not so sweet perfection

I have been working on a lot of new things in the studio. Probably too many new things, I have some serious backup in the brain and now it's all gushing out. I feel like after being in my new studio for a year -- A YEAR PEOPLE-- I'm finally getting into a groove.

 I'm missing the days when I used to have assistants to do all the little things that take so much time, like prepping items for shipment, mopping floors, or wedging clay. But, I also like the freedom and lack of obligation that comes with just working on my own. My only obligation is to the work, not to keeping someone employed. It's a huge responsibility to be a boss and I do not miss it. I just miss the bossing around part.

I have been working in a new clay body, a red clay called Navajo Wheel. Yes, it is insane to try and maintain a white porcelain studio while playing around with red clay, which stains everything it comes into contact with.  It's like making chocolate sauce in a marshmallow factory. But there is something delicious about this clay, its rustic feel.

I've been considering the meaning of "rustic" in my work. One of my challenges as an artist-maker person is I love to perfect an idea or concept. I will work that shit until it glows. And shines. And sparkles. And is perfect. So, so... so perfect. I can get carried away and not know that the horse I am relentlessly riding has lost its legs and doesn't want to go anymore.

What do I mean by that? I'm thinking of some ceramic artists, including myself, who have so perfected their processes, their style, and overall approach to making that the work has actually lost its energy, the static that makes it interesting. I will not name names because this is my own subjective opinion that has nothing to do with how other people feel about the work, it's something that I have noticed and have started considering as part of my own journey.

As a recovering perfectionist-- you are never fully recovered but always recovering-- it's important for me to always reckon with the costs of perfection and my internal desire for ultimate mastery over whatever I am doing. I have to consciously make the effort to kick a bucket of slop on my work in order to disrupt my drive for  sweet sweet  P E R F E C T I O N. It's a drug, straight to my brain. Kicking a bucket of sloppy red clay on my work forces me to try to tunnel my way out with a different approach. I creates energy in my work-- I think, I hope-- and keeps things always subtly changing.

nuance and variation

A couple of months ago, I was really struggling with process.  The issue was what I think of as copying myself. That probably sounds strange but the basic problem was re-making motifs that I like. I re-make them because I like them, but I was afraid that this approach will work me into a creative rut... again.  I've been very wary of anything that resembles production pottery. As a potter who makes a lot of stuff, this fear was making me a little crazy and jamming things up at the studio.

The very idea of "copying myself" brings with it a lot of judgement and that voice in my head, telling what's good, what's bad, what works, what doesn't. That voice stops me, I hold back. I don't want to make something that's bad or doesn't work. This is the crux of the main problem I have in the studio-- stopping myself.

The reason for stopping myself from doing anything is I don't want to "waste" materials or my time.  I also don't want to get stuck with "bad" work. When I break down this thought I have to reckon with the fact that the very idea of "wasting" time or materials in in itself a harsh judgement, and not really connected to anything real. The only wasted art material is the one not used. Wasted time is time spent on Facebook or other time I use up procrastinating. Making art that is not one's best work is not wasted time, it's just time used while you get better. It's unavoidable.

Rather than trying to not waste time or materials, I could be trying to use up as much time and materials in getting better. That's the only way. I can't think my way into being a better artist, I have to do it.

Getting back to the idea of copying myself and not generating new ideas. I mentioned it to my friend, Kathleen, who took in what I was saying and said very simply, "I don't think there is anything wrong with the idea of nuance and variation."  She said, "I like the idea of editions. You can work with the same concept but you try a slightly different approach each time."

One of  the reasons I like Kathleen is because she doesn't think like me at all, so I learn things. This was my little "ah-ha" moment. This concept  suddenly gave me permission to continue to explore these motifs that I like, but not have the fear that I would get stuck in them. Rather, look at them as ideas that will keep developing rather than as some arrival point. And suddenly, I was off and running again.

is this thing on?

Life has been strange, and strangely wonderful lately. First, I'm just gonna put something kinda uncomfortable out there. It may wreck your image of me as a highly successful potter. This year --so far--has been the very worst year for sales... ever, I think. I mean, in the 15 year history of my business. This month especially, April, has been the deadest month I've had in years.

I don't really want to go into it, I'm just mentioning this as a way to communicate my state of affairs. In a weird way I am grateful that things are slow, because it's giving me the freedom and the time to work on my new pieces, make some custom orders, and put time into other creative projects that I have going. I also think when my assistant left last year to move to Hawaii and I did not replace her, I was signaling to the Universe that I desire a change of pace. I feel like it's a transition time, for me, for my career-- if that's what it's called-- and that transitions are by nature temporary, challenging, uncomfortable, and what I'm feeling -- like I'm walking on a very high tightrope in a stiff breeze-- is normal and natural.

But goddammit, every once in a while I fucking freak out. I mean what the fuck?! Am I here? Am I alive? Is the internet working?! Is this thing on?!!!

I've been working out all kinds of strategies to deal with the anxiety. I'm doing yoga and meditating every single day, trying to overlay the chaos with a sheen of sanity. Ultimately I know that even if it's not temporary, this is somehow the new normal, being a wreck is not going to make it better. Being a wreck will make it harder and also make my husband miserable. He hates dealing with me when I'm a wreck.

I was having a small moment last week where I was feeling alone and adrift. Very quickly I wrote down some goals for the week, something to focus on and stay engaged rather than feel sorry for myself. I wanted to share them with you because I think these are all good goals to keep in mind if you are circling the drain:

• Connect: with a stranger and with a friend. Write an email to someone you admire and tell them they are amazing. Even better, send them a postcard. I did both last week and it made me feel good. I also took the time to connect with a couple of friends who I've been out of touch with for too long.
• Promote: something easy and something hard. The goal here was to get myself out of my comfort zone a bit when it comes to promoting. I can do my usual thing, but what about reaching out to a store, or to another artist and suggesting a collaboration, or submitting a story to a blog/website? This is hard for me, because I prefer to have people chase after me, but it gave me something to work on and feel like I was planting a seed or two. 
• Finish: the thing you've dreaded and the thing you haven't made time for. We all know what that is in our lives. Get it done. You'll feel better.
• Do: something for yourself and something for someone else. Taking care of oneself is the kindest thing any of us can do, and doing something for someone else is the next kindest. Make someone else's day while making sure you are taking care of yourself too.

And here, for your enjoyment, are some pictures of my some work that came out of the kiln last week. Yes, it's for sale, you can buy it.

inspiration

I am often asked where I get my inspiration for my work, or how I get myself inspired.

Every once in a while inspiration is just delivered to me like a divine gift. A completed piece will show up in my head that I immediately understand and have the wherewithal to go ahead and make, but those times are very rare. It is magical, and I can't depend on it.

I think there is an assumption that art gets made through this kind of inspiration almost 100% of the time, that's how it "should" be. It helps feed the image of the artist as a special and mystical being, an image that I admit I can kind of enjoy, but ultimately it's just dress-up. It's not real.

The inspiration question I am never good at answering, because I get the feeling that people want a formula, or a step-by-step set of guidelines on how to pull ideas out of the ether and render them into creativity, and I don't have a formula. I mostly just do my work and hope. I think the reward for work is inspiration. And the reward for inspiration is work. It's a continual feedback loop. But all kinds of things will interrupt this loop, and that's just the reality of living in an annoying and imperfect world.

The best I can do is look for the beauty in all things. This is a habit for me, I try to find it everywhere.  Since I live in a crowded, polluted, overtaxed city environment, I have had to expand my definition of beauty. In hillsides covered will oil storage tanks. In broken down industrial lots with a small patches of flowering weeds. In the peeling paint on the sides of buildings. In the remote and withdrawn faces of strangers. Finding beauty means withdrawing judgement, and letting go of other people's definition of beauty. And as creative people, that is the first thing we all need to do.

okay with okay

It's not a secret that I am prone to anxiety. This is how my anxiety works, and maybe yours too: 

• Take something that is causing me discomfort or uneasiness, like slow sales or the California drought. 
• Use that shred of doubt or uncertainty and spin out a scenario, usually a worst-case scenario, into the future. 
• Spend time thinking about how that is going to feel and what is going to happen. I'm going to lose my business and all my friends and colleagues will pity me; I'll witness the desertification of California and be one of millions of evacuees that are forced to leave the state due to lack of water. 
• Take those feelings of fear, dread, and panic, stuff them right into my chest, and bring them back to the present moment. 

All of you fellow anxiety sufferers know precisely what I'm talking about. And I know exactly what I'm supposed to do: stay in the present moment at all times, because the present moment is all we have. When you find yourself living in some dark corner of the future, very gently and without judgement lead yourself back to the present moment. Over and over again, that is what one does to overcome the pulsation of anxiety.

I've been getting a little better at this, here and there. My trick is to just say to myself, "what if it's just going to be okay?" Like, all of this worry energy is just a waste of time. Things are probably not going to be horrible, they are definitely not going to be perfect, they are just going to be normal, totally acceptable, and okay. I mean, obviously we are doomed, but things are okay right now in this moment.

I was having a instance last week while I was installing my paper butterfly sculpture into the window of a store, and it was taking me about 4 times longer than I thought it would. It didn't really matter because the opening wasn't until the next day, but my natural reaction when things don't go as planned is to start the anxiety drum. This can make me a really annoying person to the people who love me best, by the way.

I was stringing each butterfly, one by one onto this fishing line, but my mind was somewhere else, working out a play-by-play of a future disaster regarding the balance in my bank account, because I obviously don't know how to manage time or paper installations. All of the sudden I noticed that I really loved the process of stringing each butterfly. It was labor-intensive, but I was enjoying it. I liked stepping back after every few minutes and seeing how the thing was shaping up. It gave me a moment of freedom where I was able to say to myself, "what if it's just going to be okay?" I'm okay right now,  I'm doing something totally enjoyable that will bring others delight, I'm not hungry or thirsty, I'm able to just stand here and do this thing. At some point I'm gonna die and it will all be over, but for now I'm finding the pleasure in living, and it's okay.

The second part of this exercise is being okay with things being okay. Anxiety sufferers are always waiting for the other shoe to drop so it can be difficult to be okay with okay, because it's not comfortable. We'd rather be chasing thoughts down a rabbit hole because at least that gives us a sense of doing something, of being in control. Being in the moment challenges us to let go, and anxiety types hate that shit. If we let go, who will keep the world spinning?

Little by little, every day, I'm working at being okay with okay.

back to school

I've been trying to maintain a back-to-school vibe in the studio for the last couple of weeks. I went roaring in on September 2, with the idea of throwing off the remnants of summer vacation mode and kicking some ass. I threw a bunch of stuff, and got down to the work of it. Then I had this horrible, dark realization: I want to make new work and grow as an artist, and here I am working on a cake stand... again.

I think this thought sent out some weird energy out into my studio, because for the rest of the week I managed to "accidentally" crack, break, chip and snap every single piece I had thrown. By the end of the week, with virtually nothing left that was salvageable, I just had to laugh at myself. When it comes to monkey wrenching, my subconscious knows exactly when and how to bring everything to a grinding halt. Talk about back to school.

I spent a couple of days walking in circles, and then just decided to face it: I've gotten lazy, I like my comfort zone, and everything I think I've learned about being a perfectionist nutcase doesn't mean that much unless I apply it to my work and duke it out with my demons.

I started again this week, with the idea of trying for a balance: some safety zone work so I can feel like I'm actually accomplishing something, and pushing on some new things so I can hold myself accountable to being an actual artist and not just a producer.

It's uncomfortable, like stepping into a slightly too-steamy hot tub. I know it's going to be good at some point, but right now it's just really freaking hot. As I was having these uncomfortable moments, I kept reminding myself that this is what learning is like sometimes: you feel like everything is a mistake, but if you keep trying you eventually get some finesse, or find your way to a better path.

All new work eventually becomes a safety zone.

happening now, coming up

I have been lost in my world of clay, which is better than being lost in my own head.

I've been working on these random pieces that I put together into a collection and called it the Pretty Random Blossom collection. The whole reason why it came about is because when I was finally getting my hands back in clay earlier this year, I couldn't get started. I didn't know where to start. You think that feeling inspired means you know exactly how to direct that energy, but I didn't. Every idea I came up with didn't seem right for the moment. Okay, I'll be honest-- every idea seemed to suck and I shot it down with my judgement gun. I have so much ammo, I will probably never run out. So I froze myself in place, couldn't do anything... you guys know how that one goes.

I finally had to have a serious talk with myself about judgement and the importance of just having some fun. There were tears. I started throwing these "clay pancakes" just so I could play around with some drawing and mishima.  I started like that because the pancakes had very little value so there was no weight to whether or not they came out "right". Those pieces morphed into some pretty little plates. I also had some fun doing mishima on some flower-shaped bowls, sort of a new twist on an old idea. I did a few rounds of throwing and glazing, and put them up on my website and sold most of the pieces within 24 hours, which was so great and gave me a glimmer of hope that I am not totally washed up yet.  You can see the whole collection here. Though some of my favorite pieces did not make it through the firing which made me feel doomed. But then, I got over it. I always do.

Some of the best pieces are still there. I am obsessed with scallop edges right now. Actually, I have always been obsessed with scalloped edges. I love carving them, I love looking at them.

I love the ridiculous raised dogwood centers on this tray. 

I have always loved mishima but never tried to incorporate it into my work, it really hits all my OCD buttons in a good way.

What's coming up is I'm going to be interviewed by Ben Carter of the Red Clay Rambler podcast on May 17. It's going to be a live deal where people can come and watch because that's exactly how much of an attention whore I am. But really, the subject of the evening is social media, telling your story, crafting a voice online, and marketing. So if you show up, you can ask questions and be a part of the conversation. Tickets are 10 bucks but if you are a student, you can get a free ticket. There will be an after-party where we can all mingle and drink Lagunitas beer. Seating is limited, so get your tickets here. Hope to meet you there!

a new page

When some people want to change something in their life, they may buy a membership at the gym, join a like-minded group, enroll in a class, or get a therapist.

Me, I buy a notebook.

This is a collection of my notebooks. In the interest of full disclosure I will say that this is not all of them. All have been acquired within the past 3 years, with the exception of #12, my wedding notebook that my Aunt Shelly sent to me back in 2001 when I got engaged to my husband. She knows the power of the notebook.

I have always wished that I were the type of person who could carry around a moleskine notebook and jot all of my thoughts and ideas into that one place, and when I was done, file it and buy another exactly like it. And when I needed to refer back to something, a genius thought or creative idea-- of which I have many-- I could simply crack the moleskine. My inner creative life could be documented in a linear way that would create a beautiful pocket of order in my universe.

But that's not me. I am addicted to the new beginning a fresh notebook represents. When I decide I need to make a change in my life, such as getting more exercise,  a new notebook must be purchased (#15) so I can use that notebook as a way of tracking myself. I can't write down my daily exercise in notebook #10, which holds my grocery lists and menu plans, or notebook #21, which lists all the annoying household things that need to be taken care of, and certainly not notebook #9, which lists my studio to-do's for the day. Crossover creates confusion.

And it's not just lists of things that I like to have going. #14 is my daily journal (always spiral bound and college-ruled). #13 is strictly for pottery ideas and drawings, while #3 is for other creative ideas, like papercuts. #4 is dedicated to happiness and happiness resources á la Gretchen Rubin, and #7 stays in my purse for moments when I am struck by inspiration when out to dinner or a museum (empty except for notes on directions and places to eat). #3 was for when I decided to start doing sketches with little stories underneath, of which there are two in the past year (sketches, not stories), and somewhere in there is a notebook related to money, but I'm not sure which.

I'm going to confess what you probably saw coming from the beginning of this post: the only notebook that regularly gets any use is my journal, my day planner, and my sketch books. In large part, the rest of the notebook are testaments only to my ambitions, desires and goals. 

For people like me, who believe in the strength of words and writing, notebooks and paper hold a powerful sway over our psyches. As I was writing this post, and reading about notebooks and moleskines, I found this notebook, and my heart started beating a little faster. Maybe this is the ultimate notebook. Maybe this is the one that can change everything.

making things happen

I loved a recent post from one of my art heroes, Elsa Mora. The title of the post is "Making Things Happen," and it's about, well, how a busy artist can make so many things happen the way Elsa does. The steps she names go like this:

• Think: sit down with a piece of paper and a pen and think about what to make and why. This helps to clarify the mind and gives you focus and purpose.
• Make a Plan: figure out what the big picture goal is, and break it down into small steps.
• Start: the hardest part-- do not abandon the project or plan. One foot in front of the other, and begin.
• Manage your time: try to work in 2 to 3 hours bursts with no interruptions (internet, phone, people) followed by a break.
• Discipline: set a deadline, hold yourself accountable to finishing the project.
• Have fun: Elsa believes projects are more likely to get done when it's fun, and a project stops being fun when one step has not been done correctly.

This formula has been incredibly helpful to me as I get back to working on creative projects. Like Elsa, I am very impulsive. Often when I get an idea, I run headlong into trying to make it, leaning heavily on my creative abilities to carry me through and not thinking about a concrete plan. My studio is littered with unfinished projects that seem to hold promise but stopped being fun to work on.

Her post inspired me to work on a large scale papercut for my front window at the studio. It's something I've been thinking about since the springtime, but I was hesitant to start because I know my penchant for starting big projects and then not finishing. I didn't want to let myself down or have some lame bullshit in my window. I followed each step, including the working for 2-3 hours at a stretch. This piece took about 8 hours and it about 3 feet by 3 feet:

The thing I really learned through this process is that I have a tendency to rush through "tedious" details. For instance, I wanted to somehow cheat on cutting the scallop frame properly.  I noticed that I wanted to rush, or get bored with the process, but then I remembered the plan, and that the scallop frame was really important to making the piece pop on the window. That helped me re-focus on it, enjoy it, and do the work so it would look great and not sloppy.

I've started using this technique with every project and I'm hoping it will continue to help me finish great projects. Stay tuned.

be uncomfortable

I received a timely email the other day:

Hi, I'm a 15-year old thrower, I've been throwing for 2 or 3 years now. I think your work is *perfect* but lately I have felt like what is the point of this.  I truly enjoy throwing, but I can't get out of this rut. Have you ever had these feelings? How did you conquer them?
CL

Dear CL,
I wish I could say I have no idea what you are going through. Unfortunately, I know your feelings all too well.

Your first question-- what is the point of this-- is a larger existential question that I can't answer for you, you have to answer it for yourself. My answer for me is that the point is to bring beautiful, artful objects into this crazy world, and that's pretty much it. I would like to think that creating beautiful things changes the world, so I'm doing what I can to change the world. I don't know how far I'm getting there.

So, you're in a rut, maybe your first. Being a creative type means that you will not always be inspired and have ideas.  It's great that you have the opportunity to experience a creative rut, recognize you are in a rut, and ask for help at the age of 15. When I was your age I would go through creative ruts too, but I just saw that as a sign that I hopelessly sucked as an artist.  Then I would smoke a bunch of pot, write in my diary about how the world did not understand me, and cry. You may do all of those things too, but I never thought to ask for help. It's very brave of you to do so.

You are in a rut because you are bored. Maybe you are bored with your forms, your processes, your self-imposed limitations on the wheel. The opposite of creative is not un-creative, it's boredom. Boredom will smother everything creative within you with its droning, relentless voice about how you're not good enough, that idea sucks, other people are better than you could ever be, and eating a big giant bowl of ice cream is easier than going through the trouble of making that thing you thought you wanted to make.

You can't "conquer" boredom, because it's part of the process, the ebb and flow of being a creative person. Boredom is a message from your internal self that you need to grow. What that means is completely up to you to figure out, but here is a hint: We often resist growth because it makes us uncomfortable. To grow we have to start from a place of not-knowing, and it's much nicer to be in a place of knowing.  But being uncomfortable is not boring, so in my book uncomfortableness is okay for an artist. Maybe you should think about what makes you uncomfortable, and head toward that.

I'm uncomfortable with being less than perfect in my work, which means I don't experiment enough because I'm afraid of making ugly, imperfect work. I'm uncomfortable when my sales are slow, which means I'm constantly pushing myself in production, another creativity killer. I'm uncomfortable with ease, which means I don't value my work unless I struggle. I'm uncomfortable with pursuing other artistic interests for fear of depleting my creative reserves, which means my creative self usually survives on a plain clay diet.

My advice to you is to think about what makes you uncomfortable, and adjust your approach so that your creativity can incorporate those things. I've had to address my issues in order to have a better creative life. For me this means taking the time to try new things and make crappy work, make work that is not production-oriented and and may never sell, not immediately dismiss work that seems too "easy",  and work in other mediums I love such as drawing, painting, and paper cutting.

My dear, I hope that helps.

process is everything

I'm doing something a little weird right now, which is reading Thomas Keller's The French Laundry cookbook cover to cover.  The French Laundry is a Napa Valley restaurant about an hour away from where I live. I've never eaten there. I will eat there someday, and I know people who have eaten there and talked to them about the experience. The French Laundry creates two 9-course tasting menus every day for their customers, each course very small, and from what I've heard it takes hours to go  through the courses. The food is incredibly labor-intensive and made out of the highest quality ingredients, so the base price is $270 a person. It's not a casual meal and they are always booked out two months in advance.

Running a very high-end restaurant and a pottery studio has one major issue in common: every day you go in, and you create from scratch something over and over again. The major challenge is to not become bored, or to hurry through it with your mind elsewhere, or to become deadened to the process and just create by rote. All of these things have happened to me over the years, and when I'm there, I don't even like my job anymore and I feel like a failure. As an artist, this is the most painful place to be. Thomas Keller writes about maintaining passion for the endlessly repeated acts he performs in the kitchen, and he does this by giving each step his full attention. When you give something your full attention, no matter how mundane, you have the opportunity to be filled not with boredom and the urge to rush, but with a sense of wonder and pleasure with your process.

I know this, but still, I can find myself in the studio, banging stuff out as quickly as I can and just trying to get through the day. Reading Keller's cookbook has re-focused me in the studio and made me once again realize that the finished product is worthless to me if I don't enjoy the process.

Both potters and cooks know there are all of these steps that happen in between the idea of what you want to make, and then the finished product. Most of the time what you have at the end is not something that is perfect, or exactly how you imagined it. But this does not necessarily decrease its value.  Thomas Keller writes in his book that we must acknowledge there is no such thing as perfect food--or pottery-- only the idea of it. But that doesn't mean we don't strive for perfection anyway. We continue to try for one purpose: to make people happy.

When I read the recipes that Keller has created for the French Laundry, I am filled with wonder. He takes each ingredient and brings out its full essence, not by some kind of magic but by fully appreciating what that ingredient is and treating it with his full attention and respect. He understands what each ingredient can do and in his process, he creates a peak experience. In the flurry of running a successful pottery business, I've put aside labor-intensiveness in favor of efficient production, and frankly, that bores me to death.  Keller is inspiring me to not be just about production, but to focus once again on process. Slow down, take my time, and create pieces that receive my full attention. Even when I am reading a recipe in the French Laundry cookbook, I can find my mind drifting and my eyes skimming over the text. When I notice this, I re-focus and start over. And in the studio, when I find myself wondering how soon I can be done with one thing so I can move on to the other, I take a breath, and re-focus.

cheap and easy never is

Here's some marketing advice for you, the artist who makes things to sell: dream up an item that is inexpensive and easy to make, then sit back and watch as the money rolls in.

The high-profit-margin-easy-to-make item is the holy grail of anyone who makes things, whether you do it for a living or for extra income.  But I have some sad news for you.  The successful items out there that hit the sweet spot of easy to make and inexpensive to produce typically comes from years of making stuff that is exactly the opposite. Working at cheap and easy as a marketing approach is a waste of time for artists. 

When I first started making a living off of my work back around 2000, I didn't have many pieces that were under $100.  My work was labor intensive and expensive.  So labor intensive and expensive that selling it wholesale was really not possible, though I tried to do it anyway, and quickly burned myself down to the ground try to re-create pieces that were really meant to be one-of-a-kinds.

Slowly, over a period of years, I worked on simplifying my approach to the pieces I made, both to fulfill wholesale goals and to scale back on my 60 hour week.  From design to production method, every item I made was scrutinized and modified to increase my efficiency.  Lots of pieces were dropped from my production line because there was no way to re-create them for a production market, which is about 80% of what I do.  And this brings me to the cupcake stand, which is one of my all-time bestselling items,  is easy to make, and under $50.

At the time I came up with it, around 2008, I was still wholesaling my cake stands, which were selling faster than I could make them.  This always sounds like a good problem to have, until you have it.  As a ceramic artist, it's very stressful.  To take some of the stress off, I had the stand part of the cake stand slipcast so I would only have to throw the plate instead of both the stand and the plate. The slip cast stand looks different from a wheel-thrown one because of the way the mold is made, the top is solid.  Somehow, it looked useful, but as what?

My pal,  Rae Dunn, who is a genius in coming up with hot sellers, says to me, "You should put a bird right in the center."  I was intrigued by her idea, but I couldn't quite figure out what function that item would serve .  After some fooling around I put the bird on the edge, like my larger cake stands, and it occurs to me that this is a cupcake stand, the perfect item for a bakery that I make cake stands for.  I threw a few up on the etsy,  and they sell like hotcakes. They still do.

The lesson is that I just didn't come up with the cupcake stand randomly.  It took about 3 years to get from cake stand to cupcake stand.  The cupcake stand is a distillation of a bigger idea.  So if I were to re-write the marketing advice I started out with--dream up an item that is inexpensive and easy to make, then sit back and watch as the money rolls in-- it would look something like this:

Dream up a lot of items you love to make.  Take your time making them and learn how to make them perfectly.  Sell them for as much money as you possibly can.  As you work on your pieces, think about how you can simplify the best pieces you make.  Maybe, someday, you will come up with something that resonates and lots of people can afford.  Then, watch the money roll in!

the way of the sloth

I have been easing myself back into work, not unlike how a three-toed tree sloth would get back to work. For those of you who don't know what a three-toed tree sloth is or how they act, their most distinguishing characteristic is the fact that they move very slowly and deliberately. It's quite comical to watch, actually. Years ago, I was on a beach in Costa Rica and a tree sloth fell out of a tree behind me-- something that happens all the time since they cannot react quickly-- and I was so startled my first reaction was to get up and run away. I am a total chickenshit when confronted with strange animals. I expected the sloth to be angry and maybe run toward me, but it just rolled over veeeeeeeery slooooooowly and began its crawl back to the tree. I felt sorry for being fearful when I realized it was terrified of me and was doing its own version of a flat-out run for safety.

Anyway, that's my totem right now, a three-toed tree sloth. And it feels pretty good to take it easy after holiday bedlam and plan for the year. Of course, I've had to do some work which can sort of ruin the sloth vibe. I had my first firing of the year last week, and I was very disappointed with the outcome. Cake stands, as usual, giving me problems. I really should charge $200 a plate. I found myself fuming around the studio and even throwing a couple of things. I haven't thrown things in a long time. It's not that I'm worried about what the customer is going to upset with their delayed order-- I've become expert in handling anxious cake stand customers-- I get so worn down by the persistent and ongoing problems with these pieces, it's hard not to feel defeated.

Then, there's a whole new problem that started showing its ugly little head, first every once in a while over the past couple of years, and now all the time. The plates have started popping away from the stands. Sometimes it's already happened when I pull it from the kiln, sometimes it happens after a couple of days. I don't know why this happens, and it only happens with certain glazes, my white glaze being the top offender, of course. I've done everything you can imagine to try and mitigate this issue, and I finally had to give up and re-design the way I make these things, not for the first time. I've always made the stands and the plates separately, so I can really pack them in during bisque firings. But now I'm attaching them while they are green, then bisqueing them like that. It takes up some serious space in the kiln, and I feel less efficient, but when I consider all the stands that get sent to the shard pile, I feel I have no choice. This is the best way to deal with this problem.

I'm finding, more and more, that the energy I spend on being stressed and upset in my work is energy I am totally capable of channeling into finding solutions and just moving on. I really am attempting to train my brain to stop having a panic response to stress; it is super annoying to get a surge of adrenaline when a problem comes up, which makes my heart pound and my hands shake. The three-toed tree sloth does not get panicked. The sloth falls out of the tree, and then immediately gets up and starts climbing again, in the exact same deliberate way he was before. He does not freak out and try to make up for lost ground, or throw coconuts around, or charge at the nearest person standing by. Watch me as I work on my sloth attitude.

letting go, letting god

I ride my bike pretty much every where I go, so I look at a lot of bumper stickers on the back of cars. The other day I saw a sticker I've seen hundreds of times: Let go, let God. I felt a twinge of annoyance the way I do with platitudes involving god, and continued pedaling, quickly forgetting about it. Then, I found myself pondering the meaning of this saying the other night at 3 am. One would think I must love to be awake, thinking about stuff at 3 am, since I am often doing just that in the middle of the night. After years and years of training, I'm better at putting myself back to sleep within a few minutes. A warm bottle and my wubbie does me right.

But there are times when I can't go back to sleep, and it's usually because I'm obsessing about something, often related to my work. In this, I am no better than your typical high-strung corporate exec. For several nights in a row last week, I was completely absorbed all night long with these international packages I was shipping out. These boxes all had a lot of heavy, expensive items in them, and had already been packed them very carefully, but my subconscious was not satisfied. While I was sleeping, I was packing these boxes. Over an over: bubble wrap, styrofoam peanuts, corrugated cardboard. It was basically the opposite of a sex dream. While I was awake, I was re-thinking my packing strategy. In the end, I unpacked the boxes and re-packed them. During the day, not at 3 am. I'm not that crazy.

And a good thing too. Since these packages were international, they ship via US Post. This always makes me nervous, since the postal service does not feel the same obligations toward their customers the way FedEx or UPS does. Don't get me wrong, they suck too, but you can at least get your problem dealt with. Even if that means getting totally screwed in the end, they usually do it within 36 hours. I am not a customer of the US Post, I am a prisoner of the US Post, a belief I stated very loudly the other day when I was at my local office trying to pick up a package. You'd think they might hire two people to work the pickup window during the holiday instead of the usual one. But no. And that's another story anyway.

I nurture good relationships with all of my carriers-- UPS, FedEx, and even the Post. The people who pick up my shipments all know me, come into my studio, check out my work, and are nice humans to work with. My postal guy, who I really liked a lot, got fired last summer. I miss him. Since he's been gone, I've had a series of carriers whose charms are not as obvious. One carrier in particular is very bad, and unfortunately she's the one who shows up the most. I have to stay on top of her to pick up packages, she's always on her phone, and she's not friendly. I don't get unfriendly people; I can be a bitch with the best of them, but I don't move around in life with that attitude as my modus operandi. It's way more fun to be friendly, because it cheers people up, which in turn makes you a happier person. Mean people are just so boring. Even though this woman is pretty unpleasant, I'm still always kind and polite to her, and say "please" and "thank you", and always give her a smile.

Not that this gets me anywhere with her. She came by last week to pick up my re-packed international boxes -- 5 of them-- and I caught her throwing the last two into the back of her van like they were a sack of potatoes. I wasn't watching the first three she threw in. "Hey!" I yelled at her. I rarely yell, because it scares people and distracts from whatever point I want to make, but she was talking on her phone and I wanted her attention immediately. When she looked up at me I said, "Take it easy on those boxes, they're packed with pottery." I didn't say "please" "thank you", or smile. She says, "Okay" in kind of a nice way, which briefly made me think I intimidated her, and maybe now she'd start being a littler nicer. Then I realized she could afford to be nice since she was probably going to drive around the corner and see how well those boxes really were packed.

That night, at 3 am, I was awake and thinking about all the ways I could get back at the mail carrier. Unfortunately, there were none, except for psycho stuff, and I'm too lazy for that kind of thing. And then I started stressing about the pieces in the boxes, worried about them arriving broken. I soothed myself with the thought that all the pieces were double boxed and fine even if the boxes were tossed around. But my brain wouldn't accept soothing. That is when I started thinking about the letting go, letting god thing. Maybe that saying is not just an annoying phrase that is empty and meaningless. What a great thing it would be if I could let go of my struggles and worries, and accept whatever outcome is coming my way with equanimity. I'm thinking "letting god" just means "acceptance." I always pictured that saying as giving up, and then god would swoop in and deal with the mess, which is probably why I never really bought into this saying. But if I can picture it as gracefully giving up, letting go, and accepting reality without resisting, maybe I can start working this game a little better.

distractions, distractions

The single most distracting thing that keeps me from getting work done, beside my own reflection in the mirror, is the internet. I've been paying more attention lately to the amount of time I spend on the web each day, and I'm not shocked, but deeply bothered at how the minutes slip away and turn into big chunks of time. I spend a certain amount of time each day taking care of essential computer tasks, which include : uploading new listings to etsy, communicating with my customers, and printing out ship tags and invoices. Those are the essentials. Then there are the little add-ons: reading blog comments, writing blog posts, monitoring traffic on my web and etsy site, updating my website, and then twittering about everything I just did.

But it doesn't stop there. While I'm uploading etsy listings, I'm sneaking over to the front page to see what fantastic stuff is on there. If I see something cool, I'm off into someone's shop, rooting around in the goods. Twitter has started sucking me off onto all kinds of websites and blogs. Every Wednesday I must read the new horoscopes and Savage Love. And the emails and communications with customers, potential customers, stores, etc, is absolutely endless. If I added up all the time I spend on the web and compared it to the amount of time I spend actually making stuff in the studio, I think I would see I'm losing a day a week just to the interwebs, and a large portion of that to non-essential tasks.

And I don't even LIKE working on the computer very much. It stresses out my neck and makes me feel all starey-eyed.

I'm going to start instituting some severe discipline on myself. I only have a couple of ideas to keep myself on track: Make a list of what HAS to get done on the computer, give myself a time frame to do it in, and don't stop ticking down the list until it's done. No gallivanting off into cute little shops or reading blogs. But I need some more ideas, and I know everyone reading this is guilty of the same type of behavior. So I'm going to do my part in keeping you distracted from what you actually should be doing right now and ask what YOU do to keep yourself on track.

never perfect

One of the biggest nightmares in my life for a long while were the bird cake stands. They are one of my current top sellers, and have been plagued with problems. When I first started making them, it was no problem. This is how it always starts: you whip out a great design, a fab new glaze, whatever, and the stuff starts selling. So you make more. But there is an internal flaw in the system that has not made itself known yet. As you make more, the flaw comes out. The more you sell, the more the problem starts to exponentially multiply.

With the cake stands, the first problem was the birds falling over during firing. This took a while to address, but I finally came up with the solution. Then it was getting the right glaze to fire out on these big, flat surfaces. I had to fiddle with my kiln, my firing style, my cooling phase, and the glaze to get it right.

I was so happy when I finally landed on the right white glaze that doesn't pinhole or bubble. This is a sweet white glaze, so I started using it as my default white glaze. Problem is, as I'm discovering, this white glaze loves to crawl all over the place on round surfaces. I had to ruin about $1000 worth of work before I decided fuck this. Now I have white glaze only for cake stands and straight surfaces (up, down sideways-- doesn't matter, as long as it is straight, no curves), and white glaze for everything else. Sigh...

I was discussing this issue with my good friend, Leah, who is operations manager and designer for a bead and jewelry component company. She said, "I keep waiting for this time when everything can just run smoothly-- when silver prices aren't spiking, when the economy isn't going to hell, when I can actually get the bead back from the maker that is actually the bead I designed..." I laughed, because that's what every single person I know is waiting for: smooth sailing.

I have gradually accepted that perfection is nothing more than an ideal rarely achieved. I have tortured myself-- and my husband-- trying to reach for that state of constant perfection at the studio and done nothing but suffer in the struggle. And when I say suffer, I mean painful, gut-wrenching, can't sleep, don't want to eat, always worried, crying everyday, totally pissed off, suffering. I went over and off the edge a while ago. While I was laying there, all flattened, on rock bottom, I realized how useless my yearning for perfection is. The ebb and flow of our work includes moments of bliss and perfection, and the rest of the time just regular life. Regular life usually means shit is breaking down, because that is the nature of being on this planet: nothing stays the same, things are constantly deteriorating, and perfection--like everything else-- is fleeting. Enjoy it while it lasts.

monday, again

Are there people out there who actually can relax on the weekend? I know that I've done it, and given enough practice, can get get pretty good at it. But not lately. Since returning from the trade show, my weeks have been flying by, with so much to do at the studio day in and day out, only about half of what I feel needs to be accomplished to be caught up actually happens. And it's not that I took a ton of orders, it's just that everyone wants their stuff before Easter... whenever that is.

It's almost funny; in the morning I feel so energetic and hopeful, I'm convinced I can get it all done and have time to do something else, like meet a friend for lunch, or run a couple of personal errands. By lunchtime that hope has disappeared, and I'm neck deep in studio jobs. I can always tell by the state of my personal appearance-- the untrimmed and unpolished toenails, the unwashed hair, unshaved legs, non-moisturized skin-- exactly how busy I am. Personal appearance check rates me: superbusy.

Weekends have become roadblocks to getting my work done, and it makes me restless and anxious. Ostensibly, I do not work weekends. But I do end up spending tons of time doing satellite tasks: taking images of my pottery, working on my website, processing paperwork, answering emails, sending out invoices, writing for my blog... This afternoon I felt frustrated, and depressed. It's Sunday afternoon, I should be drinking mimosas at brunch with friends, or sleeping in-- or something like that--and I'm itchy for it to be Monday so I can get back to work. And at the same time knowing that even if Monday came a day early, I'm still going to be running behind. And following up this thought is recognizing that I am acting like a workaholic, jonesing for the distraction and absorption of my work to keep me satisfied. If I keep acting like this it won't be an act anymore.

So, I'm in the hamster cage right now, running running running, wondering when this damn wheel will get me somewhere. At the same time, there is evidence everywhere around the studio that stuff is getting done; orders are being filled. It's the cascade of small details, the little things that take a bunch of time, that seem overwhelming to me right now. My husband suggested to me this afternoon I blow off the rest of the stuff I was trying to deal with, and go take a walk. "But but but," I said, "then I just have to do it tomorrow." He looked at me like, "Yeah? And?" So I did it-- I blew it off, took the walk, came home, and got right back to it. If I am a workaholic, right now I'm hooked.

a little bit of art every day

After several more frustrating days in the studio training my new glaze assistant, I realized that-- once again-- expectations are outstripping what reality can provide. I had to take a breathe and accept that replacing Sara is not a 3 or 4 week process, it's more like 3-4 months. Maybe more. Meanwhile, my constant struggle to have time to make pieces that are not just feeding that production machine is a battle that continues. I had this fantasy that hiring two new people to cover all of my production elements would free me up to become queen of the art manor, like now. Now, dammit!

For me, whining about not having time to make art is on par with that girlfriend of yours who whines about the bad boy she's been dating for years even though he keeps cheating on her. She goes on and on and nothing changes. People probably get sick of listening to me, and I get sick of listening to myself because I know, deep down, that the more you complain and talk about something, the less likely anything will get done about it. I just decided that rather than waiting for that perfect, golden time where I'll have all the time I need to make the things I want to make, I just have to make a little bit of art everyday. Because the time to make art is right now, not sometime off in the future when I have "time". By the time the stars line up properly to give me the perfect space, all of my ideas will be long gone, having become bored standing around in my brain waiting to be born. So that's my new motto: A little bit of art everyday.

Speaking of art, I managed to go to New York City for a few days after the Philly show. I toured most of the Chelsea galleries and finally visited the Museum of Art and Design. I really like that museum a lot, though I wish it were about 3 times as big. Also, their museum store should be selling my work. I saw some great pieces that totally inspired me. The thought I came away with is that being an artist, in a lot of ways, means being obsessed with an idea. And taking the time to explore that idea, not letting it go until you get a piece that satisfies and pleases you. Even if that idea is completely nuts.

I was anxious to get my hands in clay after that, and I am fortunate to have a very good friend who teaches at the Greenwich House Pottery. This person was actually the first person to give me a nudge toward clay, and here is is throwing cups. I have been visiting his classes and giving throwing demos when I'm in town, which pleases me to no end since I am a natural-born showoff, and I like to show him what his encouragement has wrought. And I really enjoy introducing students to my throwing method, where I basically use no water once I've centered the pot. This was a method taught to me by Bob Pool, who I assisted many years ago. My friend likes to tease me about my method-- his technique is the opposite-- but I think he likes his students to see there is more than one way to make a pot, and they are usually fascinated by what I'm doing. I threw a few things in the cause of a demo, but I was really doing it for myself, and happy I had a place to do it.

old problems, new solutions

It's been a race to the finish line all week. I kissed my work good-bye and put it on a truck first thing Tuesday morning, and it will be waiting for me in my booth in Philadelphia when I arrive this Wednesday. Do you remember last year when I stupidly shipped through the show's Exhibitor Services and my work was destroyed? That will not be happening this year. Another artist from the Bay Area rented a truck and is bringing in a bunch of people's work, including mine, and I'm feeling very confident all will arrive safely. And I got everything else done: the wholesale catalog, the website update, the communications with my wholesale buyers, and the myriad other small details.

Meanwhile, I've been training my two new people; one on production throwing, the other on production glazing. Training someone in glazing is very challenging for me. It's the end of the line with the creative process and when things die at this point I've lost all the investment. I'm a picky bitch and I want glazing done the way I taught you, which means perfectly and efficiently. It's a constant push to mold new people, especially people who have never worked in a production environment. I have to be fully present, mentally and physically, and ready to address every single detail, down to how to put the lids on the correct glaze buckets. I had to tell my new glaze assistant that there will come a day soon where she realizes I'm actually a nice person and she will probably like me, but that time has not come yet.

Despite the tension, it's also good to have new eyeballs in the studio, because new people have new ideas and a fresh way of approaching problems. One issue Sara and I had for a while is glazing my large split pods. They are 9" high, round, and full of air. Dipping them with tongs or by hand is impossible, so our solution has been to brush glaze them. Alexis was not having it. She obsessed on the problem for a day or two and then came up with the solution: a heavy duty wire, like from the handle of a 5-gallon bucket, balancing the pod on it right between the split, securing it with your thumbs on the top. It was the perfect solution and we got a two beautifully dipped large pods for the first time ever!

making the mold

This weekend I jumped on my cruiser bicycle and pedaled over to Diana Fayt's San Francisco studio for a tutorial on making molds. Now, I have my man Hector at the factory who makes my molds and produces my bisqueware for wholesale, and he is my true ace in the hole when it comes to running my business. But the problem with producing at that level is the cost. When I decide on adding an item to my wholesale line, it's a big investment. Sometimes, that item may not end up selling so well, but I feel tethered to keep selling it because I dumped a bunch of dough into getting it produced. Or, I might have a great idea for an item, but if I feel it will only sell for a short time because it's trendy or seasonal, then I don't see the value in spending the money on getting production up and running on it. These two issues are things that make me feel a bit stale at times.

I've been considering this problem for a while, and the recession makes this issue even more front and center for me. If I don't want to get outflanked by this economy, I have to sharpen my reflexes and be quick to respond to what is happening. Big, cumbersome money investments into new designs and pieces feels like exactly the wrong thing to do at this moment, but sitting around and making the best of what I have seems slow and plodding. I've been obsessed for the past 3 or 4 months with the idea of making my own molds for items and slip casting them myself. That way I can test out new designs, see how they sell, and if they do great, then I can have Hector take over. If they don't, I'm not all tied down to it because the only thing I've invested is some time. Time is money, of course, but I'm finding that right now I have a little bit more of it because of the overall slowdown in business. And I'm convinced that having some mold making skills will push my work to a new and different level.

Diana knows how to make molds, so she very kindly invited me to her studio to give me a lesson. We spent all afternoon, and a bottle of wine, working on a mold for a new item that I'm in love with right now, but there is no way I can produce each one solely by hand. It makes my neck hurt just thinking about it. I found that mold making really appeals to me. You have to plan ahead, think about how it's all going to come together, and be precise. And the other great thing is that knowing I'm working on acquiring this new skill stimulates other ideas in my brain for items I can make. I used to make such labor-intensive work, which I pretty much gave up on because the effort became overwhelming. But now I can think more about making that one crazy, labor-intensive piece, and then just make my mold for it. I just can't wait to cast the first one!