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 In the remote and withdrawn faces of strangers.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.

weird shame

I wanted to share some thoughts about my new work with you all. I've been posting images around on facebook and instagram, so you may have already some of it. I've been pretty good about uploading it to Flickr, so if you want to see what I have so far, you can check it out there. Oh, and I am slowly uploading it to etsy, so you can see buy it there too.

My work has always been a slow morph-- it changes over time but the basic thread is still there. With this new work, a lot has changed really quickly. My work has always been tightly controlled and restrained. For many years, that's how I wanted to express myself in what I made, and it worked for me. I got so much satisfaction from making everything just so. After my yearlong hiatus from making work, the point from where I started again was even more restrained, even more dependent on making every line, every mark just so-- just so perfect. It was fun, even satisfying to scratch that itch I have for perfection, but I really felt as though I was just treading over the same ground, just in a different part of the park.

The new work just comes from a deep need to let that go-- move on or spontaneously combust. I was really inspired by a visit to Alcatraz Island, where there was an exhibit of Ai Wei Wei's work happening. I found myself drawn not to Wei Wei's work, but to the old walls of the prison, which have been painted over many times, and through years of neglect and exposure to the elements, were peeling and chipping off, layer after layer. The dated institutional colors, different hues of blues and greens mostly, were absolutely beautiful to my eyes, and I wondered how I could re-create some of that look on my pottery-- the layers, the colors, the decay of it all.

I love this new work so much, and I feel really proud of it. Every kiln I unload makes me happy, there are very few pieces that come out that I don't love. And whatever imperfections they may have are part of the work, it makes it better, which is very unlike my older work, where small imperfections could really mess up the look of a piece. And I feel like this is the direction I need to go, the work that has been waiting to come out. An artist friend of mine said to me years ago that it was time for me to get down and dirty with my work, to not be so precious with everything I made. Her words stayed with me all these years, and I felt the urgency, but despite my skill and talent, I just didn't know how to do it.

This puts me in a strange spot with my older work right now. The standard collection that I've been pumping out for the past 7 years or so is all slip cast now, and I have made the decision that a lot of that collection is going to be discontinued-- the cupcake stands, the bird bowls and vases for starters, and probably other items as I get used to saying good-bye to this work. But it's still with me, taking up a lot of space in my studio, and sometimes the things people say to me about this work makes me feel strangely defensive and even ashamed. Another artist friend of mine said, "I loved your cake stands, but enough with the cute already! I like this new work so much better!"

I've had many comments from other people that they like this new work better than my older work. Which is nice, it's a compliment and I know that, and I totally agree with them, but it gives me this feeling that I've been walking around with my underwear hanging out, and everyone has known it, and now they can tell me since I finally tucked it back in. It's just this weird shame. And the shame has actually been with me for a while, before I even started my new work, because I think I haven't grown much as an artist or developed enough new work in the past 3-4 years. It's my issue, and I'm dealing with it, so if you are one of those people who have said something to about to me and are now feeling bad, please don't. I just think that shame is a corrosive thing, especially when you don't talk about it, so me talking about it right now is just part of my process. If you have any thoughts about shame, not developing as an artist or anything else, please leave a comment.

make it mighty ugly

I've been noticing lately that I've been falling back into workaholic habits: long hours at the studio, sneaking over there on the weekends to finish pieces, cutting lunch short so I can get back to work, and feeling agitated when things come up that take me out of the studio. Like last week, I woke up Tuesday morning to an eye that was swollen almost shut. I was diagnosed with preseptal cellulitis and given an antibiotic. The next day I woke up with both eyes swollen and an ugly rash on my face, neck, arms, and legs. Allergic reaction to the antibiotic. My left eye was so swollen I could barely see out of it, so I slapped a bandage over it and went to work. With no depth perception. I realized at the time that was not the right thing to do for myself, and I should be home resting. But really, I am so into what I am making these days that I am indulging the workaholic for now. Frankly, I'm just happy to know that I can still be this excited about clay again.

Something broke open for me about 6 weeks ago or so. I listened to an interview with Kim Werker, who wrote a book called Make It Mighty Ugly. Apparently, it's a book she wrote just for me, all aimed toward my personal demons: perfectionism, fear of failure, stopping before I start because of the voices in my head, blah blah blah. I've had several people tell me that I need to make something ugly, to get past that shit, and I resist that idea so much. But the way Kim talked about it made me realize that it's not about making something ugly on purpose, it's about making something and not being afraid that it will be ugly.

I've been drawing and making designs on pots for a while, and I know I can make something really beautiful and nice to look at. But there is something about these designs that bore me to death. It started when I was working on my grandma's urn last year: I made the urn with a perfectly designed trillium flower all around, and I hated how it looked. So perfectly boring. My hand, almost on its own, scratched it up. I liked it much better, and left it at that.

This year, I've been working on mishima concepts, and I really love the process. It's insanely labor-intensive, but the results are lovely and I'm having fun re-interpreting my work through this new design process. But, I'm running into that same wall of things looking perfectly boring. The work, though enjoyable and beautiful, feels like a dead end design-wise.

I had a couple of pieces in the studio that I had reserved for "fun". Meaning I could do whatever I wanted with them and they didn't need to fit into any category of work that I've made before. I kept pulling the pieces out, and just staring at them. Nothing was happening. Weeks went by. It wasn't until I listened to Kim that I was able to pull those pieces out and do the work. I still struggled with the voice telling me to not screw it up, but I worked through the first wall and made some work that was kinda ugly, and it helped push me to a different level.

The main thing I got out of it was to not judge the process or the work-- not before, during, or after. Judging is a preclude to letting the voices take over and shutting down the creative process. A couple of weeks ago I had an idea to make some small dishes carved out like Art Deco roses. Immediately the voices started in on how the concept was too simple, too obvious. Judge judge judge. I was able to override the voices and make the pieces anyway, and it is their very simplicity that makes them so awesome. I finished some other pieces last night and I was having that anxiety around feeling like they were not the way they "should" be. I caught myself judging, and stopped. The work is just what it is. It has no intrinsic value one way or the other other than to teach me about what I want to do next.

And fuck it anyway. I have Open Studio this weekend and the work is going to be finished and shown no matter what. Come see me if you can!

caterpillar wrangler

I have not posted the past couple of weeks because I have a new obsession, and I think you all are going to be as fascinated by it as I am. My new obsession is caterpillars. Specifically, monarch butterfly caterpillars.

I've been into the Monarch migration for a long time, and I'm extra immersed in the Monarchs this year. The Monarch migration is on right now, and if you follow me at all, you know I did a paper cut Monarch butterfly installation in the window of Marion and Rose's Workshop a month ago.  I've been fixated on translating the peculiar overwintering habits of Monarchs into art for years. The overwintering habitat is an art installation in itself, and trying to express it in art has been an ongoing challenge for me. Butterflies have a certain quality that can be read superficially as merely decorative, the most extreme feminine side of nature. When I see butterflies used in art or craft, it often comes off as cute, pretty. It's rare to fine interesting art created with butterflies. It's a problem that I perhaps created in my own mind, and have been trying to puzzle out for years.

Recently, I was visiting a popular destination for overwintering West Coast Monarchs at Natural Bridges State Park in Santa Cruz. I've visited many times, especially back when I actually lived about 5 minutes away. For the first time, I went into the educational center there, and as I was looking at different breeds of milkweed flower (the ONLY food Monarch caterpillars eat), shitty t-shirts and baseball caps with Monarchs on them (I get that people buy this stuff and the money goes to supporting Monarch habitat and education, but could someone please create something that is actually wearable?) and little books and pamphlets on Monarchs, I was drawn to a live milkweed plant that was in the Center, and to my surprise, I saw a live Monarch chrysalis hanging on branch, along with a live caterpillar.


The feeling I had in that moment was both a feeling of recognition-- I knew immediately what I was looking at-- along with shock at how beautiful it was. The Monarch chrysalis looks like plastic. It's smooth, with a sheen that you don't often see in nature. And the most amazing part is that it HAS GOLD ON IT. A line of golden beads, and then flecks of gold around the base, just to totally blow your mind.

After that visit, it took a couple of days to sink in, but one day as I was walking to my studio, I realized that the milkweed plants that are scattered all over my neighborhood-- thanks to one neighbor on our street who planted a butterfly friendly native habitat in their front yard-- may have some Monarch caterpillars on them.

Let's just say that my morning was hijacked by caterpillar collecting, and I now have a full indoor habitat for Monarch caterpillars. I am currently hosting 15 caterpillars in various stages of development, from just hatched babies to big fatties ready to pupate to chrysalis pods that will be hatching butterflies in a few days. I hunt them everyday on my block and it's rare that I don't find at least one.

You may ask why I have this going on in my house. Because I can. It's safe and easy to raise butterflies indoors. Going from a caterpillar to a butterfly is a dangerous and tenuous business, and in an urban environment like mine with lots of predators raising them inside can help with their survival rate. I'm doing my part to make sure the butterflies survive. Mind you, I can't be bothered with a human baby or anything. But the butterflies, I can get behind that.

Watching the caterpillars go about their daily business is better than any TV or facebook feed. I find myself standing around in the kitchen, just watching them for 20 straight minutes. There are times when they all seem to be sleeping, and other times when they are all eating. Keeping them supplied with fresh milkweed leaves is a twice a day chore, it's like trying to supply a Roman banquet.

If you want to keep up with my 'pillars, I've been posting images on Twitter with the hash tag #MonarchCircus. If you live in coastal California,  you may want to think about looking around your own neighborhood for caterpillars and hosting a few of your own. Just don't go on vacation without hiring someone to bring them daily batches of fresh milkweed.

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.

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.

stoop bombs, bathing suits, carousels

Three things:

1. dog shit
France does not have any laws or cultural expectation that one should clean up after their pets. Therefore, I've become familiar with all types of dog shit: neatly piled logs made by large and polite dogs who shamble away from the mess they've made, haunches swaying slowly: shy hershey squirts created by nervous little dogs who don't look back; aggressively messy dark brown patties humming with flies: delicate little nuggets caramelized by the sun; horrific stewy puddles tracked up the street and around the corner by a car; and the crusty poo-pies with a single footprint stamped in the middle.

I've quizzed people who are French or who have lived here a long time, asking them to give me insight into the heart of a culture that so values beauty, yet allows dog poop to accumulate on the streets. And not on side streets, but on the major boulevards of cities like Paris, Cannes, Antibes, and Nice. Not to mention the smaller villages that boast beautiful walkways and cobblestoned streets, their quiet beauty punctuated by a pile of dog shit smack in the center. Many theories, few answers. Some would say that is very French.

It's not unusual to see deposits directly in front of doorways, or on the stoop, and you really have to wonder about people who are okay with leaving that behind for their neighbors. On the other hand, I can think of a few of my own neighbors in Oakland I would love to stoop-bomb with some dog shit. One afternoon, craving a moment of outdoor relaxation, I went to a little park nearby to curl up with my book.  I carefully picked my way through a minefield, looking for a clear spot where I could lay out my towel. I found a bare spot up against a large and leafy tree.  People walked by and looked at me like I was crazy. Stubborn, I stayed for a good 20 minutes before the smell drove me away. Who can read when there is a pile of dog shit in your site line that is so large, it actually has a presence? Unfortunately all outdoor spots in the little town of Vallauris where I am staying are like this. Thankfully they do not allows dogs on the beaches.

2. bathing suits
Vallauris is on the Riviera, which is perfect because I like the beach. The humanity splayed across the sands of the Riviera is an education on what my body will look like someday. Also, what my body used to look like. I'm in that strange middle age, where my youth and seniority are in almost equal play, and I can take great pleasure in committing to neither.

But let me back up and tell you about the bathing suit I bought this spring: for the first time in my life, I bought a tankini. I have worn a bikini my entire life and for me, a tankini is a half-assed attempt to spare witnesses of my slow decline. I refuse to wear a one-piece, which I've always believed makes me look like a squashed fruit. A tankini is the halfway house of the bathing suit world. I'm willing to be more modest, but I still want the option to flash some belly.

 In France, even if the bod is not as tight as it as 50 years ago, that is no reason not to show off as much of it as possible. The beaches are covered with old people wearing next to nothing. I saw these 75+ year old ladies hobbling across the sand in the little bikini bottoms and no top on at all and I thought, "fuck this tank." It's way too much suit for the Riviera, and way too much suit for me, period. Witness my slow decline, because that's what we are all doing, together. Declining. I bought a teeny bikini top at the Monoprix for 15 euro for those moments when I feel like wearing a  top.  I may be 41, but I can still rock it, especially when I stand next to these old Riviera ladies

3. carousels

Old-fashioned merry-go-rounds are in almost every city I've visited. These are elaborately crafted carousels that can easily be over 100 years old with hand painted images and beautifully stylized details. I have a deep attraction for these carousels. My love for them are a symptom of my overall love for the embellished details of Europe.  Homes that look like cakes, the delicate filigree of the iron balconies adorning apartment buildings, the vaulted and faceted ceilings of ancient cathedrals, the colorful scalloped edges of awnings pulled over sidewalk cafes everywhere you go. It's like nothing is too small, nothing is too mundane to deserve some extra attention and beautifying. It's living the beautiful life.


I was thinking about these carousels as I made a stack of cake stands that I made in the shape of cakes.  I did not even begin to go as far with it as I could. There's always a part of me that wants to restrain myself if I start going for insane embellishment. I don't want to seduce with eye candy. I like to seduce with perfect form and function. Thats why I'm very hard to pick up in bars, or at least I was back when I was a single girl.  I don't want people coming on to me because they think I'm pretty. I want people to come on to me because they think I'm smart with a great fuckin' personality. This always leads to conversation that kills any chance of anyone getting laid.


What does this have to do with my work? Everything, really. I want my pieces to be pretty, but also be intelligent and functional. What does this have to do with carousels? I will let you know as soon as I figure it out.  .

ready... or not

I haven't done a lick of work in what feels like weeks, though it's barely been two. The days leading up to the holidays is a siege, which makes the whole season like fighting a battle. I know how to dig my trenches, lay in a huge supply of ammo, and train my troops. But by December 20, my little bunker was being overrun by a panicked and scattered populace. I was shooting-- I mean shipping out orders right up until December 23, when I finally turned out the lights and retreated to Southern California. Still, I got an annoyed sounding email from a customer 3 days after Christmas wondering where her Christmas present was. It's amazing how I can hear whining even through the impersonal medium of electronic mail. And this from an east coast customer who placed the order 4 days before Christmas. I guess Christmas brings out the child in all of us.

I don't feel ready to go back to work, but then, I never do. It's really a shame that I didn't marry rich, because if anyone was built for a life of idleness, it's me. I've refined lolling around to a high art, and the beautiful thing is, I can do it just about anywhere. Part of the reason I work for myself is because I would never be able to get to amount of vacation days I really need from a regular job.

While I'm thinking about getting back to work, I'm also thinking of the upcoming year, and how I want to make it different for myself. I'm starting by skipping the wholesale show in February, which means I don't have to spend January pumping out samples and coming up with new "product". This also means I don't have an assured stream of income from store orders during the Spring, but after last year's lousy show, I've realized I don't depend on that as much as I thought I did. In fact, the more time I spend selling my work at half price to retail clients, the less time I have selling the same work at full price to my own individual clients. Though my own clients can be a major pain in the ass on occasion (see above), I still prefer dealing with them over dealing with stores.

Skipping the wholesale show is about more than just trying to cut wholesale and increase retail. It has become increasingly obvious to me that I need a creative outlet that's not just about ceramics. For a while, I thought that what I needed was more "creative" time in the studio, making stuff that's about making art and pleasing myself. But I've come to realize that that is not what I need at all; what I really need is less time in the studio and more time making other kinds of art. I've spent 10 years building this ceramics business and I've gotten very good at it. Up until now I could rarely think about spending my creative energy doing anything other than pottery. And now, I have a nice little business that can support other projects and give me the time I need to do other things. Like writing, which I love as much as ceramics. And painting, which I used to be good at. Resolutions can be a bit ridiculous and a set-up for failure, but I'm ready to make some changes in 2010. What about you all?

starting fresh

Happy new year! I hope everyone is in an industrious mood as we ready ourselves for 2009. Me, I'm getting serious. I started by hosting a party for my pottery posse on the first day of the year, asking everyone to bring their old pots that needed to be smashed. The pots that are perfect except for the hairline cracks, the part that stuck to the kiln shelf, the bad design, the handle that fell off, the chips... basically, the pots that are too fucked-up to sell, or nobody wants to buy, but are still hanging around the studio, gathering dust and taking up space.

See, this is the thing about being a potter: there is not a heartier soul on the planet, and we are fantastically gifted. I mean, we make beautiful wares out of mud for christ sake. Like every gift, it has its good side and its bad side. The good side is, we make beautiful wares out of mud. The bad side is, we get stuck with the stinky fruits of our endeavors, but we think we can make a diamond out if that turd eventually. Remember those dead bird cake stands? They have been sitting on my shelf since spring, and those babies are big, heavy, and depressing to look at. I don't want to sell them, because they are too messed up, and I don't want to throw them out, because they represent so much effort. So I lug them around, drained of a tiny bit of energy every time they catch my eye.

We set up the pottery smashing station out of our dining room window. It was ideal because the garage is below our apartment, and there is enough distance between window and driveway to create an incredibly satisfying smashing sound:

or not:

The first pot I tossed, I must admit I was conflicted. It hurt. I felt sad, and not sure I was doing the right thing. It was like giving a beloved pet The Shot when they are limping around, in pain, and unable to eat anymore, but you still love them and want them to keep on living so you can love them some more. But I got over it as I tossed out more and more, and the weight of carrying around these pots was lifted. In that way, it was not like giving a pet The Shot, because when all the pots were in shards in the driveway, I was happy they were gone, and pleased with my cleared off shelves. If you have not gotten rid of those old pots, do it now. It was totally fantastic, appeals to the destructo in all of us, and the noise it makes is really cool.

method

I’ve been trying this new method and I’m going to share it and encourage every artist who reads this to give it a try. Since I’ve been back from Japan it’s been a big struggle in my studio to make the new, sometimes non-functional work that I want to make, and at the same time fill orders and make all the stuff that sells that I think I have to make. I feel guilty when I work on my new stuff, because I have bills and an assistant who counts on me to pay her. Then I feel guilty when I work on my "have to" stuff because I think I’m ripping myself off and not being true to my artist self. It’s a ridiculous crazy struggle and I think every artist goes through it. The result is that I have not been very efficient. In fact, I have no idea what I made between August and September. It’s a big guilt blur.

So I decided to split my studio time in half: after I deal with my daily paperwork I look at how much time I have to make stuff, and split it in half. One half is my *have to* pottery, half is my *want to* pottery. I can mix that up however I want, but it has to come out to a 50/50 split at the end of the day. And it totally works for me because I’m satisfying all my needs and making great new stuff too! Check out what came out of the kiln today:I’m really excited about these things. I made it with my new porcelain and I threw it super thin so I would get the translucency when you put a candle in it. I’m really into it because I can play around with carving pictures, and at the same time get away from glazing. And I can use the concept on a hundred things I have in mind. The design simplifies my life in so many ways, I’m so tired of slaving over pieces to get all the different colors and relief design. Now this little baby hasn’t been fired yet, but it’s a copy of a magnolia petal that I found on the ground the other day, in the porcelain again. I was walking down the street with Christa on Monday and I saw the petal on the sidewalk. Its proportions were so perfect, so beautiful, that I instantly thought of re-creating it as a spoon. A scoopy-spoon. I think this thing is one of the most beautiful things I have ever made. The picture does not do it justice.

The great thing about these items is that I made them in my want to time, and I think they will both sell well in production and will serve as the foundation for my next collection. There are so many little lessons to be learned here and I don’t think I even have to point them out; I may start sounding like a self-help guru and then I’ll feel the need to demand $19.99 for passing on my wisdom.

the universe listens

I’m feeling slightly perkier today; the kiln problem was finally fixed without having to call in the kiln doctor for a house call, and I’m leaving for Atlanta tomorrow morning with my husband for a big all-out, no-holds-barred, over-the-top wedding. Naturally this required a new dress, which always makes me happy. And I made something new today:

I know lots of people have this same thing happen to them: When you are open to a new experience, somehow that experience is delivered to you. I had my new slabroller set up for exactly 24 hours when someone walked through the door and asked me to make a ceramic house. 6 Months ago I would have said “no”, because I don’t handbuild work. But now I can say “yes” and bam, an order for a ceramic house. It’s very strange how this works and it happens to me all the time.

By the way, Universe, if you are listening, I’m ready for another gigantic order now. Five-figures, please!

fresh approach

I think my time in Japan really changed my brain in several ways. To honor this I’m changing the look of my blog. I’ve been really happy with how it looked until recently; all of the sudden it seemed stale. Do you like it? I do. I may not stick with these colors—I’m having a bout of insomnia right now and when I wake up in the morning these colors might be more than I can handle. But at 3:30 in the morning it looks pretty good!

One thing that has been different lately is I have been a lot more patient with myself and my work. I know from experience that everything in the studio takes a lot longer than you ever think it will. I know this, but I’ve always fought it, always pushing for things to go faster than they possibly can and getting all worked up about it. I’ve noticed since I’ve been back that I seem to be okay with giving everything the amount of time it needs and not having an expectation that it should be any different than it is.

For example, I’ve started to think about how all the elements that make my business run are just as important as making a pot, and that includes answering the phone, paying my bills, filing paperwork, taking photos, and following up with clients. I don’t always do these things conscientiously because I often find them to be annoying distractions from my work. Once I accept these things as vital and important rather than annoying, I don’t feel as bothered going through the motions of doing it. I’m giving the task the time it needs and then getting back to what I really want to do: make pots. And I work better knowing that I’ve done the things that enables me to make pots everyday.

back to work...

I’ve been waking up at night with absolutely no idea where I am: Japan? Hawaii? Nope, home. Home sweet home. I dove right back into my studio, doing a little remodel to make more room for production. Good-bye gallery space! Today I drove 45 minutes to Menlo Park to score a free Bailey slab roller I found on craigslist. I love Craig. Remember how I hated hand building? I love hand building now too.

time to expand

Being a ceramic artist puts you in a community where when you meet another potter, you have an instant connection because you understand all the heartache and difficulty-and the joy and accomplishment-that goes into creating work. So much can go wrong at every stage of creation. I think it's probably like parenthood, how parents understand each other in a way that non-parents cannot.

Participating in this residency has put me in a wider world community of potters, and even though we have some language barriers, we all come in with a certain understanding of one another and there is communication despite lack of language comprehension. It reminds me of when I first started going to Grateful Dead concerts as a teenager. I got hooked on going to shows because I felt like I was in a community of people who were interested in living life in the way I wanted to live it too. That was the first time I ever felt that feeling of love and support from strangers and I continue to find it in my clay community

And like following the Grateful Dead, you can also tour around the globe, hooking up with residency programs and visiting with the potters you meet there in their home countries. There is a whole other ceramic scene out there, and now I know this is only the first time I will be traveling the world for my work. And at the same time I can indulge my other passion: experiencing different cultures.

get off the wheel!

My greatest creative passion in life is throwing on the wheel. For me it’s fun, it’s easy, and I can make stuff quickly, which suits my impatient and snappy nature. When I arrived in Japan, the first thing I did was start throwing on the wheel, but I wasn’t making anything that excited me. So I threw a bunch of the local porcelain, the shortest porcelain I’ve ever thrown. But I conquered it after a few hours and didn’t know what to do after that. I’m obsessed with nesting bowls and I’ve always wanted to find the time to do a nesting set of 18, so I figured I would work on that. Did that… bored with myself again. Then I thought I would assign myself a task; no more throwing for a week, only handbuilding. I have never gotten into handbuilding. The last time I handbuilt anything was back when I first took a pottery class and had to take the handbuilding before I took the throwing class. I barely scraped by with a “C”. And I handbuilt the leaf platter but that was a nightmare for me.

So, I rolled some slabs on Ryoji’s electric slab roller; so great cause I can drink coffee while my slabs roll out. I made an awful box, but I had fun. Then I made a few lily pads, kind of falling back into old habits, but at least they were not thrown. Then I made this vase you see here, and I think I love it. And I think I love handbuilding too!

first firing

Today we loaded our first kiln. There were a lot of cooks in the kitchen as everyone participated in bringing in the work, stacking the shelves, prepping posts, making wadding… I got in there with Nick to load the last shelves, and he is a pro at tumble stacking. After the door was sealed all of us gathered for a ceremonial prayer which included pouring some sake out on the kiln, throwing some salt around, two claps all together, and then our heads lowered as we prayed to the kiln gods. We’ll be firing over the next two days with everyone working shifts throughout the day and night. This is my first wood firing ever so I am anxious to see what comes out!

craft show

This weekend is my favorite show of the year, the Palo Alto Clay and Glass Festival in California. While my sister, Brena, ran my booth at Palo Alto, we were at a craft fair in Japan. As tourists and buyers, that is! There are really no differences between an American craft show and a Japanese one. There is some beautiful work, some clever and unusual design, interspersed with some serious crap. I felt right at home. I was really only interested in the pottery, and there were a lot of ceramic artists there with their work.

I was captured by several artists, and I was so aware as I picked up their work and checked it out how they must be feeling. There were a lot of people at the show, but not a lot of people carrying shoppping bags, and sales seemed a bit on the slow side.

I bought several things. Two beautiful pieces of porcelain work from a woman named Takahashi Masako. You can see Royoji posing with the pieces here. He thought I was crazy buying pottery when I can just make it myself! Like at a craft show in America, people were saying how expensive everything was. I thought differently; I thought the prices were very reasonable. The delicate porcelain platter I bought with a beautiful and subtle decoration was only $40, and a matching cup with little pointy feet for $16. From another woman I bought what I would describe as an altar piece. It looks to me like a little fort or a hut that a tribe in a remote desert might live in. The artist who created the piece is pictured at the top. It was $20. Her business cards were all written by hand on a little piece of paper, it was a tiny work of art in itself.

countdown to japan

In less than 24 hours I will be on a plane to Japan! The last couple of days have been totally hectic as I try and sew up the studio and prepare Sara to take over while I’m gone. But I’ve finally had time to start getting excited and look forward to some serious clay time. I will be posting about all the people I meet and the things I see while I’m there, so check in on me and send me your comments and emails.

I still haven’t finished packing…

the learning curve

The five-figure order finally left the station this week. On Monday, I took the three-hour drive up to the factory to give the final seal of approval before shipment. After the last box was sealed, Hector and I promptly drank a bottle of Patron tequila to celebrate. It wasn't the biggest bottle of tequila one can buy; it wasn’t the smallest either.

I’ve been getting lots of supportive and amazing emails in the last weeks as the five-figure order has hit bumps, slowly derailed, gone off the tracks, and almost burst into flames. I haven’t been posting about every twist and turn and permeation the order has taken because it’s basically the Melrose Place of pottery: every little messed-up thing that you think couldn’t possibly happen… happened. I had a draft going where I detailed everything that went wrong, but it’s too long and agonizing for even me to read. I will happily send a copy to the hardcore who love watching train wrecks.

The best thing about pushing this order through was realizing the power I have to utilize some amazing resources. Of course I have my man Hector at the factory, my main resource. Not only is he the very best at what he does, he cares about me and my pottery. When the first glaze came in and didn’t work, and then the second custom batch didn’t work either, he didn’t hit the panic button even once. He worked with it: thinned it out, double-dipped it, fired it to a higher temperature, talked to the glaze tech, and in the end totally made it work. A lot of people could have said, “Get back to me when you work it out”, and that would have been totally legit. I don’t pay Hector enough to deal with the problems that came up, but he dealt with it.

And then there are the guys at Spectrum Glaze. They created the original glaze the client wanted, but what I didn't know until I ran more thorough tests is that this glaze turns a crazy color of blue where it gets thick. The final platter was supposed to be olive green. Of course, I didn’t run these tests until about 10 days before the order was supposed to ship, I was so confident I had a handle on everything. I was on vacation when I realized this glaze wasn’t going to cut it no matter what Hector did to it. I cried for about 5 minutes then called up the owner of Spectrum, Bob Arnfield. Within 48 hours his techs mixed up 4 batches of glaze they thought would meet my needs, photographed them, and sent me the results via email. By the time I got off vacation I had two batches of test glaze waiting for me at the studio. They shipped me 150 pounds of my choice glaze 2 days later via express mail and gave me a steep discount. Despite the problems we ran into with this glaze too, in the end it did the job and I will sing the praises of Spectrum until the day I die.

And of course I could not have gotten through this without my amazing husband, friends and people who read this blog. I got calls, supportive emails, and lots of bitch time as I agonized over every aspect of this order that did no turn out as I expected. Thank you.

When was celebrating with Hector it was half-hearted; I was still feeling doomed, certain the client would send my leaf platters right back to me and yank my five-figure fee. I was so out of touch with reality that I couldn't even begin to see how beautiful the platters actually are. On the drive home the next day, I had to repeat all kinds of mantras to keep myself from driving off the road, then play really loud aggressive music to turn down the noise in my head. I grumped at Sara when I got to my studio, but thankfully we are very much alike and she blew me off. The next day I had some time to myself to work; orders are pretty much wrapped up and I guess I’m supposed to be flying to Japan in a week. I made some stuff, and my feeling of doom lifted. Today, I made more stuff and almost lost myself in it. I think I remember that feeling now: it's my version of happiness and it's the best thing I know.

optimism looms

Today I decided it was time to get back to the life I was meant to lead, which is to say, not on the verge of puking every 10 minutes when I think about what a failure I am. I woke up at 1 AM last night yelling "shit!" because I forgot to close my venting kiln lid at 11 PM. (A venting kiln is a kiln that is firing and you keep the lid cracked for 3 hours or so to vent out the fumes-- I keep it cracked until the kiln is at 1000 degrees). As I walked down the street to my studio, I looked at the stars and felt the warm air and begged with god. "Cut me a fucking break" is what I actually said. I know I've been saying "fuck" a lot in the last few posts, and maybe that offends some people, but I hope not. Because it truly is one of my favorite swear words.

This morning I slept in. I had a horrible dream right before I woke up that I was on a cross-country forced march with a bunch of people and one of my ex-boyfriends. We were kind of together but he brought along his new girlfriend on the forced march. They were all happy; I was miserable. It was one of those dreams where I was so mad I had to finish the dream in my head after I woke up, because naturally I woke up just as I was about to punch him in the face.

I felt better after I slept in and told Andrew about the dream. I got up, ate some dry toast, (still nauseous) and went to the studio. I immediately got a check-in call from my man Hector at the factory, which gave me a shred of hope that I will not go down in flames. I had already decided that the day would be devoted to throwing. No orders, just getting centered with the clay. I threw a bunch of small bowls which will be transformed into flowers, a few vases that will be prototypes for a new design that has been laying on my brain, a bunch of random cups because I felt like it, and massive platter that measured 16" across and took 10 pounds of clay. I really want to start throwing huge stuff, no more dainty little things.
.... okay, some dainty things but gigantic stuff too.

I went home around noon and read some of my current book, choked down some lunch (still pukey), then fell asleep. When I woke up I called my health club on a whim and sure enough, they had an open massage appointment in 30 minutes. I love my health club, I adore my health club. I will tell you about my trainer Coco, one day, because she is a serious piece of work. I jumped on my bicycle and pedaled down to Club One, where Tammy gave me the most loving 1-hour neck massage I ever received from a stranger, and verbally reminded me that all will be well. After I got back to the studio, I had a few times where I had a surge of panic and horrible thoughts about my future, but then realized how boring that was and threw some more pots.