I Sometimes Wonder...

...Where are they now?
Do other potters think like me? Wonder who bought the pot, did it get used? did it get stuffed into a cabinet, or high on a shelf?  Or did it get broken, and carted away to landfill?
When I make a teapot, it has to work as a teapot, no matter how far from the traditional shape it may be.
This one was for a gallery in Knaresborough, 1988.
Inspired by Maurice Sendak.

"Leaves in My Virginia!"

A Local Doc, over Rocky Lunchtime Bourbon, Speaks of Barter and Hopeful Home Remedies

 

Nostrums? Lordy, I have seen them all.

Alcohol’s the favorite. Many a quack’s

panacea bottled in a cellar and hawked

from door to door is thriving still.

Bindweed’s supposed to heal a bruise.

Cherokee remedies still survive,

and slave recipes—hyssop, juniper, chives.

Waitress, freshen this elixir, if you please.

One day a hefty woman who works a loom

down at Pepperell Mills sauntered in

with no appointment and perched herself prim

as an English queen in the waiting room.

What happened next? For a prolapsed

uterus, folk medicine recommends

inserting an Irish potato. It works,

if you can stand the weight, my friends.

Well, she’d relied on that specific

since winter. We’d hit, you understand, July,

and her complaint, not one bit shy,

was, Leaves in my virginia. Not beatific,

no, but she was composed, no maniac,

and it made some sense. What better place

than a protected pocket, warm and moist?

But the spud had sprouted, sent runners amok.

You never know in these flatland burley

counties if your manual skills will bloom

as sawbones or private gardener. Deftly,

I removed the obstruction and took it home.

I’ve raised a whole colony in my window box,

and bake, fry, or boil, I’m proud as hell

of this year’s crop. The woman paid her bill

with eggs and applejack. Life is a paradox.

Now I’ve got to rush back and tend my flock.

Got appointments at four—a pregnant lady,

a leg to set, twins to inspect for chicken pox,

and Marvin with his routine emergency.

I guess you could say my practice is thriving.

Drop by, and I’ll fry you up some shallot

hash browns in Margie’s seasoned skillet,

a flavor I can promise is sure to revive

any ailing soul. Where do I get my onions?

Don’t ask. The whole sweet world is a garden

R. T. Smith

Flat Eric, Released!

 No, of course you have no idea who Flat Eric is. I forgive you.
You might be advised to go visit an earlier post, if you're curious.
http://gritinthegears.blogspot.com/2009/08/flat-eric-remembered.html

Flat Eric stars here, with Pharrel Williams in a guest-star role.
Phlat Eric, I mean.

Eric hit our screens in some condensed movie-like ads for Levis, way back. I guess hes been in jail since 1999.
Ever have one of those dreams?



P.S. Mr Oizo says"This film may never be made, Enjoy"

Layabout, by John Brehm

Do nothing and everything will be done,

that's what Mr. Lao Tzu said, who walked

around talking 2,500 years ago and

now his books practically grow on trees

they're so popular and if he were

alive today beautiful women would

rush up to him like waves lapping

at the shores of his wisdom.

That's the way it is, I guess: humbling.

But if I could just unclench my fists,

empty out my eyes, turn my mind into

a prayer flag for the wind to play with,

we could be brothers, him the older one

who's seen and not done it all and me

still unlearning, both of us slung low

in our hammocks, our hats tipped

forwards, hands folded neatly,

like bamboo huts, above our hearts

From long ago

This was a stack of bowls,separated by clay wads, made from the field clay from behind the pottery, in southern Finland, they were too close to the flame path, and warped and fused. The flame was slightly reduced, too, you can see where there is a broken fragment the red iron in the clay has become black, Fe2O3 becomes Fe3O4. And reduction has a strong fluxing effect on red clay.

I rather like this thing, pity about the broken bit though. The bloke I know who'd understand why I like this is Matt Grimmitt.
Hey Matt! What's going on? no posts for a while?

Phew! First Bisque Firing Results

Now I know that to all you seasoned potters out there, my little kiln firing is a trivial event.
I've had twenty odd (some very odd) years of becoming unseasoned, forgetting how to do all this. And I'm a man, so, of course, I'm not going to ask for instructions, or look it up. I reason that it's all been in my head once, and that somehow it will surface when needed, and if not, I'll try bluffing. or guessing
And I've never in my life ever fired a little round toploader, so I'm going to program the electronic minder and hope for the best. (I was, by the way, the first potter I knew to have computerised kiln control, back in 1985, it proved to me that computers can screw up just as well as humans). I kinda yearn for the old days of trudging out to the kiln shed in the pouring rain, to adjust gas and air, peek inside the glowing box, and sit on log, waiting, at past mdnight, for that cone-tip to bend down and kiss the shelf.
More nostalgia would include splitting wood all night and feeding it into the ever hungry bourry-box, one memorable firing, we had a crate of beer, and whisky, and the northern lights. And rye-bread, and cheese, toasting at the firemouth, potatoes in a pit of ashes. Mmm.  the firing was good, but a knotty log sprang back and whacked my hand, which swelled up in a bone-broken sort of way, before dawn.
At the time, I felt no pain.

Anyway, no further suspense, ta-daa!!!!  No disasters!

Fortune sometimes smiles on fools.

The alchemy of flame (well, glowing hot bits of wire) has worked its magic. Because the load was tightly packed at the bottom, and fairly empty at the top, I set it to soak for ten minutes at top temp, probably not really needed, but it all looks pretty even.

I'm inordinately happy with this one, disproportionately so. It was born of some wild clay, just up the road from where I was living, the field had been sold for building land. When the backhoes were busy digging foundations, I went in, and stole a digger-bucket's worth of clay. after no more preparation than a bit of wedging and slamming, it threw beautifully, really strong and plastic.

At the time, I was planning to pitch these to various mediaeval history venues, I'd done quite a bit of work before for archeaology units, museums, living history, etc, but the making of these coincided with some rather negative life-changes for me, so they got shoved, along with a load of other remnants of an earlier life, on a shelf, out of sight, out of mind. I always, however, harboured the idea that one day, one day, I'd come back to clay, and fire them. The source of that clay's under a housing estate and a school now.

And nothing collapsed or cracked in the firing.

I was at a wedding reception, whilst the trusty kiln controller did all this. I was only a little bit nervous.
Phew!

Into the Archives. and First Bisque Firing!!!

Up early on saturday, across town to get into my basement store before the road closes, (they're resurfacing it after the frosts destroyed it), I'm rummaging, because I know there are some unfired pieces, wrapped in newspaper, and this weekend... ta-----daaaa! I intend the ceremonial first firing of my kiln.
I thought of doing a full scale dry-fire test, but hey, let's do russian roulette, put everything in and throw caution to the winds!

No greenware in this box, but a few promising platters.

I did find them eventually, I'd totally forgotten that I had a few teapots in there.

And in particular a BIG teapot. Oh I love teapots.

Next comes the kiln packing. Awkward, as I only have the one shelf.. Damn. Next tuesday I'll get some more, but that's my first opportunity. So, stack the big things as carefully as possible, and start inserting the smaller pieces. It's like a pit-firing but without the cushioning effect of fuel. May get a few breakages.
fingers crossed, phew. Update tomorrow....

Warning, by Jenny Joseph

This is in response to the excellent poem, “What Do Women Want?”, by Kim Addonizio, posted by Red Dirt Girl, at Through the Garden Gate.

Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
Jenny Joseph

Jenny Joseph wrote this in 1962. I'm not sure if she's wearing purple yet.