the return

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

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

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

Here are a few images from my travels:

Giraffes in Kruger National Park

Who knew South Africa had PENGUINS???

Protea in Kirstenbosch Garden in Cape Town

Lonely stretch of beach near Stillbai on the Western Cape 

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

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

take the time

Another week has gone by in the life of my France residency. I've been wrestling with all kinds of fear. Fear that time is going by too quickly and all the things I want to make will not get made while I am here.  And then, fear that I seem to care more about getting down to the beach every day than I do about making stuff. Where's my drive, my ambition? In the face of a clear blue sea, I have neither.

the beach at golfe-juan, 8 am

I realize that this residency is all about tapping into another well of work, but not today (pas aujourd'hui) . And not tomorrow either (et pas demain) (Sorry, but these are actually phrases I've learned from my French audio tapes.) Maybe next month, or at the end of the summer, or some other time that takes place in the future. I like the idea of letting go of the need to tap my well, the creative reserve.

 After a few days of waffling around last week, and feeling some guilt that I was working on my tan instead of ideas, I figured out that it is best to just stay in the moment. Open the mind and heart, that's all.

picasso in antibes

While I'm at the beach, it's another opportunity to observe the French culture in action. There is one thing I really love about the beaches around here: they are pretty packed with people, but they are very quiet. French people, in general, are very quiet compared to Americans.  That's not a big surprise. I notice the same thing at restaurants. The place where I live with the other artists-in-residence is right next door to a very busy and popular restaurant, and dinner service can easily go past 11 or 12 at night. But again, the patrons are so low-key that I often fall asleep to the sound of French voices, babbling so quietly that it almost sounds like a stream or a fountain. Very soothing.

rae and chris at cafe du coin

I love the pace of eating in a restaurant in France.  Lunch usually runs for 2 hours, easily. Dinner can go for 3- 4 hours. And the staff expects that pace, there is no hurry to flip your table, that's not how they clock it. As an American, the pace can be a little disconcerting at first, because we are used to very fast and attentive service, and if you have no idea what to expect, it can seem like you are being ignored. Mais non, that's not the case at all. You are being allowed to take your time, the biggest luxury and gift that you can ever be given.

When the residents all go out for dinner, we've started making it a game to see how French we can be with our eating habits.  To make a dinner last for 3+hours, you have to take a tiny bite of food, and then put your fork down while you chew.  When you are done chewing, you talk for a bit.  Then you take sip of wine and talk some more. Then, another small bite.  Food usually comes out pretty slowly too, and in courses, so you are not suddenly flooded with a big plate of food. We were very proud of ourselves last night: we were seated at 8:15 for a special dinner of bouillabaisse, and we walked out of there way past midnight, outlasting all the French people who were seated around the same time. I may not go home with any new work, but I will definitely go home with a new approach to how I'm serving Thanksgiving this year.

studio, neglected

brief from vallauris

I've been in Vallauris for about 10 days now, and I've been finding my rhythm and establishing a pace. I'm the type of person that tries to integrate as much as I can into my surroundings.  It's like adjusting my personal frequency, so I can tune in more acutely to what is going on around me. But still, I never feel more American than I do when visiting a foreign country. 

This is the thing about travel: the everyday things you do at home can be fraught with cultural misunderstanding and confusion when you are doing stuff in a place where you don't speak the language. I think that's why a lot of people don't like to travel. It can be exhausting.

My fellow residents and I rented a car to explore the Avignon region, and renting a car meant an encounter with a foreign gas station. A gas pump is a gas pump is a gas pump, but it's the small differences that can throw you for a loop.  I did some research ahead of time so I would know the French name of the type of gas we needed to purchase (diesel=gazole) and a general idea of what to expect, but still, the loops came fast and hard.   

First of all, there were about 12 pumps and 4 islands, but only one way to approach, one line.  No organization, no first come first served, just one line that quickly devolved into chaos as you snaked your way closer to the pumps. It was slow going. You had to wait. This immediately made me anxious, especially when we were expertly bumped in line by someone driving a Citroen, almost certainly a native who could smell our tentativeness.

I closely watched everybody fill up, looking at what they were doing and how they were handling the whole gas pump interaction.  When it was our turn, I was armed with observational knowledge and ready for battle.  After we figured out how to open the gas door (something my husband, Andrew, would know by simple osmosis but I have to read the owner's manual to figure out.) I pulled out the hose, stuck it in the tank, and pulled the gas trigger.  Nothing.  I looked at the little window that tells you the amount of gas you are pumping and how much it's costing, and noticed the last person's transaction was still there. Was there a button I needed to push? A lever I needed to pull?  I ran my hands over the pump like a blind person. Nothing. I looked around at other people. Everyone was pumping gas, and seemed to be avoiding my eyes. I pulled the gas trigger a few more times.  James, one of my fellow residents and on the gas mission with me,  commented that the person who was in front of us before had seemed to be standing around for a minute, so maybe we just needed to wait. 

James, by the way, was unfazed by all of this.  He was intrigued by the level of female beauty that was circling around us in this little gas station, and temporarily distracted.  I was readying myself for a major confrontation with the gas pump or worse, ask for help, when the window suddenly zeroed out, and the gas started pumping.

The price increased at an alarming rate.  I don't know if you have ever purchased fuel by the liter, but it's a small unit of measure, and the price quickly went from zero to 50 euro for less than a half tank of gas. Again, expected, but still rather shocking to experience in real life.

Not only was there a single line to get to the gas pump, there was a single line of cars to get to the lady to pay for the gas. "Oh my god," I moaned, as I again watched the chaos of little euro cars leaving the pumps and jockeying for position in the pay line, "how can people live like this?  Why doesn't somebody do something about this? How many people get punched at 8 in the morning at the gas station? You have to block out your whole morning just to go get gas!" God, I felt so American, but if there is one thing we have down that the French do not, it's convenience.

"Hmmmmm..." James said, as he waved a pretty lady into the line, ahead of us.

My studio work is going very slowly, because I have frankly been spending way more time checking the temperature of the Mediterranean Sea with my entire body, comparing cheeses, seeing where the best farmer's market is in this region, and running daily tests to see how much French wine I can drink before I get a hangover. As it turns out, a whole lot.

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.

travel jitters

Whenever I'm getting ready to travel, I have to contend with the fact that there is a part of me that hates to travel. Even before the most exciting trips, like the one I'm about to go on, I think that it wouldn't be so bad if the whole thing got cancelled, thereby relieving me of the burden of exiting my familiar and cozy bubble.

 The first major trip I ever took was when I was 22 and I went to Costa Rica for two months. I lived on $50 a week for almost a year to save for that trip, but in the days before departure, I was filled with dread. I didn't want to admit it to anybody, but I did not want to go anymore. I was very disappointed with myself, because I had always imagined that when I grew up, I would work only to save enough money to travel.  I consider myself an explorer, and I thought my whole life would be about traveling and exploring.  I had very romantic notions about what it meant to be a world traveler. I would be full of stories from my encounters with exotic people and lands, my home filled with beautiful trinkets and unusual souvenirs, and I myself would also be slightly exotic after having sailed the seven seas, rubbed shoulders with the natives, and seen things that most could not imagine.

 Despite my foreboding, I pushed on to Costa Rica anyway, secretly convinced I would die in a ridiculous mishap while I was there and never return. And as soon as I arrived, I was fine. When I arrive anywhere, I am fine.  Now I understand it's not the actual travel I dread. It's the anticipation, preparation, and transition. Knowing that I am about to be surrounded with absolutely nothing familiar, except for what I bring along, kicks the little girl inside me back to life, the one who who had to travel back and forth between divorced parents and was constantly coping with missing one parent or the other. It's the insecurity of being alone in the world, one that is assuaged by the familiar things and people I surround myself with.  Travel strips that bare.

I recently read "Wild" by Cheryl Strayed, her account of hiking the Pacific Crest Trail alone at 23 years old, and I was highly amused at her description of her backpack, which she nicknamed "Monster" due its outsize girth and weight. It mirrored exactly the pack I took into Costa Rica with me, which was so outlandishly overweight and wide, grown men who were trying to help me with my luggage would drop my pack and stare at me incredulously.  I never had to worry about someone stealing my pack because you simply could not run with it. My backpack reflected my intense need for familiar comforts, like my 16-oz bottle of hair conditioner (my hair is very thick and requires special maintenance,)  a stash of paint and all kinds of paper for every drawing and writing need (which I am grateful for to this day,) 6 different dresses for 6 different kind of occasions, and a Walkman, Canon camera with two lenses, and tape recorder so I would not forget one fucking thing.

My needs are smaller in some ways now.  I know how much conditioner will actually be required in a 6 week period (approximately 4 oz,) that I will end up sketching and writing more than painting and do not need a full palette of paint, that I only need one dress for walking and looking, another for sitting and looking pretty (attitude makes up for the other four,) and everything that needs to be recorded can be done with one little device.  And while I hate every moment between right now while I'm typing this--tying up my business and loose ends, saying good-bye to my husband, trying to figure out how close I can cut my arrival to the airport that will take me away--I am waiting for that sweet spot when I finally arrive.  And everything is fine.

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.

your move

When my husband and I first met fifteen years ago, we moved almost immediately to Hawaii for the summer to work and live together. Obviously, we didn’t know each other very well, so it was like trial by fire. There were a lot of challenges those months as we negotiated the terms of our relationship while (mostly) residing in a tent and dealing with the realities of living and working on Maui. That summer, Andrew and I got addicted to chess. We were so addicted, that sometimes we would play a match before even getting out of bed. We had a little travel board, so whenever there was some downtime, we would pull the board out for a game. Andrew often won, because I was basically a reactionary player. Whenever he would threaten one of my pieces, I’d panic while trying to plot an escape, and often end up losing a piece. And then eventually the game.

I remember suddenly figuring out that when I was cornered, rather than escape being my first move, I needed to go on the offense. Threaten Andrew to keep him busy for a few moves so I could maneuver myself back to safety. Manipulative, yes, and highly effective tactic to start winning chess games against my brilliant then-boyfriend. It was a complete turnaround in my mindset. This is a great lesson when dealing with the problems of a production studio, or probably any problem in life. I’ve learned that my game plan for the week is basically like my plan at the beginning of a chess game to take Andrew’s king —it’s just a hope for a particular outcome. Attacks will come from all sides: stock will run short, things you were counting on to come out right won't, or you will get food poisoning and be in bed for 24 hours and lose a whole day of work, like what happened to me last Tuesday. You can squirm and howl as you try to stay on course, or you can just start walking in a new direction.

I was thinking about the chess thing a lot this past Wednesday as I tried to recover from losing a day in the studio when I really can’t afford it. One, the big Japan order sitting in my studio like a silent lumbering Tortoro. Two, I was about to take 5 days off to go to New York City. For fun. How can I take off like that when I have this big order looming? That’s just how I roll. Not really, but I love that expression and I never get to use it. Generally I don't roll; I wobble around, fall over, then spontaneously burst into flame. And Wednesday, I was combining that with convulsive jerky movements and shallow breathing. Then, I realized I was trying to do double the work in half the time, and even under the best of circumstances, that just never happens. I needed to change my mindset, re-strategize what I was trying to accomplish, go on the offense, and stop fucking scrambling. Turns out it was easy—I just needed to pay one of my helpers in for an extra day of work. As soon as I realized that I really didn't have to do it all by myself, the jerky movements stopped and I started breathing again. And then on Friday, I hopped on a plane to New York City.

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!

throwing demo

As it happens, at this moment I am writing from from the campus of Sierra Nevada College in Lake Tahoe. My pal Nick hooked me up with a guest artist gig here for a few days. I'm doing a presentation/lecture/throwing demonstration for the pottery classes here, and I'm kinda having a blast. I'm realizing that I really enjoy talking to students, showing them stuff, talking to them about my work, and giving demos. When Nick brought it up to me a while back, the idea of being a guest artist, I immediately felt a little bit nervous. I have remnants of shyness backed up way down deep inside, and in my head I was like, "No no no no no no." But of course I told Nick "Yes!" Then I had some ad hoc practice at Greenwich House Pottery in my friend's classes that he teaches there, so I felt pretty comfortable today, and I think it went really well. I have one more tomorrow. AND I'm being put up in the "Visiting Scholars Suite" that is pretty dang... sweet. My sister and husband are here to snowboard while I'm doing my thing, so I pretty much feel like I'm on vacation right now! I have open studio on Saturday and I need to fire off one more kiln, but I'm thinking we may stay an extra day anyway. Time off: good.

Timing is everything, and my good friend Frank finished my throwing demo video just the other day, so here it is people, enjoy. I'm going to get back to being visiting scholar now.


Dry throw demonstration from frank-e-t on Vimeo.

a little bit of art every day

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

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

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

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

escape

Last weekend I had a gigantic order for the Ansel Adams Gallery in Yosemite, and it was faster to drive to Yosemite and drop it off than to spend the day packing and shipping it, so that's what I did. I took my husband with me since it happened to be our wedding anniversary too. We rented one of those canvas tents that are usually packed with people during the summer, but on a Sunday-Monday in early spring it was pretty quiet. the dogwood trees were blooming like crazy so I was in heaven.

The scale of things in Yosemite is huge-- the rock faces, the waterfalls, the valley floor itself. One of the reasons why I am so inspired by nature is because nature is one of the few places where I can really forget about myself. You are no more insignificant than when you are out in nature because you are no more than a part of nature. Your human significance means absolutely nothing, you can be wiped out as quickly as anything else out there. Being out there, I can be reminded of my insignificance and I can easily forget about myself, my problems, my stress, my concerns. When I can let go of myself I am happy. I wanted to be in concert with Yosemite by letting go of my fear and worry and letting my imagination be as big as Half Dome. When I got back to the studio on Tuesday I threw aa big bowl and giant vase that I sculpted to look like a rock face. We'll see where it takes me.

soft landing

There have been no postings because I have been on Oahu staying with an old friend on the North shore, coming down from the high of my Japan residency. Of course I have my husband here with me too. I will be rejoining the world sometime next week!

a beautiful result

The Olsen kiln firing was a terrific success. Our experiments worked, and Ryoji said it was the best firing ever to come out of the Olsen kiln. There was a TV crew on hand to film the unloading, and we are all thrilled. Here are a couple of pictures from the site-- my work top pic, bottom pic from inside the kiln:

i like fire

We are still waiting on our baby, the Olsen kiln, to cool down enough to crack open tomorrow and pull our work and see if our little experiment of blowing in ash on one side and sawdust on the other worked to create more beautiful surfaces. Every evening, after dinner, certain members of our tribe have been taking the walk up past the apple orchard to visit the kiln, drink some sake, and pray a little

I just can’t wait to see what comes out. We are all hopeful but also prepared for disasters. We had a meeting last night to discuss improvements for future programs. My suggestion was that there be room for one more firing for those of us who didn’t get enough. I’ve discovered that I like fire. I like the rawness of the firings, the different personalities of the kilns, and attempting to control the heat. Three firings just isn’t enough. I feel like I’ve met a new lover but I’ve only been allowed a couple of dates. I’m a demanding girl so I want more, more more!

By the way, it was my birthday yesterday on July 27. I had one of the most fabulous birthdays ever. I was given lots of small gifts from my friends, and best of all, a group photo of all of us together with notes that everyone wrote to me. And there were birthday songs and other small gifts throughout the day. I was on the verge of tears to receive so much. I feel a deep affection and love for the people here, all so different yet so lovable, just like my friends back home. I can’t believe I will be leaving in a few days and some of them I will never see again. This program that happens here in Kanayama is amazing, but the people who I’ve met here make it magical. I have to stop typing now because I feel tears coming again.

final firing

We are in the middle of firing our last kiln, the Olsen kiln. There are only 6 of this type of Olsen kilns in the world, and they are tricky things to fire. For those of you who like to geek out on kilns, I refer you to this site where you can read all about it. This kiln was built a couple of years ago and has been fired a few times, and results have been boring. Brown, brown, and if you don’t like brown—well, still more brown.

We had several hours of group discussion on how to change the results: How to load the work in, should we build walls inside, should we blow in sawdust or ash or both, how to adjust the airflow… The airflow element is fascinating because this kiln has 4 chimneys, three in the back and one on the side, across from two stoking chambers. It’s referred to as the three queens and a king. At one point in the discussion I wrote a note to Kristin, “Are we in a senior seminar?” Then we both straightened up when we realized at the same moment that yes indeed, we are.

It took 8 hours to load the Olsen kiln, and we’ve been babying it along, raising the temperature very slowly to protect the big work that will only fit in this kiln. I’ve worked two shifts and at some point I started to feel very connected to this kiln. I loved stoking the different sides and observing their differences: how the anagama side would shoot the temperature up like a hot-headed teenager, how the groundhog side would shower beautiful sparks when I dropped the wood in, like little fire butterflies. My shift was done at 8 PM but I went back out there after midnight last night and hung out till almost 4 AM, I really did not want to leave. The kiln was getting hotter, some of my arm hair got burned off, and we just kept feeding our baby wood. By now we were off the smaller pieces and on to the big square chunks, and the kiln just ate it up. It really is starting to seem like a person.

more beautiful disasters

I’ve written before about the importance of letting go as a general philosophy. This philosophy is imperative if you are a ceramic artist, working with a material that breaks, cracks, explodes, sticks to the kiln shelf, and the hundreds if other things that can go wrong when you work with clay. I slaved over this butterfly piece, one of the handbuilt pieces I made during my break from the wheel. In the process I got very attached. I got so attached that after I finished it and dried it very slowly, nursing it like a little baby, I decided to take a picture of it before I put it in the Olsen kiln, our final firing as a group. I thought it needed a beautiful natural background so I picked it up to take it to the proper place. I still don’t know what happened, I think I was holding it in the middle and the wings were too heavy, and it fell apart in my hands. Everyone was so upset because they knew I spent a whole day making it and a half day beautifying it, and there was a tense moment as my studio mates watched to see what would happen next. I just shrugged and said, “I’ll make another, and it’ll be better, not so damn heavy”. Well, you know I didn't say "damn", but another word... Anyway, tension released. The work that has gotten destroyed around here could break anyone’s heart: two of Park’s effortless teapots shattered during a clumsy moment, Madhur’s sculpted ram lost his horns, Hwang’s life-size table developed a crack during drying, a collapsed composite vase, and a half dozen other things that went awry at some point. No one cries, no one complains. It’s clay, and you just make another.

one master leaves

Our time is running out here at Kanayama, and certain members of our program have duties to return to at home. Today we are celebrating with Park Kook-Hyun, as he prepares to return to Korea early tomorrow morning. Park-san is one of the top three Unggi masters in Korea, and it has been an amazing honor to work in the same room with him. He has also provided all of us with more laughter than we could have possibly imagined with his frat boy sense of humor, his “mushroom" pots, and perpetual drinking of soju throughout the day. Park is also a very kind person, always ready to share his "Korean water", clay technique, and dirty jokes. We’ll miss you Park-san!

4 am

The sun is rising, birds are singing, and the kilns are burning.

This is a special kiln that Ryoji designed specifically for creating consistent wood ash effects called a Hai Kaburi. There was a detailed article written about it in the June/July 2006 Ceramics Monthly for those of you interested. This baby eats wood like the monster it is; once it reaches temperature you stoke it for 24 hours straight firing at 1250 degrees Celsius. Below is a picture of Ryoji bringing reinforcements-- this is one of three pallets of wood we burned. When you stoke, the fire is leaping out at you and the heat is incredible. Stoking happens about every 8-12 minutes, and you need that downtime just to make sure you didn't catch on fire anywhere. I was feeling pretty dang studly when my shift ended at 8 am this morning, just in time to feel some aftershocks from the earthquake.