30 years of doing the same thing is this: I made my last set of cone plaques out of Miller 900. When I make cone plaques, I set up my extruder and then go about making an entire box (50) of all my cone plaques at one time. I line up my high fire, my reduction, and my bisque cones and make them all in one sitting. And I’ve always used whatever stoneware I had on hand.

Well, up until last year, the stoneware I had on hand was Standard 153 or Miller 850. Last year I had Miller 900. It was the ONE thing that had changed.
So, finally realizing this, I went about experimenting to prove this unlikely phenomenon to myself. Yesterday I put two 010 plaques made with Miller900 in my bisque kiln (something I’d never done) to see If, in a different kiln, the cone would melt or break off.

They broke off.

Further, I made new kiln plaques out of Miller 850 to put in my high fire kiln.
For the first firing since last Autumn, cone 10 and 11 went down in proper order.

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

Tuesday, April 30, 2019

Simply Put

My seventh grade literature teacher taught me that no good literature is ever written without conflict -- man vs. man, man vs. nature, man vs. clay, glazes, fire, and water.

No good life either, I suppose.

I wonder what kind of paradise there could ever be in the absence of contrast? An eternal bliss without struggle? I don't know how that would work. It sucked for Midas. But then again, life sucked for Sisyphus too.

"Life is hard, but it's harder when you're stupid."  --Jackie Brown

Monday, April 29, 2019

Just So Much

“….it missed by this much”, he said. And to emphasize just how tiny and insignificant “this much” was, he thrust out his hand, holding his finger and thumb a scant quarter-inch apart.

Yeah, what of significance could possibly fit between fingers so closely spaced?

More than 100,000 pots. That's what.

Knowing the distance between two fingers – and how to set and hold them there, precisely at such a distance –is perhaps the central skill to being a potter. It’s not a “squeeze”. It’s a set-and-hold. And learning the feel of that distance and being capable of holding it -- whether thumbs may touch over a short wall for reference….or the fingers are completely separated and working on either side of a very tall wall that reaches to the elbow and beyond – that’s what a potter needs to learn to make a good, even-walled pot. It’s what a potter needs to know to make a pot light enough for function, but heavy enough for a lifetime of use and abuse.

When that skill became second nature to me, I found that my mind would venture off to a beyond well away from that starting point – well away from that focus on two fingers.

What starts with a slam of clay on wheelhead and a whirring motor, a few seconds worth of slip-slap-center …. fingers assuming their positions in that set-and-hold, soon (and inevitably) leads to my focus slipping right between those fingers right along with the clay…

…and wandering off.

Some of my most creative moments happen while I’m at my wheel with my fingers set on spinning clay. Since what is going on with my fingers has become automatic, my imagination is freed. Now not only do I create the pot presently on the wheel….I contemplate the next, and the next. I imagine new ideas, new pots. My imagination becomes as malleable as the clay I’m forming. I write essays and poetry (yes, at some point I have to wipe slip from my hands and type those thoughts out). I dream my best, most fruitful dreams with my fingers set “this much” apart.

Yeah, what of significance could possibly fit between fingers so closely spaced?

This potter’s life.

Sunday, April 28, 2019

Leave It Like It Is

Now when the wet jar tipped
Off of the table
You watched as it started to fall
Though you tried to grab it

Still it fell and splattered
It went to flat from tall
Bright, white, a perfect monoprint
Across the concrete floor
You said, "Good God, look at that pattern
I've never seen that before"
Leave it like it is
Never mind the mop and sponge
Leave it like it is
It's fine
--apologies to David Wilcox

Saturday, April 27, 2019

Going 'Round One More Time

 I am continuing to make more big jars.  The carved stoneware came out so much to my liking, I decided to start making my white clay jars -- the ones I glaze with my Millring Red glaze.

Well, I started out with my new(ish) domestic porcelain.  As it came to me, it was WAY to wet to throw anything of any size.  So I had left some out to dry a bit.  I started out by wedging it but it became obvious with the first couple of pulls that even stiffened up a bit, it wasn't going to go big.  I tried 6 jars and watched each collapse before my eyes.

I was getting tired.

I gave up on the domestic porcelain and went to a bag of Turner porcelain I've had around the shop for more than 15 years.  It took some wrestling to get it throwable.  It didn't work either.  The usually foolproof porcelain just flopped all over the place.

I was getting even more tired.

Next I got some of the old Standard 182.  Man, was it stiff!  But I was determined.  I wedged it -- which consisted more of slamming than kneading.  It was too stiff to center.  So, before I went in for dinner that night I sliced several bags of the clay up into slabs and accordioned them in wet towels to leave overnight.

Yesterday I got the clay out of the wet towels, wedged it up and, voila!  It worked.  Tall white stoneware jars. 

 My handles are exceedingly polite and just a little bit shy. They don't want to go where they've not been invited.
So my pots are a veritable Emily Post of etiquette. They make sure there's a place set at the table for the handles

Wednesday, April 24, 2019


Why persist at the more difficult and tedious process of making by hand?

Because there is an inherent charm imbued upon objects that can never -- by virtue of the chosen method of production -- be identical. Even when made in series with an intent to purposely copy the previous, the most that will occur from piece to piece is a friendly family resemblance.

Saturday, April 20, 2019


I treated myself to an evening of throwing big jars.  I had decided a few years ago that even though I love making jars, they weren't an efficient use of van space for an art fair potter.

Heck with it.  I like making jars.

I did, however, start by trying to make them out of the domestic porcelain I've been using.  No dice.  The stuff -- even stiffened up -- will not make anything of any size.  Too flabby.  Pull it up 15 inches and you can watch it slump back to 12 before your very eyes.  I gave up and went back to my beloved stoneware.

The one porcelain jar I kept is going to be faceted.  When clay cheats you, you cheat right back.

Sunday, April 14, 2019

Living Water

Pottery seems singular in this: The “competition” is so often one’s biggest inspiration and encouragement.

I believe there’s an aspect to the pottery world that is a little like hidden groundwater. Most of our lives we walk right over groundwater and never note its presence. Then one day, perhaps for the first time, we notice an artesian well at the base of a hill. Or maybe a several day rain makes us aware of a rather high water table. Could be we're on a drive past a farm field while it’s being irrigated. Suddenly we’re made aware of that erstwhile invisible groundwater everywhere.

Potters are sorta that way. A few springs pop up here and there. An artesian (I’ll keep the cheap pun to myself) well or two – even the occasional pond of a potter --- a few obvious “bigg’ns” get some ink, get some notice.

But it’s the groundwater that keeps the whole craft going. It’s the groundwater of work-a-day potters who make the clay world go ‘round. And maybe, just maybe there’s a slight pressure on that working potter to spring out – to make a splash in the world of clay.

I think not, though. I think most of us are so at once charmed, and then trapped in this life. We love the material and the process. Then the pursuit of it and the demands of a potter’s lifestyle ensure that we never really escape it. 
 That is, if we ever wanted to escape it.

What other discipline but pottery allows an average Joe like me the great joy of sitting around the dinner table with Jim Ulmer, Brian Moore, Bob Reiberg, and Tom Bothe – a quintet of relatively unknowns in the “clay world” but with well over one hundred combined years with our hands and lives in clay – sharing a beer and laughing uproariously about the kiln disasters we’ve survived – the survival being the key that allows the laughter?

Where else but in the world of clay can I meet a heretofore stranger like Bob Briscoe at my pottery booth and have an hour-long discussion about mining creativity and recalling influences? ….or be driving through the mountains of northern Georgia and call Tom Turner on my cell phone to arrange a clay tour of North Carolina? …or email Pete Pinnell and talk about firing schedules, having both arrived at similar conclusions about thirty-year-old glaze recipes? In what other discipline are the “arrived” so open to sharing what they know and where they’ve been?

It’s a world that few have the honor of glimpsing – this groundwater of potters around the world. Some only see us on the surface – above ground. And some of us potters never make it there. But we’re all still part of that force that keeps clay surfacing through times when it might seem that we’re destined to our anachronistic fate. Together we push on through history. And I take no small pleasure in being part of that force. Knowing potters as I do, it is an honor.

There was a geyser in Wooster, OH over the weekend.

The Visitor

I'm not waiting on the muse. I think I've identified the muse, and the muse isn't something to wait on. I'm pretty sure "muse" isn't passive.

That's not to say that I don't believe that inspiration can't often follow something akin to meditation. It might. But to that point, I'm pretty sure that meditation isn't passive either.

But when I'm tied to the dock of Inertia, the muse is simply the one who knows how to undo those vexing knots in the mooring ropes.

When I'm anchored by procrastination, the muse is recognizing that anchor and weighing it. This is no time to heave to.

Starting is more than half done.

Mostly, the muse is the guy who drives the R&L truck that delivers my clay.

So, no, I'm not inviting the muse. Ultimately, R&L truck driver or second mate metaphor notwithstanding, I'm thinking that I am the muse.

What I am inviting, though, is the Visitor. I'm inviting that "third" who so often shows up, surprising me when I thought it was just me and the clay at the wheel.

The Visitor is the third who shows up when I thought it was just me and my keypad typing away at rhymes.

The Visitor is the third who shows up when I thought it was just me and my guitar.

The Visitor is (I think, anyway) why creative people continue to create.

I'm a real world kinda potter. That is, I've always made my living from clay. When push comes to shove, relative to the formulation of Muse/Visitor I've suggested above, survival has always been muse enough for me. If I don't weigh anchor and get sailing, I don't survive. There is no safe harbor. I can't wait on inspiration. I can't afford romantic notions of transcendent illumination.

And because potters like me have that survival motivation to be makers, we more often get to meet the Visitor. After all, if the Visitor only comes when bidden by productivity, the most productive are going to meet the Visitor the most often.

But correlation doesn't equal causation.

And there are obligate creators in this world. They seem to not require the push of the muse. Once they've met the Visitor, they go back to meet the Visitor again and again and again.

And the Visitor is why the poet goes back and reads what he wrote before. He's still startled by the presence of the Visitor. He wants to relive the pleasure.

The Visitor surprises the songwriter at every reprise.

The Visitor is why the potter unloads the kiln, smiles as he meets each piece as if for the first time. He walks away from the kiln, only to pirouette and return to the kiln for yet another look.

Saturday, March 30, 2019

The Circles Are Smaller Now


In the freeze frame that is my mind’s eye I can see you there. Coiled. Your four big strong paws spread wide across the ground. A low center of gravity. A stable pad from which to lift off.


Potential about to become kinetic. Ready to spring. Mischief in your eye

The crouching posture and wild eyes say that neither you nor I have any idea in which direction you intend to launch. Only that wild hair tickling your butt and some fanciful flight -- only they know which way you’ll go when you finally launch yourself

But launch you do. 0 – 60 covered in but seconds. By the time your rear paws have leapt past your front paws … by that first bounding progress you’re up to speed, effortlessly covering 


With reach and drive and precision, four paws leave but two prints. The back paws land in the front paw’s print with target sure accuracy.

Your feet dig in with such purchase I could almost believe this illusion: Your powerful legs are driving the Earth's rotation.

Suddenly I see it. It’s no longer you gliding across the surface. Instead, the Earth is a wheel beneath you. And it is your powerful paws digging in, keeping all in spin
The backyard is too small for you. Fences alter your course. You turn. Your circles barely clear the chain link but you take in the whole of it. Lap after lap. Figure eight after figure eight. Your butt bunches. Your back is cocked. It explodes with each bound…
…then just as suddenly your back is arched. Your airborne front paws are above your head. Your airborne rear legs are fully extended behind.

You are flying. 

And now…
In the freeze frame that is my mind’s eye I can see you there. Coiled. Your four big strong paws spread wide across the ground. A low center of gravity. A stable pad from which to lift off.


Potential about to become kinetic. Ready to spring. Mischief in your eye.

But now the crouching posture and wild-eyed look says you’re grabbing the Earth. Hanging on for dear life. As though the world is spinning out of control. You widen your stance. Dig in for stability.

Neither you nor I have any idea in which direction you intend to launch. Only that wild hair tickling your butt and some fanciful flight -- only they know which way you’ll go when you finally launch yourself.

But launch you still do. Mostly forward now. Not bounding. Your mind is still young and mischief still there. We have outlived our bodies, you and I.

The circles are smaller and fewer now. The fences aren’t in the way. The fences don’t even come into play. But some day. Some future day we will leap them.

Selling Blue Skies


Just a bit of musing: The American culture is one that values the individual in ways other cultures don't. That's not to say we value him/her more, but we value the individual differently.

In our culture we seem to bend over backwards to not fold the individual into the group. That gets expressed in various, sometimes ironic ways.

To a much greater degree than other cultures, we seem to have more difficulty accepting the "anonymous craftsman" concept. Sure, the phrase became popular in the 50s and 60s, but ironically, it is the artist/craftsman America that may have adopted it the least.

I had a conversation with one of the fellows who founded the immensely successful Rock Hard Pottery.  The conversation circled around the conflict going on back then in the art fair world between the individual artist/craftsman and the studio potteries.   The art fairs quite often had restrictions against production studios. The art fairs wanted potters who produced and sold their own work.

This fellow potter was observing that this kind of restriction – this sense that there should be some sort of distinction made based on the process by which the pottery was created – was almost uniquely American.  Everywhere else (especially Asia where the finest pottery the world has ever known has been made for millennia) the notion of such a distinction by means of production is almost unheard of.

And as the discussion went on both of us observed from our own art fair experiences that it has quite often been the case that some of the very best pottery sold at art fairs was the result of potteries that employed numerous anonymous craftsmen to produce the work:  Bill Campbell, Deb Vestweber, Rock Hard Pottery were just a few that sprang immediately to mind.

Meanwhile, though the American craftsman has been loath to accept the anonymous craftsman (as the art fair rules would indicate), the American corporate world adopted it wholesale.  The individual is subsumed into the machine as but a cog in getting things done.

And time and again -- just as the art and craft world of everywhere else in the world demonstrated -- the specialization of anonymous craftsmen actually led to superior products. And with ego in its proper house, the community was better served.

Many of us (myself especially) had trouble accepting what we perceived as the meaninglessness of serving another's creative vision.

But some of us still perfected our craft in some sort of apprenticeship situation -- again, subsumed to another's vision.

But we're learning the hard way that things created by anonymous craftsmen serving another's creative vision are producing work that is in many intrinsic ways superior to our own.

We, meanwhile, are finding creative ways of selling our stories in lieu of that intrinsic value. Others are finding ways to stay ahead of the creative curve.

We're all just finding our way
No matter how much pushing and shoving
We're all just finding our way