making of an artist

continued...

from September 22 and September 24 posts

Years later catholic imagery found its way into my art work.

The only art class I took, as they did not teach art in the parochial schools, was at the museum of fine arts one summer. It lasted one week. I made a linotype print, but don’t remember much about that other than the fun of cutting into the linoleum. The product of that endeavor did not survive but what did and is in our foyer today is a lumpy clay bowl, crudely hand built and fired a murky green color. Mother told me to make sure I put the date on the bottom and so I carefully carved out

AC

THUR

No indication from that project that I would ever have a skill with clay. 

In college I chose to major in English literature. This was at a time when a woman, even with a college degree had little opportunity if not in the fields of nursing, secretarial, or teaching.  I just trusted that something would come along. English literature was great because of my love for reading, but also, as I discovered later all the “arty” students were in this program. And I yearned to be “arty”. This was the heart of the 60s. From 1963- 1967 I was at the University of St. Thomas, a small liberal arts college in Houston. During these exciting years radical change was like oxygen in the air, it was everywhere, it was consumable and life giving. I drank it up. The music, sexual revolution, hippies, beginnings of contemporary feminism, radical political movements created a euphoria of collective bliss, but the Viet Nam war (with its attendant death of acquaintances, and friends terror at the possibility of being drafted)  and the loss of the Kennedys and Martin Luther King and such gut wrenching violence swept us up in shared sadness. And of course, there were the drugs. Lots of them and everywhere. Being alive and being a young adult in these times was a gift I have often, over the years pondered with gratitude.

After college I had to face the hard reality of not being employable. I couldn’t even type. I took a job at Eastern Airlines and traveled the world instead of teaching, nursing or getting coffee for my boss. Not a bad trade off for awhile. Although other then the fringe benefits, it was deadly boring and when my boyfriend, Ron suggested that I meet his friends Peggy and Barry because Peggy was a potter I jumped at the chance. Peggy had a kick wheel in a side room of her house. The shelves there were covered with her thrown mugs, bowls, tea pots and plates. Some were freshly made, dark, moist and cool, some bone dry waiting for their first firing, looking dusty and pale and still others were flesh colored after being bisque fired ready to be glazed.

Now Peggy and Barry were interesting. They had an open marriage and asked Ron and I if we’d like to participate in a foursome.

No thank you.

Kinky though they were as a couple Peggy’s pots inspired me. She suggested that I take a class at the art museum, a pottery class taught by Gary Huntoon, who amazingly is still a production potter in Houston. This was 1970, many years ago.

I walked into that class and took one whiff of the clay and it was all over. I was hooked. I was a perfectly terrible potter, but I improved over time.

So throughout the 70s I was a potter. I loved the process, the wheel, the slick, sensuous feel of the clay centered in my hands. The grace of pulling up a wall for a bowl, the satisfaction of a lid that fit perfectly or a teapot that poured without a drip. I loved making my own glazes, building kilns and most of all I loved firing those kilns.

As Keith Richards says “I am not an arson, but I am a pyromaniac.”

The pots would be glazed; this process took a day or two. Then the kiln was loaded. Kiln shelves are heavy, really heavy and often you’d have to cantilever your body over the door of the kiln and gently place the shelf on top of the bricks that were stacked on the lower shelf. No pots touched or they would glaze together forever. But you wanted to have them as close as possible without touching because kiln space was precious and the gas used was expensive. When the kiln was loaded the door was bricked shut, gaps would be stuffed with a high refractory cotton like fiber called kaowool to hold in the heat.

Early the next morning I arrived at the pottery and candled the gas flame. I opened the flue, but kept open the peep holes in the door (where you were able to look into the kiln to watch the “cones”. The cones were small cone shaped objects that were calculated to melt and bend at certain temperatures; we fired our stoneware and porcelain to cone 10 or about 2000 F.) We left these open for the first few hours so moisture could escape the kiln. If this was not done than there was the possibility of pots exploding as the moisture would blow out of the pots too quickly. One blown pot could destroy and entire kiln load of work... 80 -100 pieces.

As the day progressed and the flame was increased the kiln changed from a dark, black interior to dull red to finally a white heat that was like looking at the sun. This took all day, into the dark of the evening.  Oh course the gas or wood kilns were built outside away from anything combustible, like fences or trees. At the very end when the final cone fell I pushed in the damper (flue) in a process called “reduction”, reducing air flow and the fire starving for oxygen would send out orange tongues of flames from every crack and crevice. In the darkness of night this created a dragon-like image. The kiln was alive with a magical energy as it roared and belched fire.  It was almost erotic. In the process of seeking oxygen for fuel it robbed the glazes and clay of its oxygen molecules and only then could I get oxblood red, or celadon greens, iron temoku, or unctuous creamy whites, rutile blues and pinks. And stoneware clay would turn a warm, nutty brown.

to be continued....