perfect : not perfect

Trying to solve an old problem can often create new ones, and then in the process of trying to solve the new problem, a whole new idea can emerge. A while back I wrote about trying to solve the problem of efficiency with my dogwood pieces. I have been experimenting with sculpting the dogwood flowers separately from the piece rather than sculpting them directly onto the piece, then attaching them after they have been glazed. Well, it's still in the testing phase, because sometimes it comes out perfect, sometimes... not perfect.

The main problem is the flowers sliding off during the firing. I mostly solved this problem by throwing the bowls flatter on top so the flowers don't have a little hill to slide down. But still, I have this piece that's great except for the flower hanging off the side. I know some people will find this charming and buy it anyway, but then there's this empty spot where the flower was. And then on a couple of pieces, the flower started to slide down but got stuck early on, so the flowers is still on top, but flipped up on its side.

To fix up a few of these pieces, I sculpted some dogwood flowers and glazed and fired them all by themselves, with the intention of epoxying the flowers to the empty spots. Not perfect, but better then throwing them away. When the flowers came out of the kiln, I thought how gorgeous they looked, just sitting there by themselves. Then I started imagining a beautifully set table, with vases of flowers and the ceramic dogwood flowers scattered all over the table, like they had fallen from trees. Perfect for somebody having guests over for a special dinner!

Now that I have a new product, it's a question of how to sell it. I made as many flowers as I could in three hours, and they come down to $5 a flower... wholesale. Not likely to be a big hit with most of my customers at that price. In my daydream time in the coming weeks I will be thinking about how to bring the price down: have the flowers molded? make them bigger? hire some oompa-loompas to live in my studio and make them? One way or the other, sometime this year you will be able to buy a package of ceramic dogwood flowers to scatter on your table, and I hope you don't have to gulp as you hand over your credit card!

a rotten, horrible, nasty, very bad show

I have been doing craft shows for 8 years now. I used to completely rely on them for my income, and I did many many shows, street fairs mostly. I don't knock street fairs because they helped me survive as a full-time artist for a couple of years. And it was in doing these shows where I paid my dues, and continue to occasionally pay my dues. If I have given anyone the impression that I don't suffer for my art, let me now enlighten you. I suffer. I suffer at these shows.

Since I am totally masochistic, I actually get very excited about shows. I love setting up my little display, creating gorgeous flower arrangements in my vases, dressing up in my cool outfits. Since I usually look like a cross between a street urchin and a mud wrestler in my usual day to day attire, I never hesitate to buy beautiful clothes with the idea that I will look so damn cute selling my pottery in these shoes. Since I am what is considered an "established" artist, I can count on these shows to bring in a certain amount of income, I usually don't think too much about not doing well.

It wasn't always like this. Like I said, I paid my dues. I've done many shows where I've stood around all weekend and been alternately bored, angry, sad, and downright depressed as I watch my neighbors rake in the cash and I rake in admirers who have no money. I did one show in Napa about 7 years ago where I sold 3 things all weekend. THREE THINGS! I was so bummed out that I got outrageously drunk during the show-- this was Napa and it was a wine and music thing after all-- and cried so drunkenly and so loudly in the bathroom that everyone heard me. And then there was the time in Santa Monica when my car got towed from in front of my sister's house the morning of the show, another exhibitor broke my best piece, and I had a bad case of laryngitis and couldn't even complain at the volume I like to. And another time when I did a show in Blackhawk--very upscale, very exclusive gated community-- and received not a glance from the patrons. Early on in the show, a little old lady wearing a Chanel suit and pearls came up to me, grabbed my best piece with both hands, paid for it in cash, and said bluntly, "You're not going to sell anything here". I said, "I think I'll do alright". I was not offended, but amused by her approach. "No," she said, "the people here know nothing of beauty, they hire interior designers to purchase things. They'll buy that crap over there" she snorted, gesturing toward one of my neighbors, who shall go unnamed. I just shrugged and said, "We''ll see", though I had to wonder if she was a future incarnation of myself, especially when she said the word "crap". Unfortunately, she was right, and despite being located next to a fully stocked bar tended by a sympathetic and attractive youngster, that was one show where I packed up and left hours before closing. Insult me, put me down, hate on my pottery, but nobody ignores me. And if they do... well see ya later!

I tell these stories with wry amusement because they are my war stories, and I can laugh now because I generally don't have bad shows anymore, and even what I consider a bad show is way better than what most people do at the same show. I never gloat-- though I do celebrate-- and I don't spend time being a complainer except at home. Today, I had a glaring exception. I had such a bad day that it rivals the Napa show, and in my household, that's saying something. Napa is an iconic show of badness, so bad that when I have a bad day, me or my husband will say, "Well, at least it's not Napa". Today was Napa. Today was Napa squared.

I must have learned something in these years, because I didn't cry, I didn't get drunk-- not at the show anyway-- and I complained only to my closest friends and husband. I'm kind of bummed about the poor show, because I could have spent the weekend hiking or petting my cat, but not depressed or really upset, just surprised. Wow, nobody bought my work today except for a few lucky souls. Hmmmmmmmm.

art work

When one is an artist trying to make money off the art, there is always a point at which your art turns into a business. Many working artists resist this notion because to our minds, art is pure and should not be tainted by things such as money and commerce. We struggle with the business end of our art because we are artists, not accountants, and we are artistic, not number crunchers.

There is also the matter of continuing to reap enjoyment from something that has become... work. Many of us fear turning our creativity into a money making venture because we don't want to lose the pleasure in creating, or lose our focus in the creative process when we have to sell sell sell.

I started thinking about this many years ago when I started referring to what I did in my studio as "work", as in "I'm going to work now!" when I left my home in the morning. While it gave me a certain stick-it-to-the-man pleasure to refer to my pottery studio as a work place, I was also disturbed that there wasn't another word for what I did, since the word "work" seemed like something you would do in an office building under the eyeball of a boss. I tried to come up with a new word because I was afraid that if I kept using the word "work" I would somehow lose my freedom of expression or my sensibility would become dull.

I did not succeed in coming up with another word that didn't sound totally contrived to describe what I do during the day. I go to my studio and work-- that's it. And there are certain realities I have had to learn to deal with as a full-time self-employed artist, and these are the risks of being a working artist. While it gives me great pleasure to work with clay, I don't make my pots solely for pleasure, I mostly do it so I can avoid having to move into that office building. Sometimes I have to make things I don't feel like making. And I have to spend a lot of time doing things I don't really want to do, like ordering supplies, fussing with paperwork, paying bills. Sometimes I complain to myself about this stuff, resist doing it. But when I can walk by that office building and not into it, I feel like I'm still sticking it to the man, and that feeling is worth it!

hope & despair

Pottery is all about letting go. My hopes and expectations are constantly mocked as my favorite matte green glaze comes out a different shade each firing, hairline cracks appear in pots that cooled too quickly, stuff blows up during bisque firings, glazes run over a beautifully rendered design, pots stick to the kiln shelf, other cracks come out of nowhere. Hope soars when I turn on the kiln for a firing, despair crashes in as I pull the pots out and I am forced --once again-- to reckon with my shortfalls as an artist and human being. All elements of my personality are expressed in my pots, the good and the bad, and I see it all.

Not to mention the fact that all pottery is breakable, and most of it breaks eventually. When I think of the balancing act I have to enact each day as I make my pottery, the futility of it all can sometimes be overwhelming. I will literally lay down on the floor of my studio, stare at the ceiling, and wonder why I bother spending my life making beautiful stuff that is obviously useless to the world.

After I'm done feeling very sorry for myself and the sad life I lead, I make more pots. I feel I owe it to my pots to never cry or get drunk when I'm making them, and to never lose faith that they will continue to be made. Potters are a hardy group of people-- we have to be. No matter how good you are, you are still subject to a vast landscape of imperfection. Beatrice Wood, an internationally known potter who lived near Santa Barbara and who died in 1998, wrote in her autobiography that there were times, even late in her career, where she would open the kiln and just want to give up. I think about Beatrice and all the other potters I know who keep making their pots despite their despair, and I quietly chant to myself, "Let it go, let it go, let it go".

a good, solid, soul-baring rut

Being in a rut totally sucks, and something that every human being will work themselves into eventually, more than once. While ruts are depressing and even debilitating, they are also a signal from the soul that a change is needed. I've started thinking about this because I have many artists in my life right now who are experiencing creative ruts and even depression. They all do very different things, but the symptoms are all the same: The feeling that your work is dull and going nowhere, fear that you will never be as good as you once were, and the wish to do something completely different and yet the complete inability to imagine what that may be.

I was in a serious rut about three years ago with my own work. I had chronic pain in my neck and shoulders from production throwing, I worked 40 hours a week in my studio yet I had no money in my savings account, and as I marched to my studio every day, I was tired and grumpy before I even walked through the door. It was while in this weakened state that I was approached by a California company that owned several ceramic factories in China, and they had a fistful of cash and a proposed contract to license my designs and produce them in Asia. In the face of many reservations and even my own personal pledge to never go to China to have my stuff made, I signed off on the deal. I was sold on the dream that I could move to Italy with my husband, fax in designs, and live off the royalties.

As the collection came in from the factories, I slowly woke up to the fact that China was not going to save me. While my factory collection had superficial appeal, it lacked magic and much of the detail work was sloppy. It was exciting to see "Whitney Smith Pottery" stamped on the bottom of each item, but right underneath my name were the words, "Made in China". In the end, I was forced to admit to myself that I sold out.

Despite this, I have no regrets designing a collection for this company. All of these images to the right are items from my China collection, and the bottom one was an ad for Neiman Marcus. The experience taught me some valuable lessons and techniques, and also gave me some breathing room financially to start firguring out a new plan for myself. The rut I was in, while deeply unpleasant, paved a path for me to move forward. The rut presented me with a set of choices I would otherwise have not considered, and took me places I could not have predicted. In retrospect, I am grateful for the opportunities my rut provided me.

So while I watch my friends work out their own ruts, I at once feel their anxiety and fear, and my own excitement for them as they grapple with what's next. All of my friends are so smart, so creative and visionary, I know they will come out of their ruts and move on to a better life, just like I did.

season to season

When you think a season or two in front of the one that you are actually living in, time goes by at a turbospeed. Here we are, right at the beginning of November, and in my mind I'm already in Spring. I'm preparing for the New York Gift Show in late January and planning my spring collection that I will be showing there; themes, colors, ideas. There are also other shows to apply and plan for, most of which take place well into 2007. While the mad Christmas season descends upon us, I'm also forced to live in the ever-present now while I pack and ship orders for my wholesale accounts and try to make enough pots for my retail customers. It's enough to make a sane human being want to book a one-way ticket to Hawaii.


Probably the thing that I find most distressing about this lifestyle is watching the seasons whipping by me and feeling as if I'm missing out on enjoying each season as it comes. I know that many people-- no matter what their occupation-- are too busy to enjoy the changing seasons. This last week has been especially hard for me. As summer finally slowly slipped away from the Bay Area and day temperatures dropped from the 70's into the low 60's, I was stuck in the studio for 9 straight days trying to catch up on the orders that were running late due to a variety of circumstances. I kept looking out my windows at the last of the sunny days and thinking, "I'll be out there soon! Just hang on!" The most I can manage on these days is a walk around the neighborhood, trying to enjoy what the season has to offer at that moment, and take a breath.

working art

One of the most frequent questions I get asked is how I got into doing what I do, what art school I went to, and how I manage to make a living at being an artist. I get emails from art students all over the country who ask me this. In our culture and many others, artists hold a special place in society and are worshipped as almost supernatural beings. As an artist, I am constantly admired for what I do. At the same time, the idea that you have to be someone really special to be an artist has the effect of discouraging many people from making art a career. Creating art is generally looked upon as a hobby, or something one does on the side when not working at a "real" job. People are fascinated and intrigued when they meet someone who is a full-time artist, and always want to know what my secret is.

I don't have a secret, but I really wish I had supernatural powers. I always wanted to be an artist when I grew up, and I thought I would be a painter. I started painting when I was still in diapers, and that seemed to be where my talent lay. I went to a high school on the east coast that had an excellent art program for students who were planning on going to art school. At the time, I thought art school was the only place that could show me the way to an artist's life. As I approached my senior year though, it was becoming clear that I had little motivation to apply to any schools-- I was barely attending high school by this point-- much less do the work to get the scholarships and grants I would need to pay for the expensive art schools I was interested in.

In the end, after moving myself to California and spending a few years hanging out on the beaches of Santa Cruz, I skipped art school in favor of a degree in another subject that fascinates me, Anthropology. I went to UCSC where I learned to think critically, sharpen my writing skills, and acquire knowledge in many different fields I don't think I would have had the opportunity to delve into had I been ensconced in an art school. I took my first clay throwing classes at Cabrillo, a junior college (where I also met my husband, Andrew; that was a fabulous semester), and got my first job with ceramicist Sandi Dihl as a clay assistant within the year. That was my version of art school, and that's where I learned how to be an artist for a living. I can say without reservation that working for Sandi was the single most valuable experience I had in learning how to make art a business. Eeeew! Two words that should not go together? That will be a subject for another day...

Okay, I do have a secret, and this is it: If you want to be an artist for a living, work for another artist who is doing what you want to do. There is not an artist that I know that doesn't need some kind of help in their studio. If you know how to work and show up when you say you're going to show up, call up a professional artist right now and get yourself hired. You might not get paid very much, or anything at all, but to my mind, it's better than paying that $35,000 a year tuition at art school!