John Bauman

Winterwood

2012-01-13T04:57:00.000-08:00

The colors in a late winter woods are incredible. Like no other season. A drive-by view from the distance of the highway doesn't reveal them. You have to walk into the woods to see that winter isn't just brown.

Walk one direction up the trails and you'll find that every large trunk that faces you appears to have roadside signage -- those signs all being shapes made of moss green. In the summer you may never notice that moss because the more vivid shades of leaf green draw your eyes away. But in late November those moss-signs stand out as though every tree trunk was carefully patina-ed with oxidized verdigris copper.

There are two trees right now that have bright red berries. Actually, one a small tree and the other thorn covered bramble interspersed wherever the woods thins a bit to allow more light.

The winged euonymus is still holding on to the last of its now dangling, dusty rose colored leaves -- though their almond shape is now facing up and down rather than horizontal.

And there's still one tree out there that is as green as springtime. I don't know what it is.

Sure, there's lots of brown out there too. But when you're in the woods it's not brown. When you're in the woods it's sepia, and umber, and sienna, and chocolate, and buckskin, and tan, and everybrown in between.

Merry Christmas

2011-12-24T05:48:00.000-08:00

My half of the duet I used to play with my fiddler friend, Jesse. Grab your fiddle and play along...

Shipping With The Masters

2011-12-23T15:51:00.000-08:00

Every year I ship about 500-600 boxes with my local UPS Store. Because of that, I've gotten to know the shop owners and the folks who work there. So for fun each year at holiday time, rather than wrap my gifts for them, I instead decorate the boxes. My preferred methods -- because it is a UPS Store -- is to not try to disguise the fact that the boxes are, indeed, cardboard shipping boxes. I try to leave lots of exposed cardboard and tape. And I use UPS logos (and the color brown) wherever I can.

But I also try to come up with some new spin -- some new decorating idea each year. This year the silly idea came to me all of a sudden in a flash of genius. Okay, not genius. Maybe brilliance. No, not that either. Anyway, the idea came to me. It was obvious....

See, the owner's names are Vince and Lisa.

What To Do?

2011-12-22T18:00:00.000-08:00

I'm surprised at how often I'm asked "What can I do with those big bowls of yours?"

Here's an idea -- a salad we just took to a party of 21 people...

And as the salad gets smaller, you get to see more of the bowl...

Very Un-Clobbered

2011-12-20T14:56:00.000-08:00

I was laughing right out loud. And I was doing so before the internet ever even invented LOL-ing. I was paging through the immensely huge "The Potter's Dictionary of Materials and Techniques" by Frank Hamer. I came upon a listing for "Clobbering". It's a term for over-embellishing pottery in a (vain) attempt to add value to it.

"Clobber"

I love it.

Well, here's my TOTALLY UN-clobbered mug. It is nothing but simplicity, shape, glow, and function. Inspired in form by my love for the paintings of Bruegel the Elder -- paintings of taverns, dances, weddings, and gatherings -- all with contemporary pottery candidly captured throughout the paintings. And it was all pottery that was so compelling in form, I wanted to reach into the paintings and pull them out and hold them.

This mug is hand-thrown with high-fired porcelain. Additionally, it is glazed in my Millring Red glaze and sprayed with a light glow of golden rutile -- enhancing the more than ample globe shape that holds a generous 14 ounces of hot or cold liquid.

Last Night's Firing

2011-12-20T13:39:00.001-08:00

Dreams

2011-12-19T20:59:00.000-08:00

Evinrude the boat from shore, Hallelujah
Evinrude the boat from shore, Hallelujah

Wind it up and pull the rope, Hallelujah
Putt-putt, pull again and hope, Hallelujah

Hold the choke when it's chilly and cold, Hallelujah
Back the throttle when the spark takes hold, Hallelujah

Grab the handle, steer from the dock, Hallelujah
Blessed days off of the clock, Hallelujah

Fishing's just great there in the cove, Hallelujah
Bamboo bent double as the bobber dove, Hallelujah

12 inch striper grabbed in the net, Hallelujah
Pan-fried eatin' is good, you bet! Hallelujah

Evinrude the boat ashore, Hallelujah
Evinrude the boat ashore, Hallelujah

It's That Special Season

2011-12-15T16:18:00.000-08:00

-O Holy Television-

Soon my family will be gathering from all over the country -- from Texas to Pennsylvania. As a family we really love this time of year when families like us gather to celebrate the birth of Philo Farnsworth -- inventor of the holy television set.

It's a holiday gathering like no other. There will be televisions playing football games in the living room, televisions playing reality shows in the family room, televisions playing cooking shows in the kitchen....even little flatscreen televisions in each of the kids rooms just in case there's a conflict between the cousins over which shows to watch. And they'll all be blaring at just that perfect decibel level -- the level above which it won't be impossible to shout over....but it will be impractical.

I don't know about your family, but my family has a whole list of Television Caroles that we like to sing at this time of year. Well, I guess I should say we used to like to sing them until it finally dawned on us that some of them were too long (had too many verses) to fit in during the commercial breaks. We might miss actual programming.

First we tried shortening the TV Caroles to fit in the breaks. Then, with the advent of tivo, there no longer were commercial breaks, long OR short, in which to squeeze a carole or two. So we gave them up.

We don't miss 'em though......one of my brothers tivo'd last year's American Idol! Between that re-run "Idol" show and the new "Sing-Off!" there will be plenty of music in the Bauman house without all that pesky participatory stuff.

Back in the days before my family was totally converted to Televisianity, we used to, you know, talk and stuff. We'd spend HOURS trying to sus out just how we felt about things, how the world was treating us, what we enjoyed doing, what we thought about the political scene. Trivial, no-account stuff.

Now, television helps us shortcut through all that mudanity. It helps us waste less time on getting to know each other. And television allows us to spend more time on what really matters. Like who is doing well on "Survivor", or who's who in the NFL.

Want to know how that brother you haven't seen in three years feels about the world? ...here's a handy shortcut that has been made available only through the wonder that is television: Simply ask him if he watchs FOX or MSNBC. Easy, peasy, lemon-squeezy. Not only is it a practical shortcut, but it rids conversation of all that annoying ambiguity that used to muck up family discussions. It's as easy as black and white....ironically, brought to you in living color!

Oh holy set
Your lights are brightly shining
There's a game, and the sound's turned up loud

Long lay the world
So bored and unenlightened
'Til you appeared, put remotes in our hands

A thrill of hope
'Round the clock news cycles
We now can tell
Exactly who we are

Fall on the barcalounger
Oh hear those programs ringing
It's simply divine
The night TV was born

New Luminaries

2011-12-03T15:31:00.000-08:00

*
Like the moon's light
We may shine many a time
But light like the sun's?
...maybe once.

Birds In The Hand

2011-12-01T17:45:00.000-08:00

Jar from yesterday's firing

I've been asked about my post concerning taking special/custom orders. So, fellow potters, Why is a special order not the proverbial "bird in the hand" and, as such, better than two in the bush, you ask?

It took me a number of years to finally figure out why taking orders didn't work when, on the face of it, it seemed that an order was exactly that "bird in the hand" -- a sure thing. But most potters I know figured out some time ago that two birds awaiting in the bush are already going to be theirs just as soon as we can get to them. And the perverse thing is that the order is not actually a bird in the hand, rather, it is bird repellent.

Why, you ask?

I've come up with at least four reasons:

1. Not everything a potter makes is equally cost effective where production time is concerned. And the perverse thing is that orders are, more often than not, the least cost effective thing we can make. We rarely have the benefit of practice over multiple pieces to get the order as perfect as the body of our regular work. As a special order, it likely has elements we've never even tried. Those factors all add up to a very non-cost-effective piece.

2. It is not possible to match the order to the expectation. When pottery, by its very kiln-fired nature is unpredictable, it's never going to come out as the customer imagined it when they ordered it. Sure, it might come out even better than they expected.

Yeah, right.

3. And somewhat connected to #2. What taking special orders does is culls from the pool of possible customers a sub-group of customers who are the least satisfied with your work as currently presented. If they loved what you did as a potter, they would likely take pots from your stock of already made pieces.

4. And here's the real clincher: Most potters I know are already going to sell all the inventory they are capable of making in a year's time. Most potters I know have one predominant determiner of their annual income, and that is how much inventory they can make in a year. Therefore, taking an order does not increase a potter's income -- it merely predetermines what he/she will be making next.

New Idea For Bauman Stoneware

2011-11-24T15:24:00.000-08:00

It's hard to believe that something as opaque as porcelain can actually be translucent. But if thrown delicately it can be, and this luminary proves it . Such was the inspiration for this small lamp/lantern/luminary.

This is the very first one I've made -- I opened the kiln just a few short hours ago and to my delight, this charmer sat there on one of the back kiln shelves looking perfect. I took the still warm piece (anxious as I was to try out my idea and see if I'd been successful) and I clipped the small electric bulb (included with the luminary) into the bottom and plugged it in.

SUCCESS!

It glows warmly from within, highlighting the finest of details in the stamped woodland pattern on the outside. The ceiling illuminator that is pierced right through the lid adds even more charm and light.

When the piece is not illuminated, it is an elegant amber celadon jar with a gracefully trimmed foot.

Bowl Central

2011-11-16T18:23:00.001-08:00

about 1/4 of the bowls of my latest project

The title for this post is "Bowl Central". The subtitle is "When Will He Ever Learn?"

The sub-sub-title is, "Quite Apparently, Never"

"Do you take orders, Mr Bauman?"

For more than 25 of my 30 years as a potter, my answer has always been an automatic "No". I don't take orders. I never take orders. My system is hardwired and my negative reply is now as automatic to me as is drooling at the smell of bacon....."NO, I DON'T TAKE ORDERS"

....so you can imagine my surprise at me that I always end up taking an order or two.

This year it has been a back-breaking undertaking of 44 14"-16" porcelain bowls. And not just any porcelain bowls, but the porcelain bowls that I have to burnish on the inside as well as trim on the outside. If I don't burnish the inside, I don't get this effect:

Anyway, the throwing portion of the cycle is complete. Unless it's not. If I fire 'em and they don't all come out, then it's back to the wheel. Such is the nature of orders (and a hint as to why I don't take them).

I got to thinking about orders once. It was more than 25 years ago -- back when I used to take orders. In fact, back then I had seven pages of orders -- seven pages, single-spaced type (kids, I am referring to an honest-to-god typewriter. Yes, I had one. Now get off my lawn). Anyway, I had all these orders and the sinking feeling in my gut that told me that the best approach to these orders was to go out, get into my '66 Buick Skylark, do NOT fasten my safety belt, and drive like hell.

There was no way out. It was like the quicksand in a Tarzan TV show -- the one with Ron Ely, not Johnny Weismuller. I'm not that old.

Oh, shut up.

Anyway, no Tarzanian quicksand ever had more suck than seven pages of orders pulling me down into its depths....and certain death.

But I did wonder....

I couldn't help but notice that sometimes....maybe once in every 30 or 40 orders...rather than being the one pot in the kiln that did NOT survive the firing looking as it was supposed to look (like, without cracks or kiln niz falling into the center of it) ... instead, one out of 30 or 40 ordered pots actually came out BETTER than the rest of the firing.

Since I knew that it was my luck that dictated the 29-39 usual-case failures of orders to survive the firing, it FINALLY dawned on me what the exact nature of the dynamic was that I was witnessing. I finally understood what was the overarching law of nature that was ruling my firing of pots that were orders...

OF COURSE!

...It was that one out of 30-40 people who ordered from me actually had luck that was SO good that it even had the power to override my bad luck.

This is science, folks. You can't make this stuff up. Well, you can. But I'm not. Really. It's statistics. Or did you miss the obvious? ...30, 40, 1, and 2, are all numbers. And numbers don't lie. Fact.

Anyway, with each dive into the quicksand, I learn a few new lessons. This dive taught me that I've got some pretty cool tools that I never realized were made for pottery. First, years ago I bought a Craftsman shop-vac. The cool thing about this shop-vac is that the motor is detachable from the canister and can be used as a blower. The way this comes in handy is at the trimming wheel.

When a potter has to trim the INSIDE of a shallow bowl or plate, the trimmings don't escape on their own. There are no little Steve McQueen trimmings riding little motorbikes and jumping over the rim of the bowl to freedom. Instead, what happens is turn after turn of accumulated trimmings re-attaching themselves to the area the potter (me) just smoothed out. If I were the type to gEt ANgrY oR FusTratEd or eVEn a LitTLe, yoU KnOW, CRAzY.....this is exactly the kind of thing that might push me over the edge. Yeah, like I'm not over it anyway. Shut up again.

Anyway, enter the shop-vac. Or, I might say "Enter the shop-blo". I clipped the shop-vac motor to a ware cart right next to my trimming wheel. As I trimmed, it blew. Like magic, or at least like magic that blows really hard, no trimmings accumulated. Smooth bottoms, no re-attached trimmings.

Another cool and indispensible tool around the Bauman pottery is my wand blender. For 34 years of pottery making, I have always covered my pots with slip. I've slip-trailed, slip-stenciled, slip-masked, brushed slip, combed slip, feathered slip, colored slip. And I can't even imagine doing all that without a wand blender. I've also found that nothing beats a Hamilton Beach blender for working with slip. It can make porcelain slip from dry porcelain scraps in less than a minute -- smooth, and virtually bubble-free. Many wand blenders I've used don't move the slip enough and require about as much stirring as blending. Some introduce so much air into the slip that it's really difficult to trail a smooth line without the trailing tool burping at inopportune times. Not so the Hamilton Beach. Smooth, airless slip every time.

So there's my expose on the shop tools that are not shop tools but are indispensable shop tools, nevertheless.

Here's a sneak preview of my next, newest item...

Connecting

2011-11-10T12:29:00.000-08:00

In past posts I've commented about my (especially initial) misgivings about selling via the internet. My fear has always been the internet's impersonal nature wherein I never meet patrons face to face. Well, it has happened often in the past -- folks have a way of allaying those fears. They contact me with the nicest stories about how my pots fit into their lives -- often accompanied by photos of the pottery in its new home.

And that's what happened when I logged on to my Etsy account this morning and found this very heartwarming story greeting me. It made my day, I'll tell you.

"I ordered a blue moon from you last year for my sister who owns Blue Moon Farm in KY. She loved it and especially loved all the care that went into the packaging and shipping. She and her husband run their farm by themselves and take their produce to market each week, and appreciate the work of others like the two of you! Anyway, my brother passed away suddenly last month, and the last time we saw him we were shelling on the beach, and he found a beautiful starfish. Many things since that day have made me feel as if my brother is all around us - finding this star amongst your offerings this year was one of those moments. I am buying it for my sister and it will, I am SURE, be treasured forever. Thanks for listening! :) " Ruth Anderson

Thanks, Ruth!

When It's Tool Makin' Time In Indiana

2011-11-08T17:34:00.000-08:00

SP: Am I given to understand that you spent over an hour and a half making a single rib tool today?

JB: Scott, to tell you the truth, the time I spent is nothing compared to the time it will gain me in this huge project --40 18 inch porcelain bowls -- I have to complete this month.

SP: I was told you actually used a piece of nice cherry wood to craft the tool?

JB: The pleasure of a good tool is three-fold:
1. In the crafting of it-- knowing exactly what is needed to make it function well for the assigned task
2. In the choice of materials -- enjoying working with good materials like cherry. Have you ever smelled cherry wood as it's been sawed and sanded? ....marvelous.
3. In the using -- not just the time savings, but the appreciation of doing what you couldn't have without the ingenuity of the new tool.

SP: So, how did you fashion this extended bowl rib?

JB: First, I ripped a length from a piece of cherry that I've had in the shop for more that 25 years. It's actually a piece left over from the cherry that makes up my display. Next, I sanded both sides and the edges smooth. After that I rocked the length along the surface of my belt sander, creating an extremely smooth arc that I imagined might help me achieve the interior curve of these 18 inch bowls.

SP: All that? ...for just one rib?

JB: Yes. Again, it will save me an immense amount of time, but I also take a bit of pride in the tool itself.

SP: Well, I'll grant you that it's nice looking tool, even if it is simple

JB: Thanks.

Carolina, Here I Come

2011-11-02T18:24:00.000-07:00

I've got the van AND the trailer all loaded up. I'll make it to Knoxville by tomorrow evening. From the State line southward I'll be hearing David Loggins singing "Girl From Knoxville". It's an old favorite song, so I don't mind it swirling around in my brain.

Dar usually drives the stretch from Lexington to Knoxville so I can enjoy the changing topography and do a little wide-awake dreaming for a few miles.

Yesterday's firing was as good as the previous two (okay....there was the one pitcher I forgot to clean the foot and fused it to the shelf....but other than that) and this firing had all the color in it...

See y'all when I get there.

In My Van I'm Going To Carolina (again)

2011-11-01T12:36:00.000-07:00

I'm really excited to be heading back to the Dillsboro, North Carolina "Western North Carolina Pottery Festival" Saturday, November 5. I'm especially excited because I've just had three of the best firings I've had all year...

********************************** Additionally, I have the first series of acorn teapots I've done in several years, and I'm really happy with the improvements I've made in them... So, if you're in that area, come on down and meet me, Dar, Breeze and Ariel!

Happy Halloween!

2011-10-31T17:28:00.000-07:00

(it pays to have talented friends who love to write. Here's a Halloween story by my friend, Paul Tandberg)

Farmer John Bauman watched the group of trick or treaters leave. “Those may well be the last,” he thought as the taillights twinkled in the night, “but the candy is getting low. I should get some more out, just in case.”

So John went out to his woodshed to get another couple bags of candy. Why the woodshed? Well, John kept the Halloween candy out in the woodshed so that he wouldn’t be tempted to eat it all up himself before Halloween even arrived, which had come very close to happening several times. You see, the candy liked to call out to John late at night. But, once he started keeping it out in the woodshed, the calls were fainter, and the thought of having to walk all the way out to his woodshed was enough to save his Halloween candy from those late night munchings.

On the way to his woodshed, John walked past his jack-o-lanterns. His many jack-o-lanterns. How many? Well, John knew. There were 87 of them this year. Farmer John was famous for his pumpkins. He grew them wherever he could. And every fall, his little farm would turn orange. And every Halloween, he would give pumpkins away to anyone that needed one or just wanted one. And those that were left over he would carve into Jack-O-Lanterns, sometimes a hundred or more, and place them all around his yard. It was a lot of work, but not for Farmer John, because John loved his pumpkins and he believed every pumpkin should have a chance to be a Jack-O-Lantern.

Well, when John entered his woodshed to get the last of the candy he had hidden from himself, he looked around for his ladder, for, of course, he had put the candy on a high shelf to make it purposefully hard to get at. But he didn’t see his ladder anywhere. Then he remembered. He had left the ladder back at the house. He had been using it to put on the storm windows, because the weatherman had said that an early winter storm was coming and the next couple days were supposed to be very, very cold.

But, John didn't want to walk all the back to his house for the ladder. There was no need for that, he thought, no need at all. John decided he could just crawl up on the firewood he had stacked against the wall. So he did. But just as he had reached the top and was reaching for the candy, a log rolled out from under his foot, and Farmer John lost his balance and fell. And the entire pile of logs came tumbling down on top of him.

When John came to, he tried to move, and realized he couldn’t budge no matter how hard he tried. Not an arm, not a leg. Nothing. He was pinned helpless by the toppled firewood. "Oh you dummy", he thought. "Couldn't go and get the ladder, no, that was too much trouble. Dummy!" Then he felt a cold wind blowing into the shed. And he could hear it whistle in the trees.

That wasn't good. The winter storm was predicted to be a fierce one. And if it got as cold as the weatherman said it was going to get, well, that really wasn't good, not at all. John pushed again at the logs, he pushed as hard and as long as he could push, but nothing budged.

Then John began to slip from disgust into a cold realization. You see, John lived alone, and he knew it could be a several days before anyone would think to come check on him. And if it got as cold as the weatherman said it was going to get, well, that would be a couple days too late.

Even though he knew no one could hear him against the wind and the miles, John began to shout for help, again and again, as loud as he could. But John was old and the wood was heavy, and his yells grew weaker. And Farmer John could feel himself slipping away. “Now you’ve done it, you old fool, now you have really gone and done it. This is not good, not good at all. Not good …”

And John's eyes began to close and darken, but before they did, he thought he saw something. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw one of his pumpkins roll up to the door of the shed and look in on him.

"What the heck..." and then John passed out.

Meanwhile, back in town, the firemen were cleaning up after the Halloween party they had thrown for the kids when the phone rang. Jim answered the phone, and then shouted to the others.

“That was Alice Martin, and she said she saw flashes of light coming from Farmer John’s place. She said it didn’t look like a fire, but she wasn’t sure what else it could be. She just saw bright flashing lights, over and over. John, Pete, let's take the pumper and roll.

When the firemen arrived at Farmer John’s place, they saw what looked to be a hundred jack-o-lanterns glittering all around the house. But they saw no fire. Everything was fine.

“Aw, Alice just saw all these jack-o-lanterns, that’s all. She’s getting a little dingy, bless her, or maybe she's nipping her recipe bottle again. Who knows. Call the others, there is nothing here. Let's all head home.”

“Wait “ said Jim, “shouldn’t we maybe check on John, as long as we're here?”

“It’s past 11. The lights are off. He ‘s probably asleep. There’s nothing going on here. Just all these pumpkins. Sheesh, I’ve never seen anything like it. That John is something. But, no, let’s just go.”

And the firemen walked past all the jack-o-lanterns, got back into their truck, and drove away, drove away with John left behind alone and trapped in his woodshed.

But, just as the Firemen were turning onto the main road back to town, their mirrors were filled with a bright flash of light. They turned around and saw Farmer John's place just erupting with strobing lights, like lightening, except they were flashing from the ground to the sky.

“What the heck... Turn, turn around. What the heck is going on!”

But when they reached John's yard, they saw no flashing lights. All was still and quiet. And they stood puzzled and confused, until Jim said, “What the ...? Look at that! Look! Those pumpkins. Were all those pumpkins over there before? They couldn’t have been. Look!”

And the fireman saw close to a hundred jack-o-lanterns, all tightly circled around the old woodshed. “There is something going on over by that old shed. Those pumpkins weren’t there before.”

And as the men watched, a pumpkin began to wiggle and roll aside. Then another, and another, until there was a path, a path between the pumpkins leading right up to the door of the old shed.

The stunned fireman followed the path. "Oh my god! Look, it’s John! Pinned under the firewood”

The firemen threw the wood aside and pulled Farmer John out to safety. He was cold and shaken, but he was all right. The firemen walked Farmer John back to his house. And as they did, they almost started to tell him about the strange flashing lights. Almost. But as soon as one started to try, he stopped, for how do you tell such a thing?

"Oh, am I glad you guys came" said Farmer John. "How did you.., what made you think to check on me?"

"Um..., a hunch? Um, and Alice thought she saw something. And, uh, well, we just thought we would check. It was a quiet night."

Farmer John just laughed. “Well, whatever it was, you fellows sure saved my bacon. Here, have some of this candy before I eat it all.”

The firemen stood in silence. Something very strange had happened, but what? Whatever it was, it was a good thing it had happened. Very good. They looked at John. And they looked at all the twinkling pumpkins that were now, once again, gathered around his house. And slowly, each began to just shake their heads and smile. And they took some candy. There was nothing else to be done.

“Well, you take care now, John. No more of this crawling around on woodpiles, you hear?” And the firemen walked back to their truck and drove off, each silent in his own thoughts. Each with their own smile.

At his kitchen table, Farmer John had a smile, too. A smile, and some tea and cookies. And just before he went to bed, Farmer John Bauman put down his cup of tea and walked outside. The twinkling jack-o-lanterns were gathered protectively around his house, warming the cold night air. John's smile got a little bigger. “Thanks, guys. Thanks.”

Then Farmer John went back into his house and tucked himself in safe against the night.

~Paul Tandberg

Dear Girl

2011-10-27T19:36:00.000-07:00

My dear, dear girl,
You ran to the arms of God,
Not in the way you were taught,
But in the only way you knew how.

I doubt that He was calling you.
I don't doubt that He's now holding you.

Number 1000

2011-10-08T17:56:00.000-07:00

Number 1000

Well, in the midst of busily getting ready for the Circleville Pumpkin Festival that starts a week from Tuesday (the pottery is pumpkin central -- several hundred pumpkins on the shelves, in the kilns, on the work tables, glazed, bisqued, drying -- I also just made my 1000th sale on Etsy. The pumpkin pictured above was shipped off to Easthampton, MA.

Dustcatcher

2011-09-23T06:45:00.000-07:00

In blogging back and forth, Dan Finnegan and I have been discussing these thumb grips and the different ways we've done them. In the discussion we talked about both of us having done this smoothed out coil version. This, strangely, is the only photo I could find of one of mine done this way. The other technique (of which I don't have a picture) is to place another coil atop the handle and smooth it out in the other direction, leaving a small gap (or even a little bead) between the two coils.

Circleville Pumpkin Festival

2011-09-19T13:57:00.000-07:00

This show has been calling to me for more than a decade. The Circleville Pumpkin Festival
October 19-22, 10 AM to 10 PM each day.

After a Summer season of art fairs, this celebration of autumn and harvest should come as a welcome change of pace. I plan on bringing not just my pottery (LOTS of pumpkins and gourds), but also my wheel in order to demonstrate each day (and into the night).

By coincidence, I was set up next to Jill during that Ann Arbor Art Fair this summer and found out LOTS about the competition of growing giant pumpkins. See, Jill has been growing the giants for a few years and what she described was a wonderful culture of gardening and crazy competition to create these monster pumpkins. I will be furthering my education on the sport, as Circleville hosts one of the country's biggest weigh-ins for the competitive growers.

There will also be TONS of pumpkin pie and other baked goods made from pumpkin. I will be in heaven. I LOVE pumpkin pie! And pumpkin bread. And pumpkin souffle. And....well, you get the idea.

I will be madly making gourds for the next three weeks!

The Kiln Dance

2011-09-13T16:29:00.000-07:00

It’s that wire that no one sees but draws us to the magician’s hand.

It’s the true north that mysteriously keeps our needle pointing one way.

One day we saw something-out-of-nothing spin into existence beneath a practiced hand. Material we once thought of only as solid as concrete suddenly appeared as flexible as fabric.

Or maybe in our youth, on a late evening walk past the college art department, we chanced upon a firing -- a glowing kiln. It caught our attention as fire has since…since forever. We were imprinted.

We notice everything pottery. In the background scenery of a movie set, in a commercial on TV, we'll notice the pots.

If we walk into a strange place and there happens to be a hand-thrown piece in the room, little else occupies our mind – at least until we’ve had the chance to pick that piece up, feel its heft, and look beneath it. It calls our attention like an overheard conversation that sounds more interesting than the one in which we’re currently engaged. "Oh, excuse me. Did you say something?”

Now even the wares we use everyday take on new meaning. We’ve glimpsed behind the curtain and what was once a mystery – the “I-wonder-how-they-did-that?” – becomes de-mystified one discovery at a time. Ah, and it is answered with a satisfying life of pursuing new “how-to-do” mysteries to put back into the world.

So, perhaps it’s the process that hooks us at first. But almost simultaneously we’re drawn to these objects that we’re making. On the one hand we observe the component parts of glaze, form, function. And often times, especially at the beginning of our lives in clay, we see the parts in spite of the whole…

..but then, as we grow with the clay and the process, we start to direct our attention to the objective end in form and function. We begin to see the whole becoming greater than the sum of those parts.

Add the fire that takes so much of the end result out of our hands – out of our control -- and we can be utterly surprised by that new whole that somehow managed to exceed our imagination. Upon opening the kiln, it’s like meeting and being charmed by a stranger.

Proof? -- the kiln opening dance. You know the one. You’ve done it. With mitted hands you hold the still hot pot by rim and base, and slowly rotate it in that graceful 360 degree pirouette – attempting to take in the whole of it. Then you set it down and turn, as if to leave – only to echo the pirouette yourself. You spin on your heel, return to the pot and pick it back up for that second look…

…Fred, meet Ginger.

Icarus Revisited

2011-08-27T06:52:00.000-07:00

drawing by Stephen Bauman

He looked off to his right wing -- that’s where he felt something give. A bit of wire mesh showing through. Bared of feathers, the glue had fatigued from furious flapping.

Flight never came easy. It was about to get a lot harder. Like the fast approaching ground. Real hard.

It was pretty clear from the start. He was no bird. But he was resolute: The only way he’d never fly is if he’d never try. And he was full of try. And that heart-pounding second when his feet first felt nothing beneath them but air, and his homespun wings found purchase through the morning mist – rising, rising – was a beginning.

It was borrowed glory. A stolen gift. He need only witness the avian spectrum from hummingbird to hawk to know that neither and none of their grace would be his. He’d neither be capable of the craft of the acrobatic industry that is the hummingbird’s mystery, nor the artful mile-high effortless soaring of the red tail. But he would fly. For a long way and a long time. Not high, but higher than groundlubbers. Not fast, but ever forward.

The birds thought he was crazy. His friends knew he was. And now, with the feathers falling away, leaving him holding fistfuls of handles and little else, and a fast approaching Earth, he was maybe seeing their point. But the thing about cheating nature is that funny little paradox with which we’re born: It is our nature to cheat nature.

Craftsman's Conversation Continued

2011-08-21T02:52:00.000-07:00

GREG: I look at my own work and it's overwhelming and quite often frustrating at how much craft I have to learn to create something that may approach art. In lutherie I see things in my mind which I am not yet capable of getting out of the wood. And we haven't even touched on the idea of making the instrument work well as a tool for the artist who's using it. There's an incredible amount of crafty skills and knowledge to get an instrument to sound wonderful.

But in other things, song writing comes to mind, I'm the exact opposite. I think I have the technical ability (the craft) to play other people's music well but writing songs is incredibly tough for me. It's an art to which I can't even begin to apply any craft.

And then there are times when I have a bunch of wood scraps and notice a shape in them which makes me think "That's cool. I should glue it up just like that." If the piece looks good is it art because I noticed the shape and form? Where was the craft?

I DON'T KNOW! But the engineer part of my brain really wants a formula into which I can plug my variables and the output is art. I don't think it works that way.

ME: Just to muddy the water further...

I remember years ago there was a letter to the editor of Ceramics Monthly Magazine (I think it was during the Bill Hunt we’ll-die-trying-to-be-called-art era). The sentiment of this letter is pretty common and widespread and I’ve heard it voiced many times since, but it stuck in my twenty-something-year-old mind as one of the first times I'd remembered someone brave enough to ask the naive question.

Essentially the letter was from a clay "sculptor" (I never saw the work in question, but from her description of her process, she was clearly not making pots) and she was asking what's "fair" about an art world wherein she pours herself -- heart and soul -- into a piece that takes her up to a week to complete (not to mention the additional firing time, etc).....and yet she entered a clay exhibition in which, as she described it, a bowl that most likely took the potter no more than five minutes to throw and then slap some glaze on, won the top award of the exhibition?

There are at least two good answers to her question:

1. (and my favorite) Every single time I demonstrate at a show I will have at least one man (it's never a woman for some reason) ask me how long it takes to do a series of the pot I'm working on (“How many of those can you make in a day?”). I can see the wheels turning in his head as he watches me finish a piece in five minutes, walks over to my display and sees a similar but finished piece, checks the price of the finished piece, glances back and forth a few times between the finished and the process....

...essentially he's adding up what seems to him like my ability to print myself money. It seems too easy for such a price tag, as he adds it up in his mind.

Ultimately, when I see those wheels turning, and I thus know the motive behind the question, when that someone then asks me how long it takes me to make a piece, I answer, "35 years and 5 minutes"

2. The value of art is not to be found entirely in its degree of difficulty. Nor is it to be found in its complexity. The arts are about content.....and content is arrived at by the artist's life experience. The work of an artist is the culmination of his experiences AND his expertise. So, if we must compare value on some apples to apples scale -- the sculptor (in my anecdote) is failing to see that her week spent creating her work of art that was ultimately found to be comparatively vacuous in content, was trumped by that potter's lifetime of experience that informed the content of his five minute bowl. The potter's bowl was 35 years and 5 minutes in the making.

Craftsman's Conversation With Greg

2011-08-20T05:03:00.000-07:00

My friend, Greg, is a brilliant musician who also builds fine musical instruments from lap dulcimers to the telecaster he’s playing in this video (which will give you an idea of just what wonderful musician he is).

Upon my showing some friends the following video of the process an artist went through in creating a sculpture installation for a California airport, Greg and I began a conversation I’ll share here.

Greg: John, what's your opinion on artists who design the art and then have others build it for them? Being a hands on guy with your clay (and me to a much lesser extent with wood) I wonder how you feel about it.

It seems odd to me to think that the artist's output is the idea, not the process of creating the idea. I can't imagine designing a cool looking guitar and then having somebody else build it for me and then saying that the guitar is MY art. Then again, your pottery and my lutherie produce items that can be created by a single person. I'm not sure it would be possible to create the floating tree sculpture with just one person.

But where's the line? I don't know. It's probably as fuzzy a line as "What is art?"

Me: I could write for a very long time, circle back, cover the same ground from a different angle, and still not answer that question to even my own satisfaction.

One thing I can say for almost certain. Maybe. Probably. And that is: The greatest share of your question (and a question I, too, often ask) revolves around the confusion of "art" and "craft".

To that issue at least, art has for centuries accepted that the artist is the conceiver of the idea -- with the finished product executed either by himself OR others.

Whether discussing visual art (The famous artists of the Renaissance were all studio heads -- Rubens, Michelangelo, DaVinci were the designers and the work that was executed by the craftsmen of their studios), or discussing music (Mozart, Bach , et al were composers but the art was the work of many craftsmen), the artist-as-designer has been the accepted, legitimate model. All the while (curiously, and ironically when perceived by our 21st century sensibilities), the craftsmen of that model remained anonymous.

When viewed from the perspective down a long timeline of art history, the confusion of art and craft that we are discussing is a rather recent -- Romantic Era -- re-definition of something that had been accepted as the norm for art for centuries before. Until that recently, for the most part the art world accepted that art was the concept and craft was the execution....and it didn't matter who did the executin'.

But I think those once tauter lines started a-tangling up in a growing sense of American self-reliance and inherent and equal admiration for not just ingenuity, but also skill. I think that that changing sense of values got us Americans thinking about the confusing line between art and craft in different terms.

Add to that the fact that several of the most influential American Art movements (Arts & Crafts/Prairie) rose at least in part as direct reactions to the burgeoning industrial revolution. Against that impersonal, machine-driven, industrial background, the American Artist began to see himself as a bit of a John Henry trying to beat back this cultural steam drill that was overtaking our psyche. In the end, all I can conclude is this: I care about craftsmanship.

And I don't particularly care to participate in the art world -- nor can I even keep up with it anymore.

I do know that when 99% of the people I know talk about art-- even those people in my "art" world of art fairs and artist friends -- they are actually talking about craft. They don't think they are, but they are. Those art fair "artists" don't even want to think of themselves as talking about craft because "craft" has taken on implications of macramé, dried flower arranging, basket weaving, theorem painting, country crafts. See, just as art's definition shifted a bit....so did craft's.

Still, those who think they are talking about art are most definitely talking about craft. Especially as compared to the manner in which the art world defines itself.

There's another whole branch of this discussion that revolves around ethics and marketing. For instance, is what is being marketed being portrayed accurately to the patron? (for example, it is doubtful that Kinkade's market is fully aware of just how little value is contained in what they are buying....much less that they are not buying PRINTS {they are buying "reproductions" -- a whole different animal in the art world}).

I market mostly through art fairs that demand that the artist also be the craftsman. I like it that way for any number of reasons. First and foremost is the abject honesty in the value of the work offered. Traditionally, what is rarest is of greatest value. The notion of the artist-craftsman almost GUARANTEES an inherently small inventory that should, therefore, also imply greater value.

An interesting aside: In some cases the "figurine" and "collectible" world has seen some of their market implode because of the internet. The illusion of value implied by those charlatan's use of the language of "limited edition" was exposed in real time by hundreds of eager sellers glutting a suddenly international market with merchandise they had been led to believe was limited in number (and therefore and thereby valuable) ...only to find out that the stuff they were collecting, they could get any time they wanted it.....and cheaply.

Do I still think the art/craft line is pretty blurry? Yes. And I think that just maybe if there is ultimate justice in this world, what the art museums of the 22nd and 23rd centuries will find themselves curating from the 20th and 21st century will be our craft.

Visualizing

2011-08-17T04:45:00.000-07:00

When I'm faced with hundreds of pieces to glaze, even a limited palette of glazes can create an overwhelming -- even paralyzing -- number of glaze combinations from which to choose.

I've often spent literally hours deciding how to glaze what actually only took me that same amount of hours to glaze. Just deciding how to glaze the pieces was (and always is) half the battle.

Here's a nifty trick I came up with.

First, I photographed the piece(s) against a strongly contrasting backdrop that would be easy to make disappear in photoshop. Next, I do the photoshopping -- erase the background and bring up the contrast and maybe tone down any color saturation so that I'm left with just the basic shadows and shape of the piece.

Next, I copy the photo multiple times per sheet to give me plenty of blanks to experiment with, and I print those sheets on white paper.

Finally, with transparent watercolor pens, I can color the pieces and give myself a really good idea of what the finished pieces will look like. The transparent watercolor pens allow the shadows in the photographs to still show through so that the 3-D effect of the pot is not lost in the coloring. That shadowing also keeps the color from appearing as flat paint, thereby giving a more true preview of the fired end result.

Old Pots

2011-08-10T05:53:00.001-07:00

Some time ago I posted this image of the bookcase that holds some of my favorite pots from collecting over the years (If you click on the small image you will get an enlargement that has each of the pieces labeled).

This year we've been trying to get rid of stuff. We've been married for coming up on 35 years and have lived in the same house now for 20 of those years. Between living in one place and running a business out of the same piece of real estate, we've just accumulated too much. It has dawned on us just how immobilized we've become.

Well, going through all that stuff to decide what we no longer need to live with has some side pleasures...

...I've found some pots that I remember well, but haven't seen nor held in years.

This salt-fired cup has always been one of my favorite pieces. I call it a "cup" because, at only about 10 oz, it's a bit small to fit the "mug" description. My friend, Doug, bought it for me back in 1979, shortly after he moved to Oregon. It's done by a potter from the Pacific Northwest named "Procter" who, if I understand correctly, isn't making pots anymore.

The fellow who made this set of bowls (below) is still making pots, but unless I told you, you'd probably never guess who made them. If you asked me to name my very favorite pots in the collection, these four small bowls would likely be at the top of the list. Maybe you'd have to hold them to fully appreciate how well they are crafted -- from their perfect weight, to their extremely clean and graceful lines and wonderfully trimmed feet, the rounded square of the rims, the subtle slip-trailed decoration. More has gone into these four small bowls than I usually see in big, expensive "showy" pieces.

And, yes, if you've been around pottery for over thirty years, maybe you do remember when Satian Leksrisawat was making functional stoneware instead of the fine crystaline-glazed porcelain he's become associated with in the past 20 years.

My New (Old) Mandolin

2011-08-06T15:52:00.000-07:00

A beauty built by my friend, Jim Shenk, in Goshen, Indiana.

Pottery Posters

2011-08-02T15:23:00.000-07:00

Who ever said that time spent doing repetitious work on the wheel doesn't open the mind to wander down avenues of great, even awesome (<---where's that "rolling eyes" emoticon when you need it?) creativity?

Here are three posters only a potter would understand. And I challenge the blogging world to come up with some more "Pottery Posters".

Me & The Kid

2011-08-02T03:15:00.000-07:00

Crooknecks Explained

2011-08-01T08:02:00.000-07:00

Barbara Rogers said...: I usually can visualize things that are described, but am missing how a donut, thrown and quartered, becomes part of - what? The stack of pumkin/gourd shaped pots perhaps, somehow? I'm making pitchers with the gourd fold in them these days, so am very interested.

Hi Barbara,

In an attempt to make the blog post look more interesting, I added other photos (the gourd patch, last year's pottery gourds, the dogs, etc). But the new crookneck gourds I'm making are pictured in the two sorta sepia-toned photos in the middle.

And the way I make those is to make the crookneck by throwing a hollow donut and then quartering that donut. When I started out with the idea, I didn't know how much of the donut I'd need to make the neck -- I wasn't sure of my targeted final size. As it turns out, one quarter of the donut was just about perfect. Additionally, that gave me 4 gourds out of each thrown donut. Pretty efficient, it turns out.

Two years ago I made crooknecks by simply throwing a long cylinders and attaching them and then worrying them into a bend. Of course, when I did that the cylinders wanted to fold and flatten each time I tried to bend them. That's why I decided to try the donut idea. That way I'd be starting with a bent cylinder.

And when I say that I attached them to one of my pumpkins thrown upside down, I mean that my pumpkins are usually like this...

...with the top (relative to the potter's wheel) being where I attach the vine/handle. But with the new crookneck gourds, as you can see, the top (relative to the potter's wheel while throwing) is now the bottom -- making for a very convincing gourd bottom. That was an important change because I intend the crooknecks to lay on their sides.

Looking Under The Leaves

2011-07-31T10:41:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year. I start looking under the leaves to see how far along the gourds and squash are.

New ones this year -- crooknecks. I use a thrown donut (cut in quarters to use for four gourds) and add it to a pumpkin shape thrown upside-down.

It Happened On Facebook

2011-07-30T07:24:00.000-07:00

Marion Crane is getting ready to shower.

Norman Bates likes this.

Norman Bates' Mother does not like this.

Alpha Doberman is wearing the cone of shame.

Dug likes this.

LOBO just recorded "Me and You and a Dog Named 'Boo'".

Nobody likes this.

Gilligan screwed around with the professor's coconut two-way radio and broke it.

The Professor does not like this.

Maryann does not like this.

Skipper does not like this.

Thurston J. Howell III does not like this.

Ginger does not like this.

Lovey is not sure what's going on.

Drop It Mister!

2011-07-29T04:55:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, my parents bought me a pair of sunglasses that looked just like Dad's RayBan "Wayfarers" -- sunglasses with a cool, almost timeless style that has been "hip" more often than "uncool" over the past 50 years.

But did my parents think I wouldn't notice.....or care?.....

...my new sunglasses were a TOY. Instead of leaving the things alone -- or making essentially a kid-sized Wayfarer....

....the manufacturer stuck little six-shooters in the upper corners of the frames -- thereby making my sunglasses into a juvenile version of Dad's glasses.

I didn't WANT a juvenile version of Dad's glasses. I wanted Wayfarers that fit. When I was a kid, I didn't like things that were decorated in some manner that some adult figured would make my stuff look like kid's stuff. If I liked something that adults had -- clothing, tools, sports equipment....sunglasses....I wanted them to be JUST LIKE the adult's version.

But there are lots of reasons --beyond "juvenilizing" a product -- why people who make stuff may unnecessarily decorate those things that ought be better off left alone.

The Potter's Dictionary has a listing for "Clobbering". Clobbering is the act of adding decoration --LOTS of decoration -- to a pot on the assumption that the more decoration a potter can fit on a piece, the more value he's added to it. Kind of a "more is more" mentality.

Well, I'm not the ultimate un-clobberer. I like decorating a pot with my stamps and my slips and my carving. But just as often I come across a piece I've thrown that just begs to be left alone.

No six-shooters.

Painting With Primary Colors

2011-07-28T15:33:00.000-07:00

I've always found great contentment in continually exploring the simple. Sure, I can go crazy with imaginings when presented with the wall of color chips at the local Sherwin Williams. But there's just something about me that continues to gravitate back toward the elemental -- the primary palette.

Pottery has a terrific primary palette, and when you discover a red you like to work with, a yellow with character, and a blue with interest, you have a lifetime of pots in your future.

I should have said, "I have a lifetime of pots in my future".

I have.

Sure, I've strayed a few times -- my early nineties were teals and pinks. (<----Heh. Yeah, me. Teals and pink.). And one of my favorite glazes right now is my green glaze (but I would actually nominate green as the fourth primary color if there were such a governing body to whom I might state my case. I'd say "hey, it's nature! .... grass, trees, mint chocolate chip ice cream -- ALL green". I'm pretty sure they'd ultimately see it my way. I can be darn persuasive.)

But I always seem to return home.

It's like always having a control from which to diverge. Rather than having design elements that are all moving targets all the time, I keep one or two constants and then diverge from those for the contrast necessary for interest.

Oh, and despite my passion for the simple, the elemental, the primary....I overthink EVERYTHING. That is key.

Making Clay Wallpaper Plates

2011-07-28T05:57:00.000-07:00

Coolness

2011-07-27T11:28:00.001-07:00

ANN: Oh my gosh, who IS the new guy?!

ALICE: New guy?

ANN: Yeah, who is that GREAT looking new guy over there by the coffee machine?

ALICE: You mean the guy holding that cool green mug?

ANN: Yeah, him. Who IS that guy?

ALICE: Why, he's not new. That's Bob.

ANN: Bob? Are you kidding me? THE Bob? ‘Bob’ the perennially-overlooked-for-advancement? Shows-up-at-the-company-picnic-alone Bob? THAT Bob? Are you kidding me?

ALICE: Yeah, that’s him. Amazing the difference a simple new mug can make.

ANN: Has he always had such white teeth? ….and his hair looks so shiny and manageable! Has he always been such a smart dresser?

ALICE: I couldn’t really tell you. Nobody ever noticed until he got that mug.

ANN: I’m asking him to the NEXT company picnic.

ABBEY: Get in line, sister. I noticed him first!

Bob’s cool new stoneware mug holds 14 ounces of coffee, tea, or whatever else Bob is drinking at the time. It’s not just got that cool leaf-stamp hand-brushed wax resist pattern on the outside, it sports an even darker oribe green glaze on the inside.

Don’t be uncool forever. Be like Bob. Stand out in a crowd for once in your life. Own the cool mug.

Slammin' Revival

2011-07-26T16:37:00.001-07:00

More Booth Considerations/Conversation With Ron

2011-07-26T04:47:00.000-07:00

Ron asked:

Hey John, Will you also talk about the vertical panels in the previous post? The ones flanking your checkout with the hanging pieces.

Sure. Back when I designed this booth there was no "Propanels" company outfitting art fair artists so that we could all look alike. Even if there had been, I've never been fond of their color choices for backdrops. Nor have I ever thought it was a very good idea for the artist's booths to take on such a homogenized look, beyond the ubiquitous white canopies.

Little canopies on the streetside,
Little canopies made of ticky tacky,
Little canopies on the streetside,
Little canopies all the same.
There's a white one and a white one
And a white one and a white one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

And the artists in the canopies
All paid enormous booth fees,
And they were put in canopies
And they came out all the same,
And there's potters and painters,
And landscape photographers,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

So, finding myself in need of backdrops for indoor shows, I devised a system whereby I could hang carpet from my crafthut frame -- carpet with a subtle corduroy pattern that I picked to match my display color. I cut the carpet to size and then had the edges bound. Then I put grommets in with a regular spacing that allows me to hang and stretch the carpet on the frame using cable ties.

RON: "I really like what you've got going on here. I do wonder if it ever gets a bit cramped between the two side units. Seems narrow in there for more than a few people."

It does get a bit cramped at times. But, listen....do you want to know a secret? ....do you promise not to tell? o-o-o-o-o-o...closer, let me whisper in your ear, say the words you want to hear....

People, even average pottery buyers, do not go to an art fair and scan from booth to booth looking for the pottery they want to buy. No, the average pottery buyer is like everyone else who attends an art fair --- They go to an art fair and scan from crowd to crowd to see what everyone else is interested in. Empty booths don't draw crowds. It's the art fairs' manifestation of "The Matthew Effect"...

"For to all those who have, more will be given, and they will have an abundance; but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away."

—Matthew 25:29,

In the vernacular: The rich get richer and the poor get poorer.

But, yeah, sometimes it bothers me that I don't have easy ingress and egress from the booth. And if I have room at a show I will set the booth up in such a manner as to allow entrance in front and exit in the back to ease the crowding. But lots of people is good.

Another of my displaying rules of thumb (a thumb that still gets smashed by the errant hammer of laziness from time to time) is: If ease of set-up eclipses considerations of appearance, then the artist has his booth set-up priorities wrong.

That said, I'm all for ease of set-up and breakdown. Toward that end, I should point out that my basic shelves are four folding units that, when joined together by sliding a hinge pin into hinges mounted on each of the four, mutually reinforce each others standing (as they fold in opposite directions).

I also have six standing units that I can use to create a different look. I have the original four units that consist of three levels of shelves mounted by way of threaded rod to four 2X2.5 cherry uprights (legs). Additionally, I have two units that are two shelves instead of three, and don't stand as tall as the original four units do.

For the sake of weight and ease of construction, the shelves are hollow core doors cut to length.

New Shoes

2011-07-25T04:30:00.000-07:00

I decided, while set up at a show in Greenville, SC, that I needed some ways to visually isolate and accentuate the pots on my booth. There's a rule of thumb to the display game that I've always followed: Never (or very rarely) display a pot directly on a shelf or table. The way I've followed this guideline in the past is to use Plexiglas risers. That's worked out well, but those plexi risers get terribly scratched and their transparency actually lends to the layers and layers of pottery busy-ness that makes it hard for the human eye to isolate and view one piece of pottery at a time.

The first week of July was spent fabricating new birch boxes. The boxes are made in sets of 3 that sleeve inside each other so as to not take up too much van space while traveling to and from shows. These boxes are painted the same Lancaster White as my display and thus, completely disappear on the display.

Additionally, I made four sets of bi-fold panels that will completely isolate the sections between my shelves. These I painted bright colors in sharp contrast to the natural and subtle colors of my pottery palette.

Finally, from all the squares and rectangles of birch plywood left over from the boxes and panels, I painted up "coasters" for pots to sit on -- either directly on the shelves, or raised up on the plexiglas stands I have.

I also sold my Flatiron mandolin so I could replace the canopy that was hail damaged at the Springfield show. Though I'd always kept my old Crafthut looking clean and new, the actual new one does look slick.

The overall appearance is a psychological and visual boost to the art fair booth.

I Fought The Heat

2011-07-24T12:08:00.001-07:00

Selling pots in the hot sun
I fought the heat and I sold tons
I fought the heat and I sold tons

Needed money ‘cause I had none
I fought the heat and I sold tons
I fought the heat and I sold tons

I showed Ann Arbor my glazed up pieces
I showed Ann Arbor my wares
They were the best pots I ever made
I fought the heat and I sold tons
I fought the heat and I sold tons

Doors, Walls, Signs etc.

2011-06-20T16:14:00.000-07:00

When you find a door closed, perhaps you'll find an open window.

But if the window is closed too, maybe you can see if there's one of those dog doors left carelessly open. And if you're small of hip and shoulder and don't mind crawling on your knees, it would do fine.

Otherwise, there's the mail slot. Maybe. I grew up in a house that didn't have one. And the mailbox really wouldn't serve the same purpose, being as it is, both away from the house and out by the street.

But the mail slot has it's impractical side as well. The most you could hope to slip through a mail slot is your hand. And your hand couldn't even look around on the inside if you are outside wanting in, nor outside if you are inside wanting out. Unless perhaps you have one of those lucite flexible periscope type jobbies that would allow you to look in or out through a mail slot. But ultimately even that would be sort of cosmically cruel. A tease. You could see where you cannot go. Yet.

So you look around yet again.

Chimney? It works for the Jolly Holiday dude. But if legend is to be believed, the guy's an elf. There's that size/mail slot thing again. And here even the lucite periscope thing isn't long enough to tease a view from the roof.

Maybe time to go back to the door. Try the knob this time. See if the door's unlocked.

Sentimental Me

2011-06-01T19:29:00.001-07:00

My old Pacifica....

I was 20 years old and had never driven into Chicago. I was going to go to Lill Street Gallery to buy my first wheel. So I looked at a map and figured out the most direct route -- across highway 30 and up highway 1. This is where I would insert one of those emoticons with the rolling eyes if it were available in this comment box, because obviously that route was not only ridiculously long, but dangerous as well.

Nevertheless, I arrived and bought the wheel. I stuck it and 500 pounds of stoneware into the trunk and back seat of my '66 Buick Skylark. I went home via the route the Lil Street folks wrote down for me!

When I got home I broke in the wheel by throwing a two quart pitcher (as I remember it, I liked the shape and then went and pulled a too-thin handle for it).

Sometime along in the late eighties or early nineties I bought a new Pacifica. Curious thing though -- I use the old one for throwing and the new one for trimming.

The new one has a system of belts that are nothing more than glorified rubber bands. They consistently break and stretch and don't have enough holding power to continuously throw big pieces.

The old wheel has a serious belt. Of course, over thirty years I've replaced it. I've also replaced the bearings twice, and put a new pedal on it. But it's held up quite well.

I guess I'm overly sentimental about my tools (if you read my "Kiln" piece, you know that about me!).

Wonderful Video

2011-05-29T14:52:00.001-07:00

Just A Song Before I Go

2011-05-10T09:29:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the pictures-only posts lately. I've been firing every day for the past five (got another one going now) getting ready for my South Carolina show. This is the last all pictorial post until after the show. Here are some 15" plates I'll be bringing with me (if you look closely in the corners, you'll see the small bowls that I throw in to make them "chip and dip" sets).

Carolina, here I come!

As Promised

2011-05-08T08:22:00.000-07:00

Stoneware patterns from today's firing.

Mother's Day Weekend

2011-05-07T07:53:00.000-07:00

It was a day much like these past few -- one of the first warm days of the year. The bus hissed to its daily stop at 8800 Springmill Road and as usual, and thankful to be home, I ran up the gravel drive and into the wide open breezeway -- the room twixt house and garage living up to its name on that day as the warm gentle wind drifted from open door to open door. Mom had all the doors and windows open and through the kitchen door I could hear the Ironrite as the knee pedals clicked and the rotating roller hummed. Everything smelled like home -- the warm Spring wind, the laundry, the additional smell of the dinner mom had started.

The life mom created for me was incredibly comfortable and comforting. A refuge that I can still return to in memories. And she built me that world transparently. Oh, I was always aware of Mom. She was the go-to for comfort, for advice, for permission to go play. But all the effort that went into making those things available for me growing up was done almost without notice. She didn't complain at all the work that -- in retrospect -- was considerable. Dinner every night at 6 P.M. sharp, an orderly house, clean laundry -- they were all accomplished by my single mom with such efficiency that they were too easily taken for granted.

But the exemplary life of loving labor and creativity is one of the greatest gifts mom passed on. The furniture -- the STUFF that surrounded our day to day was the labor of her creative hands....most of my strongest, most vivid memories of mom were of her working with her hands and her creative heart.

I can remember her out on the brick patio, sweat dripping from her face, lost in the effort of sanding away at the pine top of the dining room table -- just one of the many pieces of furniture that she created, refinished, reupholstered, painted -- furniture that went beyond simple function to teach her family that beauty held an important place in a joyful world.

And I can remember when she'd go on a creative jag...like when she came back home from Massachusetts after a summer visit to our family back east. She decided that, like a mature Massachusetts pine forest, the "pie shape" -- an odd triangular section of our large yard that was planted in pines -- would look more naturally elegant if one could see beneath its overgrowth to the needle bed below. So, rusty carpenter's handsaw in hand, mom attacked that hundred-or-more linear feet of pines -- cutting off every branch below three or four feet, stepping back to inspect, and then plowing back in and cutting some more. When she was done, had raked and carried the last of the brush she'd created to the burn pile, her arms and legs red and scratched from a thousand pine needle pokes, she stood at the distance of the back patio with a tall glass of tea (with a sprig of that mint that always grew against the stone wall by the kitchen window)....and she smiled. She smiled like any artist would, standing back from a canvas just perfectly painted. Beauty came at the cost of hard work.

But it was worth the effort. The smile taught me so.

Even her moments of leisure were filled with the industry of creativity. She rarely sat and watched television (Mannix! *smile*) without knitting needles in her hands and her latest project spread out over lap and floor. When her fingers gave out, she even found a way to continue to fulfill the need to create by employing her ancient sewing machine to patch together small quilts.

19th century philosopher, William James, coined a phrase – “The effortless custody of automatism”. It was meant to describe where the intelligent mind goes when the hands are engaged in repetitious industry. I guess you could say that James was describing the converse to the maxim: “the idle brain is the devil’s playground”. When the hands are engaged in worthwhile work, the mind is free to imagine, to create, to problem solve. You could even say that it approximates what most might think of as “meditation”. I think that mom’s values – hard work and deep, meaningful thoughts and words – were mutually supporting.

I think it was the combination of those industrious hands and that intelligent, inquisitive, thoughtful mind that at least partially defined how I remember mom. But I equally remember her vulnerable spirit – her desire to love and be loved and share life with kind, thoughtful, gentle people like herself.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. Thanks.

Carolina Continued

2011-05-06T08:23:00.000-07:00

Well, as I mentioned in my last post, I'm heading down to South Carolina for the Artisphere International Art Festival in Greenville next weekend. I opened yesterday's firing of mostly porcelain pieces. Here are some candid snapshots taken outside the kiln room on a worktable. Some of the bowls are still a little warm!

To give an idea of scale, the bowls are at least 14" diameter. Most are 15". Both the pitchers and casseroles are 2 quarts in volume.

These are just some of the porcelain pieces I'll be bringing to Greenville. On Sunday I should be able to shoot the same kind of candid photos of the stoneware I'll be glazing today and firing tomorrow.

In My Van I'm Going To Carolina...Again

2011-05-04T08:37:00.000-07:00

This time SOUTH Carolina. Next week I'll be heading to Greenville, SC for the Artisphere International Art Festival. Can't wait!

Meanwhile, there are bunches of pots to get finished and glazed...

by the way, I made a few little brothers for the big jar I made last week

With bag after bag of white and gray powder, opening a bag of yellow ochre is a feast for the eyes.
Been pretty busy, and other than morning runs, Breeze isn't getting as much play time from pop. He has a way of showing his feelings. I comforted Breeze, telling him it could always be worse...

Scattered Seeds

2011-05-01T06:01:00.000-07:00

Still life by Stephen Bauman

Like most families of my generation, my siblings and I grew up barely knowing our many cousins, aunts and uncles. Not a single nuclear family lived in the same State as another. We were spread out from Minnesota to Massachusetts to South Carolina. I have cousins whom I have never met. There's one family of cousins whose names I don't even know -- Jan, Somecousin, and Someothercousin. The Reids.

And as my siblings and I grew up, we made the same kind of life choices, leading us to distant cities where we raised our children apart from their cousins, aunts and uncles. And so the cycle continues.

Well, from that distance I've been tickled to watch the development of a very talented nephew -- Stephen Bauman. I don't know Stephen. I imagine that the last time I saw him he was probably about five years old. Now I'm guessing him to be in his late twenties. But through the wonder that is the internet, I've been able to at least see the kind of work he produces, and stare at the images with amazement and just a little awe.

Landscape by Stephen Bauman

I think that most people would look at two creative souls -- me and Stephen -- and wonder at some sort of family connection -- some sort of "Creativity gene".

Me? ...I look at what Stephen does and I wonder how in the world did he end up looking at things in the manner he does? How did he develop not just a vision worth sharing, but the skill to share it so effectively?

When I look at Stephen's work, I see someone conversant in a different language -- a demonstration of someone raised in a different sphere of inspiration rather than a shared one that one might presume from our family relationship.

Still Life by Stephen Bauman

Some day maybe I'll meet Stephen and get a chance to ask him questions like that. For now, that meeting is unlikely -- for the past few years he's been teaching at Florence Academy of Art in Florence, Italy, though he will now be teaching at their academy in Sweden.

For now, I'll follow his blog and watch for his images as he posts them on the internet.

The Law Of Averages

2011-04-29T18:21:00.000-07:00

There was this guy, pretty much nondescript in every way you could imagine -- average height, average weight, average build. But the one thing this guy could do that WAS extraordinary was to summon up the dead and, by this supernatural act, tell you exactly what was used to paint on a canvas or paper -- oils, watercolors, pastels, charcoal.

He was a medium medium medium.

How The Week Began

2011-04-28T07:56:00.001-07:00

There's always a bit of risk when I add this much slip to a pot with thin walls...

Subversives

2011-04-27T04:49:00.000-07:00

Dandelions are dangerous
Dandelions don’t need gardeners
Dandelions are artists
They ignore all the boundaries in the yard
Flower beds? They’re in them and they’re out of them
Wreaking their insomniac havoc all about.

The crafted and groomed watch jealously
From their straight rows and their well planned lives.
And they can see who is having the fun
Painting dada smiley faces on daVinci lawns

The other flowers are not stupid
Just stationary
And, sheltered as they are
They know who’s been around.
Growing zones?
Don’t make me laugh

The other flowers are not stupid
They just have the plastic left on their couches
They have their “Do Not Touch” signs
Displayed in their careful elegance

Meanwhile the children make chains with yellowed fingers
Meanwhile the children test to see if they like butter
And the crafted and groomed look on
And wish they’d come up with that simple idea first.

Dandelions are artists.
With their outrageous style
And a bright yellow Tina Turner hair-do
With outrageous opulence that doesn’t spare a Springtime acre
Subtlety be damned.

Dandelions are dangerous
Dandelions have no need for gardeners
Dandelions are artists.

In The Morning

2011-04-26T05:50:00.000-07:00

...light shining in the window lets me know everything's alright...

I expanded this piece out a bit more. I'll probably take one more go at it, taper the base and faux-foot it later today.

Meanwhile, big doin's at the Bauman Pottery. Breeze turns 4 years old today!

Getting Stuff Done

2011-04-25T15:18:00.000-07:00

Dealing with bad clay has made me timid about making my larger pieces so far this year. I think I've finally got the clay issue ironed out, so I'm leaping (with a bit of faith and my fingers crossed) into some bigger pieces.

The image above is the pre-expanded stage of what I've expanded a little in the next image. Tomorrow I'll finish pushing it.

On the table with the larger piece are a few of the larger bowls I threw this morning. In the distance (on the ware cart beside the wheel) are 14 teapots I just finished.

Patterns

2011-04-24T17:04:00.000-07:00

First in 15" porcelain bowls, then in 10" stoneware plates.

Potters Are The Nicest People

2011-04-23T08:04:00.000-07:00

Ever noticed that "nicest" is one of those words that doesn't look like a word? I always have to check my spelling when I type "nicest". Anyway, potters seem to be the nicest folks in the world -- thoughtful, generous, intelligent, inquisitive, and incredibly good looking too. I've given it some thought and I've concluded that we potters are edging our way down the evolutionary path toward becoming a new species. We'll probably still choose to live within earshot of homo sapiens, though. They're not as evolved as we are, but they are, nonetheless, entertaining. And they seem to like our pots.

Anyway, I bring this up -- the part about potters being kind and generous -- to say that while I was down in Chattanooga last weekend, Ron and Susan Sutterer drove six hours -- all the way from Floyd, VA -- to meet me and see the pottery (and, of course, the other potters at the 4 Bridges Art Festival). And, knowing that she may just be my favorite potter in the world, they stopped by their neighbor, Ellen Shankin's place, and bought one of her mugs (in the picture) to bring to me as a gift.

Earlier this year, Ron sent me a video he'd taken while walking the streets of Floyd on a Friday evening. There was music being played on every street corner and every bar. It looked like such fun -- I can't wait to make a trip down there. I'll bring my guitar and mandolin.

Ron and Susan are also terrific potters. Here are a couple of their pieces:

Today I'll be working on the couple dozen pie/baking dishes I made yesterday (you can also see them on the cart behind the picture of me holding the Ellen Shankin mug.

New Clay

2011-04-22T08:26:00.000-07:00

A Fresh Ton Of Promise

2011-04-21T11:42:00.000-07:00

Today's Etsy

2011-04-21T07:29:00.000-07:00

Lines

2011-04-19T18:34:00.000-07:00

“Here, take it”

“What is it?”, I said

“It's a pencil. Take it”

“What do you want me to do with it?”

“Draw on the paper in front of you, there”

“But I don’t draw. I can’t even draw a straight line”

“Then don’t draw a straight line. A straight line represents the narrowest of marking options you could ever choose. A straight line is a straight line. Every other mark is something else. Every other mark is everything else.”

“What if I don’t like what I draw?”

“You won’t be the first one to have drawn something you don’t like. The sun will still come up tomorrow.

But it also doesn’t have to be the last thing or the only thing you draw. If, by some strange circumstance, you draw a thing of stunning beauty your first time out, the same sun will come up over the same horizon each day.

Maybe someone will see your drawing and love it as much as you do. Maybe a million people will see your drawing and love it. But the sun will come up and the sun will go down and after enough times of this rising and setting, everyone who loved your drawing, including you, will forget about the drawing.

You’ll move on. You can start over. One breath doesn’t last a lifetime. One meal doesn’t last a lifetime. There’s more paper. If you don’t like what you did the first time, do something different the second time.

If you don’t like what you did the second time, do something different the third time.

If you don’t like what you did the third time, do something different the fourth time.

Draw close-to-a-straight-line or close-to-a-circle or close-to-a-square or close-to-nothing-at-all-in-particular. Put the pencil lead to the paper and move it. Move it around. Move it about. Don’t lift it up. Shift it. Slide it. Put it on its edge.

Balance your lines on the very finest point of the pencil. Don’t erase. Or erase. Wet your thumb and smudge your not-straight lines and make them not-lines.

Make a not-so-round circle and fill it up with not-so-square boxes. Make symbols and then modify them. Checks, tic-tac-toes, letters. Write non-words with imaginary letters. Stick some light in some shadows and block out some bright spots.

Nobody’s watching. But the world is waiting. Oh, it doesn’t know it is. It doesn’t suppose that way. It’s simply diminished by any lack of a single blade of grass in a meadow or a single leaf in a forest of trees or lack of a pencil drawn across a blank page. It doesn’t hold its breath. But it’s waiting nonetheless.

It’s what we do. It’s how we fill it. Pencils. Paper. Imaginations. Creations."

Getting Off The Dime

2011-04-19T16:10:00.000-07:00

I just got in from Chattanooga where I participated in the 4 Bridges Art Festival. I saw some very inspirational clay work there -- Shadow May, Shirl & Jim Parmentier, Andy Smith, and Larry Spears, to name a few of the best. I also met a blog reader or two, and had some time away from the studio to do some thinking.

This youtube seems to be making the rounds of the internet of creative people. Mostly folks who don't need the message seem to be the ones inspired by it, but it's sparked some interesting discussion nonetheless.

I was at first inclined to bristle at the oversimplification behind video's thesis. I think I was mistakenly reading into it that all that was needed to make great work was to get off the dime and get started. Upon further reflection, I don't think that's the idea.

Because he introduced the subject by much repetition of the word "great" (great works to make great impressions on great people), what the writer seemed to be referring to was a specific dime on which he was encouraging the reader (or listener) to "get off" -- the dime of expectations too high. And I know what he means. I think. I think that especially people my age have life experiences -- and, maybe more importantly, tastes -- that intimidate them from even attempting creative endeavors.

It is a concept long referred to as "Sacrificing 'good' at the altar of 'best' " -- the crippling notion that unless one can achieve some standard of excellent, one won't even try for good.

I think that's one reason why, though I dabble in music, I don't write lyrics. My standard -- acquired by voracious listening to the best writers EVER (coupled with the number of times I've cringed at the amateur lyrics to which I've been over-exposed) -- intimidates me from even attempting to write lyrics. I can't get it out of my head that what I write should measure up to the standard exhibited by the music to which I listen.

But what I further take from the writer's charge is that if we DO just get off that dime, we will MOST LIKELY be naturally channeled to the next important step in creative endeavors -- problem solving.

In other words, if we never start, we never advance to solving the problems we create for ourselves by our first clumsy attempts. BUT.....if we do but start, we USUALLY find pleasure in the creativity, and that inspires us to move onward. As we solve the problems we create for ourselves by just DOING, we then tend to grow exponentially.

And, okay, sometimes we fall flat. But sometimes, though we don't meet our initial expectations, we do find:

1. A more educated way of looking at what once were our expectations, and we now judge those expectations through the eyes of experience.
2. New expectations and the surprising realization of just how much sidewalk there is between the gate of what we thought we knew, and the door of knowing.

HK?

2011-04-11T18:48:00.000-07:00

HK? --I don't know where my mom picked that up. I smile just remembering her saying it. I doubt my mom coined the funny little acronym, but I've never heard anyone else use it. "HK?" -- said with a li'l shrug of the shoulders ..... "Who Cares?"

Anyway, Carter asked (in response to my last post) if the folks who buy my pottery really care about my obsession with surface and detail -- do they even notice? Or do I merely make what I like, and hope someone comes along for the ride?

Well, if John ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

Really. It's such a phenomenon that I've heard it over and over again in discussions among fellow potters at art fairs: When we've got stuff we really, really like -- work we're really excited about -- we emit clayomones that attract people like crazy.

And people gravitate right to the work we're proudest of. I'd call it magic if I wasn't so given to scientific explanations and stuff.

But beyond that, I aim for a "timeless" quality to my work. Whether or not I achieve it is beside the point, but as it is my goal, it implies a few things:

1. Work that cannot be easily dated -- doesn't immediately imply the date of its creation. And for this reason, though it may not be the hottest ticket in town, nevertheless, it will play forever. Some songs are that way. They sound like they were written anywhen and you can live with them anytime.

2. Timelessness at its best means work that will continue to surprise and delight LONG after being first introduced. THAT requires depth, detail, or something that will hang around after first impressions have been long forgotten.

So, yes, I suppose the detail is all about delighting me first. If I'm delighted, it's been my experience that others will be similarly delighted. They may not verbalize what it is exactly about the work that appeals to them, but they always gravitate toward the things that are most successful in the way I intend them to be.

Why The Long....Firing?

2011-04-10T18:52:00.000-07:00

When potters talk, the subject comes up all the time. In an era of insulating brick kilns and high energy prices, why fire long? If you can fire in 6-8 hours, why bother with a 12 hour firing?

Well, if you're like me, you have a file box full of glaze recipes with names attached to the recipes (not "formulas") like "Ferguson's", "Val's", "Shaner's". And, again, if you're like me, you may have started out thinking that the goal in firing those now forty-year-old recipes successfully was in achieving the color promised in the glaze's name (Ferguson's Yellow, Shaner's Red, etc).

Actually, though, the real beauty in those old matte glazes isn't just in the color. The beauty is in the depth of surface.

And here's my hypothesis about long firing times and matte glazes: When these glazes were formulated, most pottery kilns were hard brick kilns -- kilns that were difficult to bring to temperature AND very long in cooling down. VERY long. Those glaze surfaces grew slowly and cooled even more slowly in those hard brick kilns.

In the time passed since those glazes were originally formulated, it's easy to jump to some wrong conclusions about the glaze recipes after having tried unsuccessfully to fire them in the new soft brick kilns. We might wrongly conclude a difference of chemicals from then to now. We might conclude issues of thickness. Those could be factors.

But I've found over the years of firing those matte glazes that perhaps the most important variable to control to achieve those old-time results is TIME. When I fire, I try to mimic the longer firing times required by those old hard brick kilns.

Late Night Firing

2011-04-08T19:17:00.000-07:00

Man vs. Nature

2011-04-05T08:30:00.000-07:00

My wife (bless her heart) was getting the lawnmower out of the old wooden shed that sat without suitable foundation, right on the dirt. That’s no way to build a shed. But in my defense, the shed was already there when I bought the property. Had I built the shed I would have done the proper thing and put the shed up on cinder blocks. Like my cars.

But I digress.

So, my wife came into the shop complaining about a big bumble bee that had nested under the shed and wouldn't let her get near the shed door. She could not retrieve the lawnmower.

After I did the exaggerated roll of the eyes that smugly indicated my male superiority as well as my greater understanding of man's dominion over the natural world (I may have even sighed audibly as well so as to make sure that Dar knew – in the event that she had failed to notice the roll of the eyes -- that I was being put out to have to help her get ready to cut our grass)….

…I got up from the wheel and, as I dried my hands on a shop towel, I explained to her that, "Bees are not aggressive. If you simply ignore them, they will just leave you alone.” Then I grabbed the flyswatter that hung by the back door, doubting that I’d need a weapon, but caution, preparedness, valor – something along those lines vaguely occurred to me. Thus armed, I walked out back to take care of a little bee business.

The sucker flew directly at me. I mean, he flew AT me. DIRECTLY at me. He meant business. And I was unprepared

I don’t know what it’s called when you do the opposite of ducking – wherein you jerk your head back REAL quickly -- but that’s what I did first. The backwards duck. Then I darted to the side, flailing at the air with the flyswatter, swinging it with all the macho flair of a young girl swinging a badminton racket. Really, not even that much macho. And no flair at all.

But now the bee was still coming at me -- at one time darting directly toward my bare legs, the next time buzzing upwards at my face again.

This up and down tack the “not-aggressive” bee had employed had me alternately ducking my head, then whipping it back away from the charging beast, all the while kicking my legs backward to avoid allowing it to land on my legs.

This little dance of mine began with me spinning in a circle, all the while trying desperately to keep my eyes on the bee so that I could continue to dodge it. Eventually I began to run …… backwards -- eyes still on the bee -- across the yard and hopefully away from the bee's home.

The bee did not stop its pursuit. It continued to go at face and leg. I continued to backpedal. And cuss. A lot.

Because I was backpedaling, the bee seemed to be easily able to keep up with me. I decided that I had to, at some point, finally take the risk and make the strategic move to turn around and actually run full speed away from the thing.

And so I summoned up the courage to finally turn around. That was just about where the mailbox stands at the edge of our yard. Well…….not “just about”. It was exactly where the mailbox stands. Stood. That’s where the mailbox stood. At least until I hit it full speed and spinning ahead.

The mailbox and I went down HARD. I hurt. I won’t say exactly where the mailbox hit me. And please don’t point out to me that it was actually me who did the hitting. That kind of “pointing out” is called “insult to injury”. And the injury was bad enough. – I was left with two bruised “things” and not a shred of dignity.

After I recovered a bit, I went inside. There was still a yard to be cut, a lawnmower to be retrieved, and, God help me, a bumblebee to kill.

As I remember that day, it was a summer day and the temps were every bit of the upper eighties. I came out of the house with sweatpants OVER my jeans, a sweatshirt OVER a long-sleeved flannel shirt, a hat (balaclava that covers the face), gloves, a scarf, my old glasses (a fashion of the 70’s – HUGE lenses that covered a good portion of my face). There was not a square inch of skin showing anywhere on me. And I was carrying a can of wasp and hornet spray – the kind that shoots in a stream that can kill from 20-30 feet away.

I killed it.

It's been a few years now since the bee incident. Dar has finally stopped laughing. Mostly, anyway.

Loading and Unloading Kilns

2011-04-03T09:26:00.000-07:00

Heidegger, Heidegger Was A Boozy Begger

2011-04-02T09:19:00.000-07:00

Honey, this stuff is VALUABLE, I tell you.

All of it?

Oh, absolutely.

Even that weird little vase with the Yoda ears?

Those aren’t “Yoda ears”. And it’s not a vase.

Oh. Good. Now I don’t feel so bad for never having taken it out of the basement to display flowers in. But, yes, those really are Yoda ears. What else could they be?

They’re abstractions, like elements of a totem signifying man’s essential strug….wait. You’ve changed the subject. That doesn’t matter. It’s valuable. ALL this stuff is valuable.

All of it?

Yes, all of it.

You’ve got , like a THOUSAND pieces down here in the basement. Are we talking, like, art museum valuable, or are we talking like “…I’ll give you 50 cents for that thing with the Yoda ears, ma’m...”, garage-sale valuable?

They’re NOT YODA EARS!
…and I’d have to say, “museum valuable”.

Well, idn’t lotsa stuff that goes to a museum sorta, you know, donated to it?

What’s your point?

So, what you’re saying is that it may be valuable if I give it away?

No. You’re putting words in my mouth. It’s very, very valuable even as it is.

So we could sell it tomorrow and be rich?

I’m no charlatan. I have my standards where buyers are concerned, and I’m not going to abandon those standards just to make a quick buck.

Yeah, but, like….we could TOTALLY redo the kitchen, vacation in France….dress like we actually know not to wear plaids and stripes together?

Look, these thousands of pieces’ value transcends mere monetary worth. This is art that bespeaks a generation’s communication with and about itself. Some day some future generation is going to want to discover this record of such transcendent communication, such erudite intercourse, such insight into the current condition of man.

But nobody – none of your contemporaries –are seeing this stuff now, right? Nobody’s on the receiving end of these erudite insights and stuff, are they? …I mean, besides Eddie who goes down to the basement with you to drink beer and watch football in your man cave, right?

Well, maybe the world isn’t ready for this art yet. Maybe our grandchildren’s generation will see the value therein.

So, then it’s really not a communication with the current world? ….maybe not so valuable in today’s market.

Market, schmarket! I am an ARTIST. Artists don’t operate under that bourgeois, artificial construct of “market” and “supply and demand”. We have our own, far superior construct, handed down in an unbroken line from the days of the Medici, to the Academy, and on still further to today’s University, Museum and Gallery world, wherein the cultural elite recognize the most valuable artists working at the time, and pay those artists so that they don’t have to produce work in order to make a living.

So, like, are these Medici guys ever going to come and clean out the damn basement?

Today's Etsy

2011-03-22T11:30:00.000-07:00

Poems and Pitchers

2011-03-15T08:11:00.000-07:00

You might be a poetaster
If in a dreadful panic
You reach for lines titanic
That sink like Jacob Astor

Telephone

2011-03-13T06:17:00.000-07:00

Remember the parlor game? Telephone. You whisper something into the ear of the person next to you who in turn whispers what they heard into the ear of the person next to them -- and so on around a circle of friends. In the end, the enjoyment is in seeing how much the "rumor" has changed by the time it completes the circle -- whispers to ears.

A while back I did a short demonstration video on how I create the fluting or striping on my pots (like the pitcher to the left here).

Scott, from the creatniks pottery emailed to tell me that they'd been experimenting with the idea. I'd say, quite successfully too, as illustrated by this beautiful azure vase.

*******

On this quiet Sunday morning, I've got the shop to myself and my guitar...

Sixty Minute Man

2011-03-12T05:06:00.000-08:00

Interview

SP: There are reports that you've turned your pottery over to the making of leaves. Is there any truth to the rumors?

JB: Scott, to tell you the truth, I'm tired of waiting on the trees. It's been a long, cold winter and the trees are, quite frankly, taking too long to bud and leaf out.

SP: But it's only Marc...

JB: "Only". Yeah. "Only" March. It's been a full five months now since I've seen anything but dried up old, brown oak leaves hanging from mostly naked trees like so much dirty laundry. As I said, I'm tired of waiting.

SP: How exactly do you make theses leaves?

JB: It's a combination of slab, throwing, casting, and altering techniques.

SP: All that? ...for just one piece?

JB: Yes, well, I had this idea in my mind -- almost a full-blown idea the moment I thought of it. I knew what I wanted and I knew how I was going to make it.

I took one of my huge, 20 inch bowls and, using it to define the dome of the future leaf, I cast plaster molds with leaf imprints in them. With these molds I can toss a slab down on them and the slab will then have the desired dome shape AND the impression of a leaf on it.

Then I walk over to the wheel with the plaster mold -- slab atop it -- and chuck it up with my Giffin Grip. There I can throw and compress the leaf from the backside by pressing a wet sponge against the spinning slab and working my way out from the center.

Then I attach a thrown foot to the slab...

SP: It's beginning to occur to me that this is a lot more work than necessary. For just a leaf bowl? Couldn't you just slam the slab on the mold and let it dry and pull it off? Do you really need a foot on it?

JB: First, "could" isn't a very good measure around a pottery shop. "Should" works better for me. I don't favor the notion of "good enough". Thinking that way is not only an affront to my sense of what makes a good pot, but it also would imply that I think very little of the sensibilities of the people who might want my pottery. I don't think so little of my customers. I'd like to hope that the people who buy my pottery aren't searching for "good enough". And so far, they've proven me correct.

So, no. I didn't want these leaves to so easily betray the method by which they were created. I want the method of creation to be so transparent that the first impression my pot leaves isn't how it was made, but rather, what it IS. I didn't want the "slab-ness" of the piece to be so readily evident.

SP: Well, I'll grant you that it's not. I hadn't really thought much about it, but it appears at first glance to be a leaf that's cut out of a thrown bowl form. That's why I wondered more about how you got the leaf impression in it than how you formed the bowl.

JB: Thanks. That's what I was after. That's the illusion I was going for. Beyond that, though, I also wanted a piece that would be elevated from the table -- lifted above it by a foot. Leaves are light. They flutter and float in a breeze. When they land on the ground it is not with a thud, but with a silent resting. And they don't entirely touch the ground even when they rest upon it. They aren't flat. Sometimes they rest aground with just the slightest touch of stem and lobe. I didn't think my leaves should appear any less light.

SP: And then you further push them out of shape?

JB. Yes. I like to lift the leaves from the plaster in time to manipulate the edges quite a bit. I pinch, bend, and stretch the edges and try to create a more natural undulation to the rim. Again, I'm going for that mystery -- the using of my hands to disguise the use of my hands.

SP: Well, if you get these fired in the next week or two, you'll beat the trees to greening out our Springtime.

JB: Exactly.

Epistemology

2011-03-11T06:09:00.000-08:00

I think we like to systematize knowledge for two basic reasons.

1. so that we can learn more and remember more of what we learn.
2. so that we can feel better about the stuff we don’t know.

As to the second: We seem to take comfort in the feeling that if something was important enough to be worth our time to learn, it would or could have already been systematized so that we could learn it. This notion itself is (somewhat comically) circular. In other words, implicit in the probability that something worth knowing would already be systematized is the notion that even systematizing is systematized. And it is. But some systems are more accepted than other systems.

And systems sometimes seem to be sort of like a project of assembling a multiple part puzzle. Often we work for a very long time, can tell we’re nearing the end, and then we realize there’s a piece or two left over that can’t be made to fit externally, but rather might require starting over. But the project LOOKS complete (if we can but find a way of hiding or destroying the evidence of incompleteness – those leftover pieces).

And in real life, when it’s not just a puzzle, but rather, a real bit of evidence that just maybe the system under which we’ve assembled all of our knowledge (so as to hold it all conveniently usable) has a weak spot or two, we may be under even greater pressure to hide, or hide from that evidence.

Maybe it’s professional pressure. Maybe our employment is with a system manager (so to speak) and further investigation of weak spots may not just rock the boat, but throw us overboard.

Maybe it's age with its alternating smugness and weariness. One day we’re pretty content with our choice of system, and quite comforted by our surety that our system is better than their system (carefully making such comparative assessments while purposely avoiding the alternative systems that MIGHT challenge our smugness). And the next day, we’re just too tired to even think about starting over with a new set of assumptions.

Here, however, are some safe assumptions (me being the ever-helpful potter-philosopher):

Stuff that makes this potter happy…

1. Good, plastic clay with which to push myself to my limits.
2. Limits, the definitions of which grow broader regularly.
3. Glazes that are dependable enough to help me make a living, and unpredictable enough to keep me interested.
4. A mind young enough to see the possibilities in the accidents inherent in clay work, yet old and wise enough to know how not to needlessly repeat them. A mind evergreen.
5. An appreciative audience – critical by way of the avenue with which I’ve chosen to communicate with clay.

Double Barrel

2011-03-08T15:44:00.001-08:00

I've spent the better part of the past two days making a cabinet for a pugmill to rest atop. I've had a second pugmill in my barn for the past 5 years -- no room in the shop. FINALLY I've moved the office into the house, and the pugmill is in the shop, ready to help me prepare my clay this year. It's a luxury, but running a two clay studio is made much harder without the right tools. I'm hoping this will help.

This pugmill first belonged to my friend, Dave. I wrote a little bit about my friendship with Dave here. This pugmill's a few years older than the pugmill beside it in the photo. I'm hoping it will take up the porcelain prep duties. If it doesn't, perhaps I'll sell it. Such a nice piece of equipment shouldn't be languishing in barns.

Waking Up Etsy

2011-03-08T09:38:00.000-08:00

After a month or so of neglect (I had to finally find time to clean the shop, make pots, and I also moved the office out of the shop) I'm finally back up and making some great sales on Etsy. I am so thankful for the faithful and for the new who support my Etsy site. You're just the BEST!

Unusually, this is the first small porcelain casserole I've ever put up on Etsy. I just usually make larger porcelain casseroles. But I split my thrown inventory between plain and my new pine cone casseroles. Now I have a few of these and I really like 'em.

I lined them with the amber celadon glaze and I like the contrast and the surprise. As is typical of celadon, it leaves a liquid appearance that is a nice contrast with the eggshell/matte exterior surface.

Thinking About La

2011-03-07T02:58:00.000-08:00

“Do” is not a deer, female or otherwise. First, even if she was a female deer, to point that out would be redundant anyway. Right? ...I mean, if she wasn’t a female deer, she’d be a “buck”, right?

But “Do” is not a deer, “Do” is a verb expressing the imperative mood.

“Do this. Don’t do that. Can’t you read the sign?!” –Five Man Electric Band

Besides, if “Do” was a deer, a female deer, I’m just sure that with that misspelling, during her elementary school days she suffered no end to being called “Dew” or “Due”. There’s just no way to get “Doe” (rhymes with “go”) out of the spelling “D-o”. How embarrassing for “Do”. No doubt she constantly had to explain the spelling to her teachers…

"It's French", I can almost hear her say.

And “Re” isn’t a “drop of golden” anything. “Ray” is my plumber. “Re” is a prefix. If Ray could prefix my plumbing, he wouldn’t have to make house calls. But I’m not waiting for my basement to fill with water on that possibility.

And when referring to myself, I don’t spell me, “mi”. And it’s really not a “name” I call myself. It’s a pronoun that refers to me, but that’s technically not a “name”. Technically, it is a referent.

“Mi, a referent by which I refer to myself, but spell differently.”

Fa may be a long, long way to run if you live down south and are given to droppin’ final consonants. Which brings up an interesting anomaly…

A southerner might drop the final “r”, making “fa” out of “far”. But this dropping of an “r” is obviously not because of the lack of ability to actually articulate the final consonant. I’m guessing that it is for clarity. I’m guessing that it done so as to differentiate between the long, long way to run, and observable combustion.

Which brings up another interesting observation: A southerner would NEVER yell “fire!” in a crowded building.

"So". Again with the unnecessary misspelling. “So” and “sew” are homonyms, even if “sew” looks as though it might be pronounced “Sue”. And yet, it, not "so", is the needle-pulling-thread word. I can almost hear the songwriter….

“So, sue me”

And that brings me to the pathetic, “La”. No identity in herself. She is merely “a note to follow So”.

Totally codependent.

I wonder if there is any kind of support group for co-dependent major scale notes. Going through life only finding identity in the act of "following So" would, I believe, eventually lead to neurotic behavior, if it isn’t already indicated.

And just to function in the musical world? ...I imagine it would be such a burden to ever be wondering things like, "So, how closely do I follow So?". "Are there cultures in which I should follow further back?". The pressure to perform must be overwhelming at times.

At times I'll bet that, like most co-dependent relationships, La has almost lost the sense of where So ends and La begins.

Just guessing here, but I’ll bet La has trouble ever being any more than a 64th note

It's Code, Not Cliche

2011-03-06T03:59:00.000-08:00

It’s Code, Not Cliché

Butch, the owner of the local Ace Hardware, has made a practice of tapping a great, knowledgeable but inexpensive workforce -- retired old guys.

One day, after I had spent about forty minutes getting one of the old guys to cut me 50 feet of 1/16" cable, Butch approached me in the aisle as I headed toward the checkout. He wanted to know if the service I got from the old guy was OK.

"You know, Ed's 88." he said, "I like the idea of these guys having something to do besides wasting away sitting on their butts 'til they die. Still, I'm hoping the service they offer here is to the customer's satisfaction."

“It was fine”, I said. For some reason the forty minute wait suddenly didn’t seem to matter as much to me anymore.

The Ace guys talk in old man short hand. They never tire of an old joke or a good cliché. In one short(er) visit to the hardware I heard: “I don’t get mad. I get even”, and “No matter how many times he cut that board, it was still too short -- ha ha”, and, “You don’t like the weather here? … just wait five minutes”.

I don’t think that they think they’re being original, clever, or even funny by these ritual repetitions. I think they believe themselves friendly. I believe they’re right.

My wife and a few of her friends used to take their dogs to the local nursing homes each month for “pet therapy”. The more infirmed older people really seemed to respond well to the affection of a dog. The more coherent ones would regularly launch into tales of the dogs in their past. The reminiscences seemed to bring them joy in addition to helping them pass the endless, empty hours of nursing home life.

In a very short time it was evident to me, in the few times I’d go along with her on her pet therapy rounds, that the old folks had taken a real liking to my wife. By really listening to the old folks on her visits, she showed a kind of interest that meant a whole lot to those people.

I remember a story I read of a woman looking for the right nursing home for her mother who was going to require constant care. She went from nursing home to nursing home – each seemingly loving and caring, but for some reason the woman didn’t choose them. The place she chose seemed little different in any way from the many others she had rejected. When asked about her choice, she explained that it was the first place where they addressed her mother as “Mrs _______”. All the others referred to her by her first name or, even worse, as “honey” or some other sweet nickname. The daughter wanted her mother in a place that respected, rather than patronized her mother. She felt as though a woman who had lived a respectable life didn't stop deserving respect just because she lost the ability to care for herself.

I was standing in line at the post office a few months ago. One older gentleman, probably in his 80’s, was standing right behind me. Another, younger -- maybe 70’s but farm-work rugged -- was almost up to the window. The man behind me said “Hey Jack.” and the fellow up-line turned, smiled and said “Hey Ed. How’s life?”

“Every day this side of the sod, y’know?” replied Ed, and then he added, “I’m just thankful to be on my own still. After seeing Alice into Miller’s (local nursing home) before she passed on, well, I just….well, I’m just happy -- happy to be at home. Glad I still get around on my own.”

They talked a while longer until it was Jack’s turn at the window. Jack wished Ed well and then turned to the postal clerk. “I’ll have a book of those left-handed stamps please.”

Amber Waves Of Glaze

2011-03-05T07:14:00.001-08:00

A number of factors play into the color: What clay it's over, glaze thickness, temperature, atmosphere....it all matters.

This is my latest use of the glaze -- my new pine cone topped casseroles.

This photo is deceiving. This was a BIG bowl -- maybe 14 inches in diameter.

Note the redder appearance? I figured out I could get all kinds of different colors if I first sprayed the porcelain with my oribe glaze -- basically coat it with lots of copper.

These were some of the bowls I did for the Goshen Empty Bowls a couple of years ago. One third were lined in oribe, one third in cobalt, and one third plain.

Celadon is hard to photograph, but again you can see the depth of color added when sprayed with oribe glaze first.

Out in the bright sunlight.

12" diameter and then cut to follow the stamped pattern. Lined with oribe...the glaze was a bit thin.

Word-Lite

2011-03-04T13:04:00.000-08:00

My last few posts have been a teensy bit wordy and not very pictury. I will try to rectify that with this post. This'll be mostly pictures with a few explanatory grunts in between...

I uploaded some of yesterday's firing onto my Etsy page this morning. The above bowl -- a fifteen-incher in my Millring Green glaze with a subtle rim and equally quiet swirl.

A pitcher and a small casserole in my blue slip under yellow glaze combination.

This is the pitcher I blogged about here and here and with which I created these videos...

This is the pine cone casserole in porcelain with an amber celadon glaze.

Here's some progress with the guitar slides -- the first three fired yesterday.

I had this casserole with a crack in it laying around. I wanted to see how the "Yellow Salt" glaze would break over texture. This glaze has some possibilities. I won't use it as it is on the casserole, but be looking for some new pots to show up with that glaze as the basis (I gots some good ideas!).

A Little Guitar Fun

2011-03-03T04:56:00.000-08:00

http://www.thepodium.com/mp3s/blogmp3s/FMG.mp3

written by John Bauman

guitar music: composed/played by Kevin Lee
narration: Stacey Potthier and Kevin Lee

...thanks to Irving Berlin and Fred Astaire

How To Breedlove

.........here’s the Lowden.

Martin thought Taylor was a Goodall around person but Stelling seemed in Klien to Fylde Wechter....
.....if she’d just Gibson instead of Takamine it’d Turner from her Guild and Greven....

Still, he Langejans for her.

McCollum up!

So Collings Epiphone – can’t get that Galloup his mind, she’s so Deering.

He Godin his car, Santa Cruz over, Campellone on her porch, Wingert love, and Guitar to Merrill him.

Soon he’ll Tacoma Breedlove, Hohner, Carruth Sand Charis her forever. Weissenborn to love her but Stella something that he learned and loved Doolin. She became the Laskin he’ll ever need.

And they’ Leach live happily Everett.....

......Martin, Taylor, Andersen….