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.  .

the cheese incident

I arrived in Vallauris yesterday after spending 5 days in Paris with my pottery posse, Rae, Sara, and Christa. Paris was slightly overwhelming. I was reading The Greater Journey while I was there and that book made me realize I should have made a serious plan in advance.  My laid back California ways basically mean you won't get shit done in a city like Paris, except for whiling away the hours in little wine bars and cafes, walking across a few bridges, and getting lost on charming, narrow, twisty streets.

But I did practice my French. Parisians are very good to practice French with. I say something in French, they answer me in English. I respond in French, and they answer again in English. In this way, we both get to practice, though I'm only good for about two go-rounds in French before I default to English, and they clearly don't need the practice.

The only time I am able to speak French with any flair at all is when I need food. I can ask for a baguette like nobodys business. All I wanted to do in Paris is go to the restaurants and outdoor markets and eat as much possible. I would circle patisseries, fromageries, and charcuteries like I was checking out hot men in clubs. In one fromagerie I went into, I said hello and strung together the longest series of words I had managed thus far:

je voudrais un fromage a manger maintenant ou ce soir.

This means "I would like a cheese to eat now or tonight," and I am not sure if that is the right way to say it, but it gets the hint across to a cheese man about what I need, which is a ripe cheese, something ready to go right now. The cheese man said something incomprehensible to me, and because I was trying very hard to pretend like I knew more French than I do, I shrugged in what I thought could be a Parisian way and said, "un chèvre...ou un bleu!?" Like, convince me cheese man, you are the expert! I could go for a goat cheese, or I could totally go for that cheese covered in mold right there! How bout you figure it out?  He pointed at some stuff, and said some things, and I nodded like I totally got it, and I ended up with two wrapped packages, a small little goat cheese, and a hunk of something that smelled like a goddamn barnyard. Oh, I was happy.


I went on to buy a chunk of duck pate the size of my foot, some olives stuffed with almonds, a teeny little basket of strawberries, and a baguette.  The perfect food for happy hour with my pottery posse. I walked and walked with Sara, and we went to the Louvre.  There were several times where the smell of barnyard would drift up to my nose from the bag I was carrying, and as I gazed at the master works of art ensconced in the Louvre, I though about what a great feast I was bringing my friends that evening.


Later, many hours later, as I was unpacking my bag of goodies, I could not understand why I could not find that giant hunk of cheese that smelled like a barnyard. Let me say that I had several large glasses of wine already, so I was easily confused.  I pulled all of my booty out of the bag, and turned it over several times. Everything was there, but the big hunk of stinky cheese was not there. Then, I looked at the bag that the cheese man put my cheese in.  The cheap, plastic, piece of shit bag that had a hole in the bottom the size of a big hunk of cheese. The cheese slipped out of that hole, and it was gone.


I dont know if you have ever lost your cheese before.  But me, I have lost my cheese. First, I was in disbelief.  I looked in the olive container to see if the cheese was there. It was not there, and I could not believe it. Then I was in denial. The cheese had to be somewhere! I started looking all over the kitchen, even though I had only been in there for 30 seconds and did not have time to do anything but pull it out of the bag. Then, I got angry. I threw the stupid goat cheese I had left. Stupid goat cheese, I can get you anywhere!  Where is the cheese I really wanted! I ran back to the place where Sara and I had those gigantic glasses of wine, and looked everywhere. People helped me when they heard I lost my cheese, but it was not to be found.  I ran to another fromagerie around the corner, but the store was shut tight, as was everything else.  I thought about crying, but that seemed extreme, and maybe a little crazy. So I just got really, really sad. And then I cheered the fuck up, because I was in Paris, with my pottery posse, and I still had that pate. Thank god I did not lose the pate also.


Some favorite pictures from Paris.

easier than running a pottery studio

My mother likes to send me emails reminding me that it's time for me to post when I've been slacking with my blog. I know I have been increasingly irregular with my posts, and it is not due to waning interest or a lack of commitment, so for those of you who like to read what I write: don't worry, I'm not thinking about giving it up. The irregularity is due to my own internal roadblocks. Lately I feel like unless the topic is GREAT and INSPIRING while also HILARIOUS it's not worth bothering with. It's the perfectionist's curse, and believe me, there is nothing more boring or more tiring than trying to be perfect, especially since some believe I'm already perfect.

I've still been getting back into the swing of things since returning from my trip to Belgium and the Netherlands. We also squeezed Italy in there, which was a mistake, but you never know that going to Italy is a mistake until you are already there. More on that some other time. Everyone says to me, "Oh my god, you must have so much work to catch up on!" Not really, actually. I had Ruth handling the studio and Lana handling the customer service, they both did their jobs the way I trained them to, and I came back to exactly no pending disasters. In fact, the worst fuck-up that came to light while I was away was one of my own doing, which was shipping two orders to the wrong customers, in fact, to each other. I would love to blame that on someone else. If anything, I've been wandering listlessly around the studio, looking for stuff to do.

While I was away, I was mostly able to let go of thoughts and worries about what was going on back at the studio. Every once in a while a thought would jab me and I'd break out into a sweat and start shaking, but as it turns out, that worry was for nothing. It's amazing how a bit of worry can keep you from enjoying the moment, like the moment of seeing a real Dutch windmill for the first time or drinking the best beer you've ever had for 2 stinkin' euro. But I'm not paying attention to that, I'm thinking about the one overseas order that came in right before I left and did Ruth remember to double-box it?

Which brings me to this conclusion: there is a big difference between "vacationing" and "traveling." I've been on vacation before, and when I do, I totally forget what I do for a living, what little issues have been biting me on the ass lately, and all the work-related tasks I assign myself while on vacation (yes, I do that, I don't know why.) Riding your bike around Belgium and the Netherlands, while highly enjoyable, is not a vacation. It's travel. Here is a checklist of items that will tell you when you are traveling as opposed to vacationing:

• You ride your bicycle from a major international airport in a foreign country after a 15 hour plane ride. With no map.
  
• You must consult with a country-wide map several times a day to know where you are (bought while realizing you have no idea where you are).
• You have don't know what to expect from the waitstaff when you walk into the restaurant, or how to order food.
• You don't have hotel reservations anywhere.
  
• You find yourself in a shouting match with an Italian train conductor over the fact that you have hidden two bicycles in the bathroom.
• An Italian train conductor calls the cops on you.
  
• You are happy it's just sprinkling as opposed to downpouring on your 3o km ride through some woods.
• The high point of your day is a meat and cheese sandwich in the midst of a cow and corn field.

Lest you think I'm whining, let me assure you that part of the reason my husband married me is because I don't whine, or complain, or grouse, when faced with the above situations. I'm totally game for all of it. Because no matter what, when you come right down to it, traveling is so much easier than running a pottery studio.

earthquake dreams

20 years ago today, I was a few months past turning 19, and had been living in Santa Cruz, California for just over a year. I had moved myself to Santa Cruz from the east coast because I wanted to live in California since I was a kid, and Santa Cruz sounded like just the place that would fulfill my fantasy of living next to the ocean, in year-round temperate climate, with the added bonus of being surrounded by cute surfer boys, cute boys being the biggest weakness in my life at that time. Like most childhood fantasies, the reality of my still-new California life was proving to be more difficult and not as exhilarating as I hoped. I moved without any relationship ties or connections to my new hometown, and many of my new relationships seemed tenuous, some were even troubled.  I was struggling with loneliness, depression, and post-adolescent angst at how complicated life was on my own. Also, I still had no idea what I wanted to do with my life, other than this vague hope to be an artist. And, I was totally broke, living in one of the most expensive places in California. I was not attending college yet, but working full-time at a popular flower shop one block off the Santa Cruz Mall, the downtown strip that was the center and hub of Santa Cruz, and was within walking distance from my teeny-tiny studio apartment where I lived alone.

When the Loma Prieta earthquake hit on October 17, 1989, I was working at the flower shop and happened to be on the phone with a friend when the building I was in jumped with the first roll of the earthquake, along with all the glass shelving inside the shop. It was like an explosion as glass shattered and the sound of the earth shifting and moving beneath my feet-- a sound I would become very familiar with over the next months—filled my ears. I screamed-- always my first fear response-- and dropped the phone. I rocketed out of the front door of the shop. I heard that one was supposed to stand in the safety of a doorway during a quake, but there was no way I was doing that. I am a former gymnast and I remember stretching my legs beneath the skirt I was wearing, leaping and bounding across the sidewalk to the parking lot across the street to put as much distance as possible between me and the building that I was in. I was certain it was about to collapse. It was like trying to run while drunk, the ground was shifting so intensely under my feet.

Once I cleared the street my next concern was to stay away from power poles that may be falling over. Also, I was alert to the ground just opening up and swallowing me whole. While I was working on keeping myself alive and unharmed, I was also taking in visuals that were making no sense to me. Like, the brick building that housed Ford's Department Store across the street from the flower shop was rolling and shaking as if it were made of jell-o. It collapsed in front of my eyes. The large picture window for the Spokesman bike shop next door to the flower shop also seemed to be made of liquid, I never knew glass could be so... flexible. The parking meter next to me was shaking and vibrating so hard I thought it may pop out of the cement of the sidewalk. For some reason, this parking meter scared the hell out of me, it seemed alive and dangerous.

All of this happened in the course of 15 seconds. You never really know how long a second is until you go through those seconds thinking you are about to die. Or, if not die, get really, really hurt. When the quake stopped, my initial reaction was to start screaming and running around in a circle. Really, to me, that seemed like a reasonable reaction and totally appropriate for the moment. Thankfully, the people on the street around me remained utterly calm, which made me calm. I didn’t start screaming, but locked up the flower shop and walked the half-block to the corner of Pacific Avenue with my co-worker, at the very top of the Mall. I couldn’t see beyond a half block, there was so much dust in the air from disintegrating and damaged buildings. Down here, people were screaming, and injured. The sight of people digging through the collapsed Ford's store for humans buried in the rubble directly to my left was one of the grimmest sights I have ever witnessed, and made me instantly realize I had no business walking around, that I needed to go home immediately. That is, if I had a home anymore.

My home was marvelously intact, as was the rest of my life. This was suddenly a miracle, as I measured my survival against those who did not live through the quake, several of whom lost their lives on the Mall that day. There are many other things I will never be able to forget about that day. The neighbor who woke me up screaming bloody murder in the middle of the night because she was having a painful heart attack brought on by the stress and excitement of the quake. Trying to call an ambulance when the phone lines are not fully operational is the very definition of panic, and another deeply grim memory. The weirdness of the street lights not coming on when the sun went down. The heavy smell of gas in the air and the blocks of houses on fire. The party-like atmosphere around water trucks, and frankly, the liquor store.

What had the most impact on me was a complete shift in my perspective on life. We all know that the only thing that truly matters is having your health, family and friends, alive and safe. But to know that mantra, and then to have an experience which really makes you understand what it means are two different things, and up until that point I did not understand what the concept meant. This sudden knowledge freed me from many of my everyday worries and concerns as I experienced the intense rush of appreciating being alive and focused on being a support to others. The community of Santa Cruz bonded in the days after the quake, and I felt the love and concern of my friends and neighbors in a way that I never had before. The experience cemented many of my new relationships, including the one with my neighbor, JT, still one of my closest friends. JT and I became roomies for about 6 years after the quake because his house fell apart and we both hated our rent-gouging landlord. Probably the hardest thing for me about the Loma Prieta quake, aside from having to wrestle with my own terror of realizing what it meant to live in earthquake country, was the disappointment and feeling of loss as my community gradually went back to normal with the passing weeks and months.

I don't have a neat ending to this story. It's just a part of my life that I consider one of the most important things that ever happened to me, and I like to share the story with anyone who will listen. I kept a detailed diary during this time, that is where these images are from. You can click on them to read them more closely. The last thing I wrote was dated 12/7/89:

I'm having flashbacks constantly. Wherever I'm at, and the earth moves with aftershocks, I can see in my head the vases of flowers falling down, the glass cases crashing, a terrible noise with the earth roaring. However, my terror has subsided immensely, leaving only anticipation.

this post doesn't have a title because I just killed 10,000 brain cells and I can't think of one

I just returned from 4 days in the blasting heat and sun of Palm Springs. No sane person visits Palm Spring in June unless there is a very good reason to. My husband was raised in Palm Springs-- yes, people are raised in Palm Springs-- as were both of his parents, hence: family visits in June. The heat there is completely inhumane, the coolest day was 107° F while we were there. The locals love to ask, "Hot enough for ya?" They can take one look at my flushed cheeks, sunburned shoulders, and the tiny pieces of clothing covering the most minimal parts of my body, and immediately discern that I am not a local. Locals take great delight in wearing long pants in 107° and standing in the direct sunlight while informing you that these are the best days of summer, the worst is yet to come in late July and August. By the way, even though my husband left Palm Springs about 17 years ago, he still acts like a local. Which means I have to listen to him scoff at me every time I leave a weather-proof room and enter fresh air, a moment I find to be extremely painful, and I am sure immediately kills off about 5o brain cells. Look, my people are from Washington State. I'm not made for this kind of heat.

You may ask how I could possibly take 4 days off when my biggest retail show of the year is a mere two weeks away. You may not know that my biggest retail show of the year is two weeks away, but it is. It's the Palo Alto Clay and Glass Festival, not only my biggest show, but my most favorite show. I have hardcore fans there, and I sell the same amount of work in a weekend that I would normally sell in about 6-8 weeks in my normal day-to-day business. So it's a really important show to me, and people expect me to bring the latest and greatest work from my studio, so I'm usually working my ass off right about now.

This is the first time in probably 10 years I've taken any time off within a month before Palo Alto. I think I'm just tired of working myself down to a little nub, especially before big shows. I'm sick of the constant pressure and the merry-go-round of elation and disappointment as work comes out or... doesn't come out. By the way, I had this realization that I am plagued with customers who love to say to me, "Oh, just make it whenever you have time, I'm not in a rush. But here's my money. Please take it." So it's not pressure from customers, it's my own personal brand of pressure. And let me tell you, the packaging sucks, and it stinks too.

I do have some pretty fabulous work that is brand-new awesome, hasn't even been photographed yet or um, glazed yet, and some other pretty pieces stockpiled, so I'm kinda like... hey, I need a freakin' break! Especially after having my books balanced for the first time ever!

This is the best reason for having your books balanced, aside from knowing how much money you actually have: The profit and loss statement. My mom generated one of these useful little doo-dads for me and I felt not only deeply informed about my business, but also kind of... studly. Yeah, studly, because my income is pretty dang good! I know it's taboo to discuss the specifics of personal income in this culture so I'm not going there, but I'm doing a bit better than okay. I've always had a suspicion around how much I thought I made, but now I really know. So if I miss out on a few bucks at Palo Alto because I didn't make a couple of pieces I should have made, and instead was working on frying my brain next to the pool in Palm Springs in 112° weather and getting some skin cancer to boot, well then yay for me!

what a potter wants

Today, Saturday, I was at our sale over at Fourth and Clay with my clay gals. It was the end of the afternoon and we were cash happy after a pretty successful first day of selling off our seconds. We were kind of hanging out, chatting, and drinking wine. A familiar and comforting scene.
I said, "Is it okay if I come in later tomorrow? I want to get some work done in my studio in the morning before I head over."

Christa was like, "Oh yeah, come in whenever."

Rae pipes up and says, "Yeah, like we don't want to be working in our studios tomorrow." The sale is held at Christa, Rae, and Josie's studio and definitely takes over their whole work space.

I said, (a tad defensively) "Well, I'm off for three days of vacation next week! I need to work!" Rae just rolls her eyes.

Moral of the story: ceramic artists only want to do one thing. Make pots. Fuck vacations, or whatever they're called.

ms. smith's neighborhood

I closed the Philly show a few days ago. I try to be a good neighbor at the trade shows. To my mind, that means pretty much minding my own business and staying out of other people’s booths. A polite yet distant friendliness is what I strive for. A long weekend or week can be made even longer by an overly-talkative or worse yet, a bitter and mopey neighbor.

At the Philly show, I did pretty well on neighbors. Tabbatha Henry was a bit down the aisle from me and established herself as the ideal neighbor. She came over to chat for brief periods, offered food, made wry comments on the buyers, and didn't complain.

I have had terrible neighbors before. Once, when I was still doing the New York Gift Show, I had a neighbor on the left is that was the worst kind of neighbor, and completely unaware that he was a bad neighbor and everyone on the aisle wanted him dead. He was a manic type who seemed gregarious and outgoing at first, but it was a thinly disguised act to mask a frantic show-off. He continually popped into my booth—and I do mean “pop” in the literal sense, his energy level verged on the frenzied—and attacked me with non-sequitors:

“I’m dying for a frozen yogurt! Aren’t you?” (I detest frozen yogurt and the whole idea of it).
“Oh my god you are so cute! Do you hate it when people tell you that?” (Um. No.)
“If you’ve got it, flaunt it!” (this actually sung to me in a show-tune fashion).
“I am so obsessed with Rome!” (a cable TV series I’ve never seen).
“I wish I were selling my pants! Everyone keeps asking me about them!” This on the first day, when he was wearing a pair of vintage houndstooth pants, very Yves Saint Laurent circa 1972. With a pink top and a pink tie.

Add to this picture a high voice that carried, a selling pitch that didn’t vary, a southern accent (fake?), frequent cell phone calls that included frenetic pacing back and forth in front of my booth, and you have someone who is amusing to write about, but torture to experience in real life. He also walked the aisle like he was participating in a fashion show and he was on the catwalk, complete with tiny little hips. I don't like to use the word "hate" because it's such a strong word and he was really not worthy of my hate. But I hated the little bitch. And I know he hated me too, though he addressed me as "my friend", as in "Well, my friend, you're having a good day!" Of course I was having a less than good day, but my friend didn't really care about that.

The trade shows are just tough places to be. You're stuck in a 10' x 10' space for about 8 hours a day, and you have to always ready to be friendly and chat up the customers. This last show was especially tough, as there were very few buyers who attended, and I found myself gazing off into space for long periods of time. It helps to be able to chat with the people around you, but you can find yourself chatting with people who are just taking your energy and attention. Which is why I tend to keep to myself.

Anyway dear readers, I just wanted to check in and let you know I survived the show, and I can't wait to get back into the studio and back to work!

looking to the past, looking to the future

I had an interesting week. Last weekend I flew East to attend my 20 year high school reunion in Delaware. This is an event I would have never thought I would attend. I hated high school and I was not fond of most of my classmates, with the exception of my best friend, Missy. I was a shy and angry person, which combined into an overall surly kind of attitude. Missy was the opposite, probably one of the most popular and well-liked people in our class, and she kept me from complete social pariah status.

I think a lot of people don't want to go to high school reunions because they are afraid the event is going to be a re-enactment of high school, with better booze. What I found is that people were just interesting and interested. Few seemed to be there to prove anything about themselves. In a lot of ways it was just a no-bullshit event, so it was very unlike high school. I had a blast.

I flew home on Monday and was immediately swept up in the anticipation of the election on Tuesday. I loved the juxtaposition of these two events in my life, and they seemed totally related. I'm always surprised and gratified by the human capacity to change. The capacity to change and grow up into a thoughtful and decent human being, and our overall evolution as a society.

Sometimes when I look around, I think of this planet and all the people on it, and how we are all sharing this moment. We are all going through this life together for the first time, though it can feel like we are hopelessly mired in the past, and the future will just bring more of the same. Maybe we are mired in the past, but maybe we don't have to be. Maybe that's just a choice we make, because it's easier than being brave, having hope, creating change. I think we should all enjoy this moment of change together, really soak in how exciting it is, and never forget the work it took to create it. And then let's think about what we are going to do in the future to bring change to our own lives and to the rest of our world. It's a small request!

no baby, no cry

Today I had an appointment to show my work to a merchandiser at a particular museum in a particular park in San Francisco. That's not the story though. The story is that as I was walking along, pushing a couple of crates on a dolly toward the Museum on a beautiful sunny afternoon, I looked around and realized I was totally surrounded by women, my age, pushing baby carriages. I though to myself, "I'm pushing babies too, but my babies are nice and quiet, and when they are bad, I throw them on the ground and jump up and down on them". It left me feeling more than just a little bit smug.

dream

As a general rule, telling someone about the dream one had last night is interesting only to the dreamer, especially a dream that takes more than 10 seconds to tell and doesn't involve the listener. That being said, I had his dream last night that was so funny. I dreamed I was at a 4- day ceramic workshop. Since it was so short, people were cranking out work and firing it right away, and I was surrounded by awesome work. And what was I doing? Making cake stands for wholesale orders. I made dozens. And then they got lost in all the work other people were doing. I was wandering around, trying to find my cake stands, and no one knew where they were or could help me. I woke up, my face all twisted up like I was about to cry, and saw that it was 6:50 AM. I told my husband earlier this week that I was going to start working from 7-9 am on Monday, Wednesdays, and Fridays before I went to the gym and use that time ONLY to make my own work, no wholesale or orders. So I popped out of bed, made my coffee, and ran to the studio.

one day

Today was another typical day at the studio. My assistant, Sara, showed up promptly at 9 AM and we sat down for a short meditation session to set our intention for the day. Our intention is the same every day: Experience the joy of clay!

Sara then immediately opened the kilns to unload a glaze firing. It really makes my heart sing to watch her unload a kiln of perfectly fired pots. As she unloads each piece, I wrap it in beautifully colored tissue paper and tie it off with a silk ribbon blessed by the Dalai Lama. We then attach the order to it for afternoon shipping to the happy new owner!

The mailman usually stops by around this time to drop off checks from my various clients. I take them to the bank on my afternoon walk. Today there were so many it actually required two trips. Sigh. Running errands are probably my least favorite thing to do but necessary to keep the studio running!

Fortunately my intern Philip was here today to help relieve the tension I was feeling after two trips to the bank to make deposits. Philip is studying to be a ceramicist AND a massage therapist. He has to practice his massage technique a certain number of hours every week, so when he is finished with his studio duties every day he gives me a 60 minute massage. I must say he is getting quite good at the massage thing!

After I woke up from my massage-induced nap, Sara and I sat down to afternoon tea. Of course we drink only out of cups made by Christa Assad. It just makes tea taste better! While we drink tea and relax we chat about various ways she can improve her performance in the studio and increase overall efficiency. I like to push my employees to be the best workers they can be! When they slack off I make a sad face at them and that usually puts them back on track. They hate to disappoint me.

After tea we brainstormed ideas for my next collection. I will usually close my eyes and go into a deep meditative state. I then toss out words that inspire me, like “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” or “dendrobium” or “bacon”. Bacon is a word that always inspires me. Sara, who is very good with her hands, will interpret my words into a drawing of a ceramic piece. Today I dreamed up the entire collection in one sitting! Then Sara sat down at the wheel and threw samples of each piece for my approval. I usually have her make at least ten of each piece so I can pick out the very best one. Really, that is our slogan around here, "Only the best!" I have everybody repeat that phrase at least 100 times a day so they don't forget it.

Since Sara obviously had a long evening ahead of her I decided to let her have the studio to herself so she could concentrate. And it was cocktail hour back at home anyway! The husband likes to start drinking the second I walk through the door, and today was no exception. I hope you all had as great and April Fool's Day as I did!

one piece, one glaze

Yesterday I put this pot up on my etsy site. It's a really old piece, I think I made it in 2003. Back then, one of my main muses was the lily pad and lotus flower, and I made a lot of raised relief designs with slip trailing, emulating the veins of a lily pad. Very labor-intensive, but the results were lovely. The shape of this pot was also very standard for me. I wanted a continuous and unbroken line where the lid met the pot. There was something about a typical pot where the shoulder has a little rise where the lid can rest that I just did not like. The shape seemed too conventional and brought down my design. I always had to fire the lids separate from the pot, which is kind of a no-no, but it worked for me.

This pot was glazed during a period of time when my matte green glaze was not firing out at all, it was coming out a grayish-green, like on this piece here, and it was making me completely insane. I could not appreciate it the way it was, all I saw was the way it should be. Man, the pots I marked down because the color did not satisfy me! It's kinda sad the way I tossed my children into the cold when they didn't please me, but good for the people who found them all covered in dust at my studio sales. That matte green glaze has made me insane several times over the years; it is an utterly beautiful and completely undependable glaze. I have referred to it in the past as my bad boyfriend glaze.

One time I wholesaled this matte green for a season, and I sold the hell out of it. When I started firing off orders, the glaze started bubbling. All over, really bad. The galleries get it, they love the wabi-sabi of bubbles, but the retail home accessories store in Dallas, Texas does not get it. I could not get a single piece out of the kiln without a bubble on it. Nowadays I only use it for my own customers, and I don't worry if there is a bubble or two on it. It's a picky glaze that likes to be treated like it's a superstar and doesn't want to be part of a production line. Hey, I get it. I don't call it my bad boyfriend glaze anymore, it's my special baby.

i miss japan

There’s the big baby, the Olsen kiln, firing with all its might back in Japan. I’m missing my time in Japan as I go about the work of remodeling my studio and hitting the various roadblocks, but I still think I can get back to work on Monday. Feeling hopeful. I was talking to some friends the other night about Japan and one of the things I really appreciated were the bathrooms. That is such a girl thing, I know. First of all, they are impeccably clean. The worst bathroom I saw was in the Tokyo airport and it was on par with a decent American public bathroom. And everywhere you go, it’s standard for the toilet seat to be heated. Even at the pottery where we were living, all the toilet seats were warm. I never realized how wonderful it is to have a warm toilet seat. Most toilets also come with a bidet with three different settings and angles. You can also adjust the strength of the water flow if you choose to use the bidet. In public restrooms, there are often settings for music, (marked with a musical note), a toilet flushing sound, and a “strong deodorizer” button. I figured out that the music and flushing sounds were employed to cover potentially embarrassing noises. I wondered though, what’s the point of covering the noise when everyone withing earshot knows you are covering the noise with a fake flushing sound? Which is worse? Did I mention that I miss Japan?

sailing the bay

When Frank called me at my studio Friday afternoon and asked me to go sailing with him on Saturday, I had to say "yes". Frank bought this junky sailboat, the "Del Corazon", two years ago for $1800, docked it at the Berkeley Marina, and went to work restoring it. When a man buys a junky boat and says he's going to restore it, buys any junky thing and says he's going to restore it, the women around him will always doubt him. Women generally don't spend a lot of time restoring things. I know I love the idea of restoration, but the reality is I'd rather spend Saturday afternoons having tea parties with my girlfriends. Men, on the other hand, don't want to have tea parties on Saturday afternoon. In fact, they need somewhere to get away from the tea party. And so there you will find Frank working on his boat week after week, Andrew working on his VW's or bicycles, et cetera. When the men finally produce a restored product after a week, many months, or a couple of years, the women are delighted. So when Frank called me up to go sailing on his newly restored boat, I could only say yes.

Andrew was out of town that weekend, and Sidney was teaching a Saturday course, so it turned out to be just me and Frank and Florabelle the dog. The day was pristine, a real California fall day. Clear blue skies, a little searing edge on the temperature, and a breeze. Frank picked me up in his blue-smoke belching work van and very sweetly put a mat down over the layers of Peet's paper coffee cups and other effluvia of the past months. We laughed hysterically on the drive to the Marina as Frank menaced society in his usual fashion; buzzing joggers who have the nerve to jog in the road when there is a perfectly serviceable jogging path off the road, threatening a little kick dog and its cell-phone-talking-mercedes-driving-owner in the parking lot, nearly clipping another mercedes when the owner threw open his door without checking the rearview. I know I'm a bad influence on Frank because I find these things hilarious, which only encourages this behavior.

As Frank and I were readying the Del Corazon for sailing I asked him casually how many times he'd taken the boat out. Since I knew its maiden voyage was back in July, I figured it hadn't been out much. "Well..." said Frank, eyeing me out if the corner of his eye, "I've only taken it out twice so far".
"Okay", I said.
"Are you scared?" he asked.
"Of course not!" I said. We continued getting the boat ready as Frank gave me a rundown on terms and things I would be doing. I have sailed many times but usually in boats where I'm not expected to do much. This time was going to be very different since we were two on a 31-foot boat. I tried to absorb the information he was throwing at me and then asked, "Where did you learn how to sail?"
"Where?" Frank asked.
"Yeah, like did you grow up sailing or what?" I asked.
"Ummmm..." Frank said, choosing his words, "I'm just learning how to sail... on this boat".
"Oh", I said. Pause. "So you've really only sailed twice?" I asked.
"Yeah!" said Frank in this really positive way, like, "it's so much fun and here we are about to do it again!"
I sat with that for another minute. I really wasn't concerned about Frank's ability; Andrew is quite large and would happily kill anyone who brought harm to me, and my friends know it. Not to mention my sister who would scratch the perpetrator's eyes out. And my mom who would wail horribly at my funeral and make everyone wish they had never been born. I was actually way more concerned about my own ability. I know on a sailboat you have to move fast, and when I don't know exactly what I'm doing I have a hard time understanding English and following directions. The next question I asked him, "What inspired you to buy a sailboat when you don't know how to sail?"
"Well," said Frank, unwrapping the last of the jib sail (I think that's what he said it was called anyway), "I thought there would be a lot to learn", and if you know Frank, then that is the perfect answer.

We headed out into the Bay. It's Fleet Week in the Bay Area and the Blue Angels were going to be doing their thing over the water near the San Francisco marina. It was a big party on the water, tons of sailboats and raceboats and yachts. And sailboat races. And probably some race boat races too.

When the Blue Angels came out, I was so excited. I love air technology--jets, space shuttles, rockets--and the Blue Angels are so fast, they are completely silent. 10 seconds after they go by..."BOOOOOM!" I'm not into military stuff at all, and I think about the people around the world who have bombs dropped on them by these planes and whose homes are already on fire by the time they hear the jets go by. That said, human ingenuity never ceases to amaze me. It fucks with my head that it is used to hurt, maim, and kill, but I am impressed and thrilled to witness it nevertheless.

From where we were we saw the Blue Angels make an incredibly dramatic entrance over the Richmond hills, and then head over to the Marina area to do their stunts. I pointed and said to Frank, "I want to be over there". I wanted to be in the middle of the action. We sailed over and spent an hour or so dodging through boats as we watched the planes. A huge C-130 flew so low and so silently over the water, just yards above the tops of boats. The Blue Angels flew amazingly tight formations, peeling off, flying upside-down, and coming together again. Other jets flew straight up into the air, seemed to stall, and then twisted back down toward the bay, pulling out at the last second before hitting the water. I was actually steering the boat while Frank manned the sails and I finally had to say to him, "Tell me if I'm going to hit something because I can't take my eyes off these jets". I took a hundred pictures but the planes were so fast it was hard to get anything good.

Finally, the show was over. We set our course for Berkeley and I immediately became seasick. Frank gave me instructions on where not to puke, where I should puke if I were to puke, and then asked several times if I still felt like puking. I finally had to tell him to stop saying the word "puke" or I really would. He fed me some ginger candy and I fell asleep. When I woke up I felt well enough to pretend to puke on Frank's computer, eat the cupcake he'd been saving, and help steer the boat into harbor. On the map to the right you can see most of our course for the day as mapped by Frank's GPS, which is always strapped to his person. We are the green line. Can't wait to go again!