things are changing

I wanted to check in with my blog readers and let you know a few things.
For starters, I am fine and my family and loved ones are healthy and well. I hope you can say the same. I would love to hear from you in the comment section. Let me know how you are adjusting to this new reality.

Life has changed for all of us and we haven't yet grasped what that means or how it will impact our lives for the long term. I do know that for me, the frame for my writing has really shifted, slowly for a long time, and now all at once.

I still believe that blogging is a great form of communication despite what I hear people saying that "no one reads blogs anymore". I think no one reads boring blogs anymore, and the word "blog" feels a little dated to me, but blogs are alive and well.

For those of you who have been reading this blog for years, you already know I don't write in it the way I used to. It's not because I've run out of things to say or topics I want to write about-- not at all. It's that I feel like I've created a collection, this archive of blog posts, and I don't need to keep adding to it. I think the blogger-branded platform helped me start something that I wanted to do, and now I'm done with using it.  This collection, for better or worse, is complete.

Now, stop crying. I'm still going to write and I'm still going to write for you. Just not here. I will be writing on my own website. The new blog will be very similar to what I send out in my newsletter. Wait, you haven't subscribed to my newsletter yet?? Now is the time my dears. I will also be writing more about what I'm working on in the studio, and how things are changing there.

Thank you for reading what I write, for showing up here, and for being interested in what I have to say. I appreciate it so much. Stick with me, there is more good stuff to come. 

the return

I've been back from a monthlong trip to South Africa for almost two weeks now, and I am reminded once again that travel is amazing, coming home always feels good, and getting back to work sucks. For me, I always come back from travel a slightly different person, subtly transformed by all the new things I was exposed to, so approaching my work in the exact same way I was before I left just feels wrong. Before I left I made a batch of ramen bowls that almost immediately sold out on my website, so the first thing on my list is... more ramen bowls. But I want NEW and DIFFERENT ramen bowls! To express my new and different self. But what is that exactly? I don't know yet. And that is the beauty of it all-- not knowing. The only way to figure it out is to start.

Starting is always hard. It's the hardest thing in the world, actually.  I texted a friend who also teaches pottery and asked him for an assignment just so there would be some level of accountability in getting going. Because once I start I can begin to forget the struggle, and just be immersed in the work. But dragging me to the starting line can be difficult with all of the kicking and screaming and thrashing around.

There are two things in a long list of things that I have been wanting to make for years, but for reasons that will take another post to explain, I haven't. I've been wanting to make lighting-- mostly hanging shades-- and wall art installations. After I was done completing my assignment (three small bowls) I just decided that putting off making the thing you really want to make is about as dumb as putting off the travel you really want to do. I've been wanting to go to Africa for over 20 years and I just now finally did it. I don't have forever to travel to the places I want to go, or to make the things I want to make. So I started making that stuff, accepting that it may suck a bit and I'll have to refine my approach and keep trying.

Here are a few images from my travels:

Giraffes in Kruger National Park

Who knew South Africa had PENGUINS???

Protea in Kirstenbosch Garden in Cape Town

Lonely stretch of beach near Stillbai on the Western Cape 

Camphor trees that look like a painting in the magical light.

A view of Camp's Bay and Table Mountain from the top of Lion's Head in Cape Town.

medical emergencies

I had a bit of a medical emergency last month. I was at my studio when I started to get a stomach ache. Over the next 90 minutes my entire stomach area started hurting so badly that I had to sit down. It was all I could do to get in my car and drive home.

I rolled around in pain for the next 18 hours before I decided something must really be wrong with me and went to the doctor, who sent me to the OR for an immediate appendix extraction. My appendix was so infected and swollen that it was already leaking gross stuff into my body, which doctors strafed with so much penicillin over the next 5 days that probably nothing will grow in my body ever again.

I have a very awesome kid in my life who came to visit me in the hospital, and said with all the dryness that comes naturally to a 14-year-old, "If you died, I would have been really mad at you, and I would have told everyone at your funeral that you died of stubbornness."

I laughed, because she is hilarious, but it's not exactly stubbornness that almost killed me. I'm not the only one in America who avoids doctors. Getting caught in the American medical system usually means one thing: you're about to spend more money than you have and bankruptcy may be the end result. And of course your own life is worth any amount of money-- of course-- but also, I do everything I can to just take care of myself.

I didn't have medical insurance my entire adult life until Obama came along, so it's a habit to avoid all doctors except for my gynecologist. When someone opened a door on me when I was riding my bike, they tried to cart me off in an ambulance, and I refused because I know how much that costs. I rode my stupid bike home like an idiot and was unable to walk for 3 days afterward. But hey, I was okay.

Even insurance doesn't keep you from having to spend horrifying amounts of money on your medical care. While I was in my hospital bed a very nice lady came into my room holding a laptop and informed me that my night as an inpatient would be a $2000 co-pay, and would I like to take care of that now? No, I would not. And I did not. Personally, I think it should be against the law to be asked to whip out a card while you are in a hospital gown.

We all know this is inhumane and unsustainable. Every time I hear a fucked-up story about a person's experience in the 9th Circle of Financial Medical Hell I feel a shiver in my soul, because I know there is really nothing that can protect me from that story becoming mine. It's bad enough that one is sick or hurt, worse that you have to hold a fundraiser to help pay your bills. By the way, that's a link to one of my dearest friend's GoFundMe page to help with his hospital bills after an accident. If you have some spare cash, send him some of it. Because this is the world we live in right now.

I also want to say that I feel incredibly fortunate that this appendix mishap is more of a financial inconvenience than a catastrophe. I'm lucky. But I may not always be lucky, and this is something that weighs on me every time I think I should maybe go to the doctor, and then don't.

Please feel free to share your medical hell story in the comments.

identity change

Things are changing around here. For starters, this week I started my first teaching gig at Berkeley Potters Studio. It's just one night a week, an intermediate to advanced throwing class, but for me it's a big deal.

I've been asked on and off over the years to teach, and for the most part I have resisted. Many reasons, the most important one being that I spend all of my working hours making my own stuff, and I don't want anything getting in the way of that. One of my greatest pleasures in life is having complete control over my own schedule. The whole time I was a kid, I just could not wait to get out from under the tyranny of an imposed schedule. As an adult, I'm a bit protective over maintaining that control.

There are other reasons, and this one I'm a bit sheepish to admit, but here it is: the fact that I have been able to make a decent living as an artist for 20 straight years is a huge part of my identity. I'm proud that I can do this, and I have some ego wrapped up in it too. Let's say... a lot of ego.

Being attached to an idea of my own artist identity is something I've been breaking down, a process that probably started after my mom died. There are many scraps of enlightenment and self-knowledge that come from this, not all of them easy or pleasant.

One of the uneasy facts is that I am starting to get tired, and perhaps a little bored with this way of life. I still love making pottery and I am not at all tired of that, if anything I am more obsessed than ever. But depending on it for the sole source of my income is a cycle-- constantly renewing, always repeating, and never-ending. And almost all of my creativity is fire-hosed into this endeavor. And I wonder if there are other things I could do that wouldn't take up almost every ounce of my lifeblood.
And also, give me a different challenge.

The thought of being something other than a solely self-supporting artist has brought up feelings of diminishment and a loss of self-worth, and I'm asking myself: why? It's all about how I want to see myself, and how I want other people to see me. Being an artist means being something of an outsider to the rest of society, and I like that. I have a lot of identity wrapped up in it.

But all of that is also just a story, and the ego loves telling us a good story about who we are. Because as much as I would like to see myself as someone living on the edge, I could also be seen as a servant to capitalism and a slave to social media in my daily hustle to get the pots out of my studio and into people's homes. Was that the dream? And that too is just a story.

I'm moving through all of these feelings toward something different for my life. There is going to be more teaching, there may be a thing called "paychecks", and a new business may be coming out of all of this. I'll keep everyone who is interested in the loop, right here.

big pots

I've been hitting the limits of my abilities on a few things lately. Hitting the edges of my skills can cause me unnecessary distress. I forget that it's okay that I don't know how to do every last thing with clay, and I can still learn new things. Or, maybe it's an impatience with learning new things, I just want to get by on what I already know. I don't have time! I'm a very busy person! It's an uncomfortable place of not-knowing before I can get excited about pushing myself into expanding my capacities.

I took an order for a big pot. A GIANT pot. When I took it I understood the measurements of the thing, and that it was going to be much bigger than what I usually make, but somehow spatially in my mind, it didn't compute. I was thinking, "no problem". Thrown, it needed to measure at least 19 inches high and almost 14 inches wide. That is a huge pot for me, most of my bigger vases are about 10 to 12 inches high.

I spent hours trying to throw this thing in one go, wedging bigger and bigger chunks of clay, straining my arms, shoulders, and back trying to conquer this pot.  I made some pretty big pots, but not even close to what I needed. I had way underestimated how the width of the pot was going to challenge my ability to get the pot as tall as I needed it to get. By the end of the day I had gone through well over 100 pounds of clay and was in a really, really bad mood. I figured I totally screwed up taking this order in the first place.

I stormed the studio the next morning, determined to try something different, the only thing I figured would work, which was to throw the pot in sections. I did not want to do this, so much so that I wasted hours trying to avoid it. If you throw in sections, you must be incredibly precise to make sure all the edges line up, not just the width but the direction of the piece. A few years ago, I made some extra tall vases where I threw them in two sections, and while the width matched-- I was able to piece them together-- the direction of the top section did not flow with the bottom. It actually made for a couple of interesting vases, and I sold both of them right away, but I wasn't that into it and I never did it again.

This one was going to be even more challenging because having hit my limit the day before, I already knew I was going to have to make this piece not in two sections, but three. UGH!!! Trying to match three sections from  top to bottom was going to take lots of time and precision, which is challenging to my snappy and impatient nature.

The way I did it was to throw each section extra thick and chunky. That way they would be strong and I could  stack the sections while they were on the bat and wet to see how it looked. If I needed to make any changes, I could do it and not have to start over. It was a long process, it pretty much took my whole work day to make two of these.

I went on vacation for 5 days after this, letting the sections firm up very slowly. At night, I would think about these sections, and wonder how well they were going to match up. How I was going to get these huge parts on top of each other without warping them? Did I make the bottom strong enough to hold the top sections? I wasn't sure. Each section was about 10 pounds, and I could easily imagine the bottom one slumping during the firing. These thoughts made for some awesome middle-of-the-night tossing and turning.

When I got back to the studio I was nervous but ready. And it only took a few minutes to stack everything up-- everything matched, the pots lined up. The sections were firm and felt light enough to lift without warping. I almost couldn't believe it:

It was good that I was forced into doing this. I have been wanting to make bigger pots but have been too entrenched in my regular work to actually make the move to do it. It opens up new possibilities, which is always an exciting place to be. Yeah, I can't wait to make some really big ass pots!

Here is the final product: a garden pot with a Germanic family crest:

hitting the wall

The clock is on countdown to the Clay and Glass Festival. Last week I finished more work than I thought was realistically possible, and somehow managed to get it all into the bisque kiln. Usually, a few pots won't make it in. Like, that kiln was packed. Right now, it's all coming down to pushing everything through the glaze firings. Pulling out the pieces of my booth. Getting packed.

I kind of hit the wall about mid-week last week. For me, hitting the wall happens when I'm getting bored, which can be instigated by overwork. Pottery was flying through my hands, I was getting a little bored with the repetition of it. Boredom, as I have mentioned before, is my kryptonite. My mind starts wandering onto topics like, "Why am I doing this?" "Is this is truly sustainable way to live?" "Are these designs any good at all?" Blah blah blah. So boring. I know exactly what's happening and why I am thinking these thoughts, and yet. And yet. It still gets me down.

Then, a friend stopped by to check in on me and yelled, "Oh my god, everything is so beautiful!" She doesn't know what the hell she is talking about, but it still made me feel a little bit better. No one really knows what they are talking about, even me.

By the way, if you want to come see me at the Clay and Glass Festival, here is the info:

Clay and Glass Festival in Palo Alto
Palo Alto Art Center
1313 Newell Road, Palo Alto
Booth 71
Note: It's always hot, bring water, sunscreen, and a hat. There is food but bring snacks anyway. Parking is crazy but there is valet parking, it's worth it. If you see something you like, buy it right away, you will never make it back to that particular booth.

This will be my 20th year doing this show and I really love it. The best thing about it is, I'm always down about my work going in because I've been working so hard and it never feels good enough. But by the time I leave I feel so inspired and ready to work again because of  the feedback I get. I take lots of notes while I'm there so I have a plan when I get back into the studio. I wish I had 3 or 4 more shows like this one.

dreamy fun time

 

Things are suddenly very stacked up at the studio. Literally. Pots are stacked on top of each other because I ran out of shelf space. I have enough time to do one more round of work for the Clay and Glass Festival. And when I say "enough time" I mean I will be unloading a hot kiln load of work into a bin and throwing it into my car and driving directly to the show. That's how we do it around here.

I've been kind of amazing myself with how much work I have finished in the past few weeks. I always work better under pressure, which is good, because that's where I usually find myself with pottery deadlines.

 And there is a very good reason for that. When I have time, and I'm feeling all expansive, I usually use it to fuck around. I'll stare at pieces for 20 minutes, thinking about what to do with it. I'll gather some underglaze colors, then put them away and grab some different ones. I'll make some sketches. I'll gaze at my inspiration board for some... inspiration (almost never works, I don't know why I bother). I'll make some tea. Then lunch. Then more tea.

This is the dreamy artist life I've always wanted, but not a lot gets done during these periods and that doesn't always feel good. More work = more money. Dreamy fun time = no money. But I have to do dreamy fun time to be able to pull off the more work time. All the ideas I've been playing with this year, the new motifs, markings, styles, colors, is now getting fire hosed onto my newest work in a highly efficient way. I don't have time for thinking, for considering, for wondering what this particular bowl really wants to have for decoration and what is its highest expression. It's all stored up in my brain and I'm just doing the work. No blah blah blah, what should I do next.

It doesn't last though. I filled up my well and now I'm draining it, that's how it works. The hard part is not filling it up again, it's remembering to fill it up again. I'll tap it out and then wonder why nothing is coming when I turn on the tap. I start getting frustrated, and then depressed: it's all over for me, I'm all washed up. You have no idea how many times I've had that thought and imagined it was for real. I'll keep riding my little horsey until we both fall into a ditch, and it's only then that I' realize I forgot to feed it.

Dreamy fun time seems like an indulgence, but it's actually a necessity when you make a living off of ideas. This is why my trips to museums are written off as business expenses. Also, acrylic paint and canvas.  And coastal hikes. Dreamy fun time is actually a necessity for anyone who works, period. But we don't live in a culture that supports that idea at all.  It's seen as a privilege for privileged people only, and we buy that crap, which is why I "forget" and tap myself out. This time, I'm making a plan. What's yours?

how high is too high?

I've been in the zone with pottery making lately. I'm getting ready for the Clay and Glass Festival in July, and every year it's a big push in May and June to get enough work made for the show. Every year I have the same goal: sell $10,000 worth of work. And every year I sell about $5,000.

There seems to be a ceiling, and part of that is because I don't even bring enough work to sell $10,000. By Sunday morning, my booth still has plenty of work, but the discerning eye can see the holes. I'm a master merchandiser, if I do say so myself, but even I can't hide the fact that every small and medium bowl is gone or there are only giant vases left.  This year, I'm not fucking around. I'm cranking out work. There will be enough to sell $10,000 worth. I think.

Or, maybe I don't make my magical $10,000 goal because my prices are not high enough. This thought has been an annoying buzz in my brain lately.

I had a very uncomfortable moment with pricing a couple of weeks ago. A request came in for a custom item, an item I don't normally make, with a specific design on it. I wrote the person back, telling them I can make this thing, but giving them a heads up that it's going to be expensive. They came to the studio and we worked out what they wanted, and even though I had told myself ahead of time that I would not give them a quote at the studio, but give myself time to think about it so I could come up with the appropriately outrageous number, I ended up dropping a number right then and there. I don't know why, which is a question I will be exploring with my internal therapist.

The customer was fine with that number, and then said that they thought it would be twice that. And they had been prepared for twice that. What I would like to know is why I was not prepared for twice that.

That incident coupled with the upcoming show and the question of my prices has me pondering a couple of things. First, what is the ceiling on pottery pricing for me personally and is influencing that cap? I wonder if I were a man, and asking for 15% more, would I get it? The answer to that question is "yes".  Then I start wondering if I need to present myself in a slightly different way to get higher prices. Because it's not just about the work. It never is.

And I have never been one to under price my work. From the start I've always asked for more, and part of that came from working for Sandi Dihl, and seeing how she priced her work. She always pushed prices higher. But I have been doing this for 20 years now--whaaaaat?!-- and I feel like I have plateaued on price. There are a host of reasons for that, including competition, the global economy, patriarchy, capitalism, blah blah blah, but I wonder about minute personal factors that are influencing my prices, and what I can do to change that up. These are not questions I enjoy pondering. But I think I would be a fool not to.

Back to the customer in my studio who is feeling relieved and surprised that they just saved $500. We talked about the price more, and we came to a price that would split the difference between what I just quoted and what they expected. I was transparent and honest in telling them that I don't always value my own work, which I hate admitting. It makes me mad at myself. But I realized in that moment that if we didn't balance the price between us, I was going to resent the hell out of that order, which would mean I would end up having to make it several times because the first one cracked in half, and the second one exploded in the kiln. That's how pottery works. It often expresses my internal conflicts, which forces me to reckon with myself. And that's why I'm an ARTIST! *confetti falls from the heavens, god smiles*

Here is a picture of some of what I made last week. I had to move work-in-progress onto my studio display shelves, because my ware carts were all filled up.

money freakout thoughts

Lately, I've been waking up at 2 in the morning, completely freaked out, almost panicked. A little piece of reality has recently lodged itself in my brain, and it's this: I'm going to turn 50 in the summer of 2020, and I have no idea how I'm going to pay for my own retirement.

The idea of retirement does not hold a lot of draw for me. I don't know if I will ever "retire" in the conventional sense. But the reality is, getting older usually  means losing some of your capacities, whether that's mental, or physical, or both. And even if you are that rare bird who continues to be strong and work at a high level of mental functioning after middle age, your capacity to earn money will be greatly diminished. People get forced into retirement all the time, and there is no guarantee that I will be able to continue working as long as I want to.

I would really like to know how I've gone from a normal person who thinks about retirement as something that definitely only happens to other people, to someone who is suddenly in the grip of recognizing that the future is coming for me and I better figure out how to get ready.

Being able to make a living as an artist has been one of the greatest privileges of my life, yet this privilege has cost me a lot of money. I don't have an employer who is giving me matching funds into a 401k plan. I pay self-employment tax, which theoretically helps to pay for my social security and contributes to medicare in the future, but after I'm done writing off every business expense that I possibly can, I'm not giving a whole lot to my own social security fund.  I received an estimate a few years back on what my monthly social security check will look like when I'm 65, and the sum was enough for me to buy a few rounds of cocktails for my bridge biddies at the old folk's home.

And when I say "old folk's home" I mean a cardboard box under a bridge.

So all of this has suddenly got me... a little bit panicked.

And I know that I am in a better position than most of my self-employed artist colleagues. I'm good at saving money, and I've always had a savings account that I usually put more into than I ever take out. I've been that way since I was a little kid. So I'm good at piling up money, and for some reason I thought that would be how I survived in the future, not that I liked to think about that very much. But what I'm coming to grips with is unless I hit some kind of jackpot, I'm actually never going to be able to save enough to take care of myself in the future. I have to figure out ways to make this money grow. The investing I've done is so limited that it's a bit embarrassing.

Also, I just have to make more money. Problem is, I now understand the limits of making money at pottery better than I ever did before.  I've had those years where I've grossed 6 figures in sales, and it is fucking stressful. Talk about waking up at 2 in the morning. I'm not interested in running a factory or having a bunch of employees. Been there, done that, no thank you.

I can raise my prices, make bigger and fancier work, and I think there is an income stream there... but that runs me into a wall I've been hitting lately, which is my need to diversify. I'm not sure that making money off of just making pottery is even that smart. Yes, it's taken me 20 years to creep up to this realization. Believe me, I don't like it either.

There is so much to say here, and this post is pretty long already, so I'm going to break it up. While I think about what to write next,  please post all questions, ideas, and 2 AM money freakout thoughts in the comment section. Thanks.

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.

simple design is not simple work

I got this email a while back:

I'm looking for a ceramic artist that might be able to make me some christmas gifts. I recently discovered *well-known potter's goddess ware* and I'm looking for something similar (I'd buy directly from her but they sell out sooo fast). I love how body-positive and woman-positive her pieces are and I love the simplicity of the design. Would you consider making a sketch of a couple pieces inspired by her work? I really like your work too, I'm pretty interested to see what you might come up with. Thanks for considering!

I immediately put this email in the trash so I would not be tempted to answer it, but then was thinking about it in the middle of the night. The way you think about all the things that are bothering you in the middle of the night. I pulled it out of the trash the next morning and tried to compose the perfect email. One that was devoid of snark and drained of hostility while declining the opportunity, and perhaps giving a little education on how this thing of ordering custom pieces from artists is supposed to work. 30 minutes went by before I realized there are no words in the English language that I can string together in the right order that would say what I needed to say without being snarky and hostile. Into the trash it went again. Thankfully, I have you people to rant to.

There are so many things wrong with this email. For starters, do I look like a fucking clay elf, sitting around my workshop, making sketches of work to see if I can tempt a customer to order something?  I will turn cartwheels and somersaults while I wait to see if you are interested in what I come up with! I immediately looked at the other artist's work of course, and literally the only thing we have in common is that we both make functional things out of clay. 

This is the thing, and the educational bit I was trying to get across, but couldn't: Every artist out there who has been able to work long enough to have a recognizable style has had to work for years to get there, refining their processes to get a consistent result that satisfies them.  This artist's "simplicity of design" has been achieved not because it is simple, it's that she is so skilled at what she does and makes it look simple.  Simple design is not simple work. 

I get that this person did not have bad intentions or wanted to insult me, which is why I did not unload on them... I'm unloading here. They are just supremely ignorant about how artists work and what moves us to make things. Or, more precisely, what moves me to make things. 

I love that moment when I am inspired by what other artists have made, it's like a light going on inside me. I live for that moment. It cannot be forced or manufactured. And when I try to force or manufacture it, I'm never happy with the result. It's not me, but a poor derivative of what someone else made way better than I did. I can't work like that, especially on purpose. Almost no artist can.

Lastly, if you are in love with what an artist makes but they are always selling out, then write to them directly and ask them to make something for you. This artist who makes the goddess ware has a contact page with an email address! Any artist who is trying to make a living recognizes that the people who hold up their hands and ask for your work are the people who really support and grow your business, and most are happy to oblige these people. Don't ask another artist to do it.

what next?

It's been over a year and a half since my mom died, and lately I've been feeling like my body is coming back down to earth. I've been feeling a little more grounded and ready to take on some things that seemed way too overwhelming even six months ago. I'm looking around, sort of the way I do when I wake up, and realizing there are many costs to the grieving process. You can't do anything about that, by the way. There is no way to grieve and not lose some shit along the way. I'm not saying you don't get some shit too, you do get something, just not the things you wanted.

The main cost to me, outside of losing my mom, has been losing my sense of direction in my work. For almost two years now I've been making stuff, it comes out of the kiln and often I have no idea why I made that thing. For example, I decided to make some whiskey cups. I spent some time coming up with a design, made them, and when they came out of the kiln I was like, "Why the fuck did I make these?" They are in no way an expression of anything I am interested in right now. I don't even LIKE whiskey. Why whiskey cups? I don't know, and I don't remember what I was thinking when I landed on the idea. I went and bought a bunch of mini succulents and planted them in the whiskey cups, which is a better use of these pieces as far as I'm concerned.

And yes, I know, they don't have to be WHISKEY cups, they can be any kind of small cup. No matter what you call them, I'm really not into making little cups.

My studio feels like a jumble of random thoughts and ideas, manifested in pottery. I spent a very long time the other day re-arranging my work on the shelf so it looked like one person worked there and not 7 different people. I was visually trying to link of the concepts and colors, which actually did make the display look better but does not solve the underlying problem. Or maybe it's a question: what next?

I know for starters, I do not want to make small work anymore. And I mean that in the physical sense, like whiskey cups and little condiment plates. And perhaps I also mean it in the metaphorical sense: I want to break out of the box I've put myself in. My comfortable, cozy, familiar little box. I want to make bigger work-- big giant bowls, big vases-- but I also want to make wall pieces and lighting and maybe weird ceramic furniture too. Also, I want to take my drawings and turn them into cards and other paper stuff. I've been saying this for a while, and now I'm saying it to you all because getting out of your box means being opening the flap enough to stick your head out and admit that it's time. It's accountability.

All of this makes me very uncomfortable, of course. And excited for what may be next, if I can ever get my shit together enough to make something new happen. Not having a cohesive collection of work makes me feel like I have not accomplished much in the past 18 months, which equals discomfort. While I don't think "accomplishing" was the most important thing I could be doing while I was in the depths of grieving my mother, I'll just say again that it was a cost. It's the price I had to pay. And the process is not over, but it is shifting into new territory. And it leaves me wanting a little more for my life.

put aside all doubt

The studio has been ready to go for about two weeks. I still need to get a mailbox, for some reason there is not a mailbox or even a slot big enough to shove mail through my door. Weird? But the big long list of Stuff To Do has been knocked down, including getting privacy film up on my fishbowl windows, a task that really needs two sets of hands. But I did it myself because as we all know, I can't wait till my husband gets off work to help me.  Best of all, the banks of fluorescent lights are gone, replaced by some very cute and colorful pendants.

So, I'm all raring to get back to work, right? Not exactly. Yes, dying to work. But, don't know what I want to make. What I know for sure is that I am ready for a shift in my work. But I'm not sure what that looks like yet.

Right before my mom died, I was starting to think about new work and a whole new approach to my business. Months later, when I was back in my studio, I literally could not remember what that plan was, and I did not have the creative spirit to try and figure it out anyway. And I decided not to ride myself about that because clearly, it was not the time to develop new work. But now I'm in my new studio, in a new town, and I feel ready, but I'm also slightly overwhelmed by all of the new things. I love my new life, I'm just not quite used to it yet.

I'm preparing my first firing for next week with some stuff that I made, and of course it's just been torture hour day after day, trying to figure out how to find some satisfaction in making these pieces, trying to find some new expression, and questioning my ability to do so. My ego has been pounding me, which is just making my creativity want to go take a nap until that guy shuts up. WHO CAN WORK WITH ALL OF THIS YAKKING GOING ON?!

It was a hard weekend, lost in these thoughts during the day, then trying to work it out in uncomfortable dreams at night. Have you ever tried to fire in a kiln that is loaded into the back of a truck that is traveling over bumpy, windy, hilly roads? I have. In my bad dreams.

Then I decided that this is a terrible way to live. The only way to make new work is to keep making work, any kind of work, and not thinking about it. And I can't make new work if I'm staring at a piece for 30 minutes, trying to get the nerve to make a move on it. Trying to be fresh. Trying to be a genius. Just trying too hard. The only goal is this: put aside all doubt, and make some shitty work.

 It's not so bad, actually, and it's a start.

toxic impatience

I got my new studio keys about three weeks ago and have been completely moved in to my new space for about a week. There have been many hurdles to overcome and the list is still long. The first thing I did when I had the keys in hand was to go in and pull up the gross, stained, stinky industrial carpet. What was under there? Perhaps I would find buried treasure in the form of a hardwood floor? What I found was... another layer of even worse carpet, that was glued onto ancient linoleum tile, which was glued onto a wood floor of some kind. As I contemplated the thousands of dollars this was about to cost, Sara Paloma's husband, Tom, immediately started doing some research and came up with the idea of using plywood sheets as a floor. He even volunteered his Sunday to help me and my husband install it, right over the carpet. Kind of genius.

 I'm not going to get into the other pending issues such as the electrical (needs to be upgraded) or the ugly fluorescents that make me feel mildly suicidal (just mildly, not enough to start planning anything), the floor to ceiling windows that leave my workspace completely exposed (anyone ever played around with that window glaze in a can?) and my general sense of dislocation and discombobulation. Frankly, buying a house and moving to a new city has been nothing compared to moving my studio.

Then there was the actual moving part. The truck I ordered was not big enough, which became apparent after the movers were about halfway through filling it up. Then, I locked my keys in the studio when we were about to leave, requiring an emergency rescue from my landlords who, thank god, answered their phone on a Sunday morning.

After that it was multiple trips with a friend's borrowed truck to move more of my studio stuff. One day I loaded the back with my Ikea lockers and a table and made my way back to Vallejo. Once I started unloading the truck, I realized something horrifying: one of the lockers was missing. No, I didn't leave it behind, it blew out of the back of the truck. This despite the fact I had plenty of tie-downs and I was even silently congratulating myself on really getting the hang of tying stuff down as I secured the back of the truck before leaving Oakland. I immediately completely freaked out. Like, bad. I'm going to cut to the end of the story: it didn't kill or harm anyone, and it didn't cause an accident. But it could have.

This event forced me to reckon with something else that has been shadowing me over the past weeks: my toxic impatience and general lack of care when I'm trying to accomplish tasks. My body is currently covered in bruises because of running into things and bashing myself during both moves. I had a nasty blood blister on one of my fingers from hitting it with a hammer. I've tumbled off of ladders and down stairs trying to do too much. Even before this losing-a-locker incident I was telling myself to be more careful, I was going to hurt myself if I wasn't. Instead, I almost hurt somebody else, which is far worse.  

After I recovered from that whole thing, I have been doing the work it takes for to me to accept that things are kind of fucked right now, and that's okay. In fact, it's nothing. All of it will taken care of in a timetable not of my preference, and I will somehow survive. No more rushing, no more pushing harder than necessary.

it's up to the kids

I remember where I was and what I was doing when I found out about the Columbine shooting. My boyfriend (now husband) and I were checking out a fitness club we were thinking of joining in Oakland, and we were getting a tour of the facilities. There was a television on over a group of treadmills, and I could see that there was something very wrong happening on the screen. There were kids jumping out of what looked like a school building, and that building did not appear to be on fire. Other groups of kids seemed to be running for their lives, flanked by police and people in SWAT gear. I stood there, watching the TV, while I slowly started to absorb the information, this event that had taken place just a few hours before.

The horror and diabolical nature of that shooting has stayed with me all these years, as it has for many. The mass shootings have continued, gaining in velocity and violence, with shooters seemingly using Columbine as a point of reference. Our societal response has taken on an equally horrifying and repetitive nature. An iconography of grief and outrage, familiar to all, played by our media for consumption and diversion.

The result is a peculiar numbness that has taken hold. It comes from the lack of change in our system while all indicators point to an overwhelming need for change. It's a system that has ground to a halt when it comes to addressing the realities of violence and guns in the United States.

I don't know what it is about the shooting that just happened at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, but I felt it right away this event could shift the dynamic, that an opportunity may have been created. The only people who have any moral authority in this situation to force some kind of change are the kids who have been affected by school shootings.  They are smart enough-- kids today are so damn smart-- to realize the grownups aren't doing their jobs, and haven't been for a while. The people in charge have given up and given away their power, to corporations, to lobbies, to anyone who promises to help them keep their jobs. It's the kids who have to lead.

I hope we are at the beginning of a major youth revolt. All of the pieces are in place: the adults who are running things are out of step with the younger generation on just about every issue that matters, and they are making decisions that risk the future. The young people know it. They are equipped to do something about it, and I believe they will be formidable. Their passion and level of articulate rage puts to shame the one-dimensional, paper thin assurances of our governing bodies that they will consider change. I don't think it's up to them anymore, they have already lost everything that matters. It's up to the kids.

short takes

I have so much I want to write, and exactly no time or space in which to write it all at this particular juncture. Here are some short takes, and at some point in the near future I will be able to be more expansive, more reflective, and say some more. But for now:

• I found a new studio in Vallejo, in the Old Town area directly across the street from Temple Art Lofts. It is just a tad smaller than my old space, and just a tad more expensive, but it feels just about right. It looks and smells like an insurance office with a slight mold problem (I am chalking that up to being all windows on one side with the door being closed for months while the owners find a new tenant) and I plan to do some major transformational work on it over the next 2 weeks. Sage will be burned, spells will be cast, carpet will be pulled, and contractors harassed. Wow, that's a poem I think.

• In my spare time I have been working for a friend of mine as a hired gun, throwing production pottery for her restaurant tabletop business that has been in the weeds on orders. Remember last year when I was so fucked up over my mom's death that I thought I needed to get a job? Well, I didn't necessarily get one, but working as a potter mercenary--- which I may put in as "occupation" on my taxes this year--  is the closest I've come to legit employment in almost 20 years. And it's not even close to legit,  just a day here and a day there when I feel I can spare a day to make some real bucks as I try to figure out what the hell I'm doing next. This gig has reminded me of a few things:

1. The joy of throwing pots.
2. The importance of asking for help. My friend waited until she was having nervous breakdown before she asked me to help her, and implied the she "knew" it was beneath me to do this kind of work. Little does she know that this work is so healing for me right now, and it gives me such pleasure to not only help a friend, but get paid quite well while doing so.
3. The satisfaction of mastery, of becoming aware and awake to endlessly repeated acts and finding something new to appreciate. When I go in to her studio I usually throw over a hundred items and when I leave my mind is empty and I feel totally calm.

• I read a book that I think all people-- not just artists-- need to read, The War of Art. It says a lot of things I've already said, time and time again, about the craft of creating stuff, and it's written by a guy who has done the work, and it's a good reminder to me on how to get shit done. You can read it in a few hours and it's well worth it. Though there was one thing that really annoyed me about this book, and it's a reflection of its time, published in 2002, which in current warp speed time is basically 100 years ago. The author uses "she" in place of "he" a lot, to show that he understands women make art too, and are probably the biggest audience reading his book. And that's all well and good and inclusive. But almost every example he uses of people actually making art or otherwise making things happen-- you know, Shakespeare, Beethoven, Maugham, Tiger Woods, and about 20 other examples that I don't have time to look up while I write this-- are all men. And right about now I'm pretty sick and tired of reading about men's accomplishments. We know, we know. Dear Steven Pressfield: time for a second edition.

• I have been really happy lately. I don't understand a lot of things, including my own moods, but I have been finding a lot of happiness the past few months. I love my new (old, very old) house. I love that my husband and I, who are consummate slackers, managed to buy it together without fighting, and we are fixing it up together without drama. I am proud that I jumped through every hoop the bank put in front of me and got the money we needed to make it happen. I love that I am in a new community that is totally strange to me, and I am an outsider. I love that I am meeting lots of new people. I love planting a new garden. I love the motorcycle club that is two blocks from my house that hosted a rally on saturday night with dozens and dozens of riders on their stupid Harleys making so much noise that I woke up in the middle of the night confused about what the sound in the air was. I think I'm starting to get it. Life is hard, but it's also limited. The stuff that I stress about basically doesn't matter. My people matter the most, and they are good, which means I'm good. For now.

That's probably enough for now. I'm going to be moving out of my studio over the next week, and then I will find some new things to write about. Here are some pictures:

one of 40.

a peaceful domestic scene.

new studio.

moving studio

The idea of giving up my Oakland studio to move everything to Vallejo has been a difficult decision for me. For one, my studio rent is incredibly cheap, way below market. My landlords have essentially been subsidizing my business for many years. So giving up my beautiful, high-ceilinged, light-filled inexpensive space seems really stupid. Part of me wanted to keep it just to have it, even if I wasn't using it every day. But... I've been here for 20 years, and I believe that sometimes you have to give up great things if you want to make room for different great things in your life. So, I'm giving up my space, which will be taken over by my close friend, Sara Paloma.

Sketch from the downtown Vallejo streetscape project, 2012

I'm still working at my studio in Oakland since I could not handle moving house and studio at the same time. Gotta phase it out. And the commute, which basically starts at about 60 minutes a day and can easily triple that depending on traffic, is utter hell. Hell! I realize now that keeping the studio was never really in play, because there is no way I'm dealing with a commute. At this moment, the plan is to move my studio into our downstairs area, where I have about 300 square feet to work with, a major downsizing for me. I've also been looking at commercial storefronts in the "Old Town" of Vallejo, which is very cute. The City obviously put some planning and money into this area and I would be thrilled to have a studio there. There are not a lot of shops or activity going now, but it will soon and I would love to be a part of that, just like I was in Oakland.

I hesitate jumping into a commercial space. I was really looking forward to not paying rent for a while. This last year my business has been very slow while I crashed and burned after my mother's death, and I would like to have as little financial pressure on me as possible while I try to get my little boat righted again. Buuuuuuut... I also want to be a part of this new Vallejo life, and meet people, and hustle, and spending all day at my house does not seem like the way to do that. If you are hustling and only your cat sees you, are you really hustling?

Your hustle puts me to sleep.

I'm not above asking the universe for some help or insight, so I asked, very nicely, "Please tell me what to do!" The only thing I got was that it doesn't matter whether or not I get a new studio or work in my own house, the only thing that matters is that I go where I can create and make myself happy, and I can do that in either place. Not exactly the definite answer I was hoping for, but it's a start.

By the way, I will be having a major moving sale Feb 10, both online and in person at the studio in Oakland. If you want to be notified of the sale, sign up here.

leaving the O for the 'Jo

Back in the spring of 2015 I wrote about considering leaving Oakland, and California altogether. Well, it's done: my husband and I have left Oakland. We managed to buy a place on the outer edges of the Bay Area in Vallejo, and the last 2 months have been a scramble to work on our little fixer-upper (virtually nothing actually got done) while packing up our lives in Oakland. As my husband likes to say, we have left the O for the 'Jo-- pronounced "ho". We spent our first night here on New Year's Day.

How the hell did this happen? My husband has been chomping at the bit to buy something for years. I have always been reluctant because I hate anything that rings of adult responsibility-- having children, dogs, and mortgages being my top three things to avoid at all costs. On New Year's Day last year, I asked my husband is he had any special goals for 2017, and he said, "I want to own a piece of property by the end of this year," and I nodded my head to look supportive while thinking to myself that there was no way that was going to happen. 

A month later, my mom died, and when I was finally able to come back to Oakland in the early spring, I suddenly felt done with it. I literally said to my husband when I was getting out of the car after driving home from Washington, "I don't want to live here anymore." It's hard to describe how I was feeling. My mom died, and I felt like my old life was just over, and I didn't feel any sense of attachment to it anymore. Every small thing that had been grating on me in my life-- my jackass landlord, my inconsiderate upstairs neighbor, our cute but falling-apart apartment, and a host of other things-- suddenly was completely intolerable. I needed to make a change, I couldn't keep coasting on my current situation. 

By chance, we had a project in Vallejo a couple of weeks later, a town I have driven through on the freeway a thousand times but have never stopped and visited. I was immediately intrigued by the town-- the waterfront, the views of the Bay, the downtown with beautiful old buildings and not a lot going on, which recalled Oakland in the 90's. It also has the same rough edges that Oakland used to have before it got all upscale. Then there were the sweet neighborhoods and cute homes: Victorians, mid-century bungalows, pre-WWII stucco homes, Spanish Mediterraneans, and cottages. My radar went off when I realized that many of these homes were for sale in the $350,000 range. Now $350,000 is a shitload of money, I am aware of that. But my brain has been bent by living in the Bay Area for too long, so to my mind $350,000 for a home is CHEAP. I found a realtor and we got to work.

As it turned out, about a thousand other people had the exact same thought. We looked at house after house, every single weekend, putting in offers, writing letters to home owners telling them how much we loved their home and what good and interesting people we are, trying to get someone to sell us their house. People who live in normal housing markets are shocked that this is a thing in California, that potential buyers basically have to sell themselves to owners by writing letters about why they should sell their house to us. Yes, it's thing and this is the ridiculous world I live in.

Finally we found a house that no one else wanted. A home that did not photograph well in real estate listings and full of junk from the previous owners. There was a catalogue of wallpaper samples in one of the rooms from the 1940's. It smelled funky and the bathroom was scary. It had not had anything significant done to it since the 80's. The yard was overgrown and wild. No one had lived in it for years. It was also tens of thousands of dollars less than anything else we looked at, so we casually put in an offer, which was accepted. My first reaction when our realtor told us they took our offer was not joy, but "oh shit". OH SHIT WHAT HAVE WE DONE?! My natural disinclination for adult responsibility kicked right in.

I could write a whole blog post just about going from the "pre-approval" phase of a home loan to actually getting a loan. I thought getting pre-approved meant something, that the hard work of proving you are worthy of a loan was done. WRONG. Pre-approval basically means that you have been assessed to be alive, employed, and in possession of a bank account. That's it. For real and full loan approval there are a hundred hoops to jump through, and I had to jump through hundred more because of my self-employed status. My loan officer has a name any porn star would be proud of, and we talked daily for weeks. And I did not flip out once, except at the very end when I squeezed out of few tears of frustration, but I got us that fucking loan. At 47, I am now officially an adult.

I'm going to tell you about our house now: it's one of the cute little stucco homes on a street with

almost identical homes, all built around 1934. It has fantastic light, hardwood floors, great ceilings, and a sweet archway between the living room and the dining room. It has two bedrooms and one bathroom. The kitchen has the original cabinets and tile work. The living part of the home is on an upper level, and then the garage and a whole unfinished downstairs is on a lower level. My studio is going to be there. I'm not even going to start in on the whole moving-my-studio thing right now, because I'm trying to stay sane. The yard has persimmon, pomegranate, avocado, fig, and an orange tree. Our mortgage is less than what we paid in rent to our former landlord.

I'm writing this on my second full day here and my sense of disorientation is still very high. My closest friend is a 13 minute drive away, which is far for me. I don't have a single friend in Vallejo yet, though I've met some very nice people. Also, today would have been my mom's 70th birthday, which is adding to the overall weirdness of the day. But I also feel like I belong here, and this is going to be a fantastic home for us, and I'm excited to start this new life.

time to teach

For this of you who are interested in workshops things, I will be teaching a workshop in Sonoma (yes, the Sonoma in the wine country) October 14th and 15th. I know I should announce these things more ahead of time, but my train is still off its tracks and I'm flying by the seat of my pants these days. That's just how it is. The class is pretty full, but there are some spots, so sign up here if you are interested in how I do my surface design. I promise I will answer all questions, show you all the things, and we will also drink wine. Not too much wine, but enough to flush our cheeks and feel that all is right in the world.

I have resisted teaching for many years, even though I love telling people how to do things. I think mostly because I like to keep my own schedule and I don't like outside forces imposing on it. And I'm afraid the more I teach, the less time I have to work on my own things-- I don't want to become that artist who is constantly traveling and teaching with no time to create.

 Also, I will be a beginner and there is a chance of sucking, so I am scared too.

But all of the sudden I'm feeling more open to the idea-- of teaching, of giving up some of my studio time, of meeting people in person and sharing what I've learned. Also, it's good to be pulled out of my studio orbit. Cultivate some new sources of inspiration. Right now I would even take a job teaching a weekly class, something I would have literally run away from even a year ago. I think maybe I just need more stability in my life right now. Things to lean on.

Any teachers out there who have any advice for me... hit me now!

drift

I had a big energy surge in May and June to get ready for the Palo Alto show. While I didn't feel like

I was able to bring my whole heart to the work, I was happy with how everything looked in the end. And I did well at the show, so I felt like the intensity I had to bring to get it done was worth it. But since the show ended I have been drifting. I'm told over and over that I am allowed to drift for a while after you lose your mom, but it makes me feel weird. I'm an achiever and a do-er and putting that aside to be sad is adding to the overall out-of-body experience of this year.

The only thing I am doing "right" is taking care of myself physically. I do my yoga, I take my walk, I do the meditation, I eat the good food. I drink too much beer but oh well.

I was thinking about my mom as I was walking through Mountain View Cemetery this morning, which sounds really really sad but the cemetery is one of the most beautiful places in Oakland and is great for walking.

I was thinking about how many people have said to me, "Your mom is still with you." I know people just want me to feel better, or are trying to reassure me somehow, but I don't feel like she's "with" me. She's just in my head right now. Is that what they mean? I wonder what she could possibly be doing because she is obviously not hanging around here in any way. What I would give for a haunting.

I had the thought that the best thing about being dead is the complete lack of consciousness of the world. You don't have to care about injustice, or insane floods, or the way we are slowly destroying ourselves and the planet, or the many millions of small sadnesses that people are coping with every second of every day.

My mom said that the best thing about dying was the fact that she wasn't going to have to live under a Trump administration.

Then I thought that the best part about being alive is the ability we have to create, and that is the only good reason to be alive-- to make and create things that sustain life in a whole hearted way. And how lucky I am to still be here and be able to do that, and that I have to make the most of my ability to do that now while I still can. All of the gravestones around me were a reminder that everyone thinks they will live forever and have all of the time in the world. But really....

I want to get back to work. I'm trying really hard.