Go, Snail, Go!

The months of October through December have collectively become what we here in the Holman house call, "THE SALE".  All energy goes to THE SALE.  Our calendar, clock, menu and bowel movements are set by THE SALE.  Each year has brought growth, and we have gone from packing up just the studio/school room, to now packing two more rooms as well.  It's like moving 1/3 of our house once a year.  Somewhere between Vomiting Kids and Flooded Kitchen on the Annoying Scale.

This year I wanted to really begin to focus my art more on things I enjoyed making and less on "something for your granny"; to ditch scarves or generic earrings - gifts that would appeal to the masses- in favor of bigger pottery pieces and jewelry items I really like (and will wear if they don't sell).  The risk paid off, and my own personal sales shot up by about 50% over last year.  It felt good.  No, wait,
IT FELT GREAT!

But to make that happen, I had to spend 4 hours a night, usually 6 nights a week, for about 8 months, in the studio.  In the final weeks before THE SALE, I was in the studio up to 15 hours a day.  I got three things out of this schedule:

* A studio-load of pottery and jewelry, of which I am very proud.

* A repetitive stress injury to my neck from having my head hanging over my lap for 40+ hours a week.

* A sadly neglected blog.

Which wouldn't bother me so much... if it didn't BOTHER me so much!!!  This is (sadly) my journal.  It is our family history.  It is where I catalog the memories that my rusty lobes refuse to record! Without my blog, I seriously can only remember general events, like "went to Southern California", and no details.  It's like looking at a blurry photo.  It makes me sad.

So, my fellow Resolution Makers, this is mine:

 I'm back.

 (and now that I've said it I actually have to do it... some call it accountability, I call it how embarrassing if I don't!!!)

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A note about the piece of pottery above: I made eight items in this style; my take on Sgraffito, a process where black liquid-clay is painted over white clay, and then carved into to reveal the white clay beneath.  It's a very sexy process.  I sold most of them before they were even completed, and had a few folks jockeying for the same pieces.  It was so exciting!  Well, exciting like really polite snail races, if you're really into snail races, and if your snail is going to be bringing in a shell full of cash at the end (I'm picturing a little smiling snail with a wreath of flowers around his neck, like at the Kentucky Derby).

This particular little pretty (the pot, not the snail) went to live with my hubby's co-worker, who, upon seeing a photo, declared it to be hers!  I LOVE letting my pottery babies go to live with people who love them that much!

And on a second note, one of the pieces took me 32 hours to carve, so GO, SNAIL, GO!!!!

Dry Spell

"Water water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink!"

In other words, like the ancient mariner, lost at sea (man, that dude comes up a lot for me lately), I am adrift in a sea of projects, so much so that it looks, here, as though I am doing nothing at all.

But I promise.  I am.  Busy bee, that's me.

I am getting read for my annual Open Studio Art Sale!  Year four, and really working hard.  My sale is the only way our family can afford to have Christmas, so it's a pretty big deal to me.  All other worthy and partially completed projects have hit pause (don't lose faith in me, Ellen!).  I am working till about 2 am each day, and when we aren't doing school, I can be found in the studio (except when I'm at rehearsal, but more on that later). The children are raising themselves for the next few weeks.  I wish them very well.  Don't ask me about my house.  I will just get crabby at you.

There have been a few glitches this year with my sale.  I really have focused a lot of energy on pottery, since people seem reluctant to pound a nail in their wall to hang a painting (it's a little hole people, not a remodel!), but bringing home a pretty little vase or bowl seems less intimidating (if you decide later it was a mistake, you can just stick it in the bathroom cupboard to hold Q-tips and floss, right?).  I was so excited and nervous to fire up my kiln for the first time!  I loaded it three levels deep with shelves on pillars, and then unloaded it (oops, forgot to put in the pyrometric cone plaques - little cones of clay that melt at a certain heat so you know when your kiln is hot enough), then reloaded it, then unloaded it to move all the support pillars (it turns out that to peek in to actually SEE the cone plaques, you probably shouldn't block the peep holes with supports), then LOADED IT.  At one point, because I was holding it wrong, as I leaned over with the largest, most beautiful bowl I have ever made, the weight of the bowl snapped the edge I held, sending it crashing down on top of two more bowls, breaking all three.  The lessons in patience go on and on.  But finally, I was all loaded, thrice and for all.

I checked and triple checked to make sure everything was in order.  I nervously pushed the on switch, and then parked my booty on the cement floor to see the show.

Ever watched paint dry?  Yeah, it goes a smidgen faster than firing a kiln, only you don't get that fume-induced euphoria.  After a while my ol' lady butt asked why we were sitting on cement, and I decided that the mosey-in-and-out method of kiln watching better suited me.  All went quite well until it was time to switch to high-fire (begin suspenseful music, here).

Click.  Off.

Blew a breaker.  Popped it back on.  Lather, rinse, repeat x 2.

It turns out that my kiln isn't like my jeans.  Even though my tush is a definite 14, I can squeeeeeeze into a stretchy 12 if I'm slightly dehydrated and had a lot of fiber the day before.  But no amount of greasing the zipper and hanging upside-down off the bed will let you squeeze 30.5 amps through a 30 amp breaker (wow, not just TMI, but TMI with visuals.  You're welcome).

The solution?  Well, the short answer is an electrician and $500, but the truth entails many trips to a ceramics studio 12 miles away and the loss of several pots in transit, because, well, I don't pack well, that's why.

So what looks like the Blog Sahara Desert is really an underground river, moving fast and hard (or a tornado, by the look of my house).  I'm here somewhere under two coats of glaze, a pile of wool, three layers of candle wax and a stack of beads, but I promise I will post as soon as I get my first load back from being fired.

*****

If you are interested and live locally, the girls and I are in a musical production that opens this weekend and plays through December 5th, called "Savior of the World".  It is the biblical account of the birth of Jesus Christ put to lovely music and with an awesome cast.  I am honored to play the mother of Mary.  And my girls?  Well, they are the best "towns people" you ever laid eyes on!

Click here for more information or to get free tickets!

A Lump of Clay

Last night I cut a large slab
of dark grey clay off the the block and got ready to wedge it.  I held it up and said, "Become something beautiful!", as if willing it to do so were enough.

A few minutes later as I sat down to the potter's wheel to throw, I asked Adam to carefully move the pots that I had thrown yesterday that were in my way. 

Do you see it coming?

I didn't see Adam pick up two pots at once, but about 10 seconds later I heard the dull thud and rumbly shatter of unfired greenware crashing onto the plaster slab.  I closed my eyes and gave a quiet (well, maybe not so quiet) sigh.  In the past three sessions of pottery making, I have lost one piece of pottery for every five I have thrown, either to sneeky toddler mits or to my own clumsiness. Frustration has been my pottery pal lately.  When I opened my eyes, Adam's huge, tragic, questioning eyes were settled on mine, his eyebrows nearly fused in the middle in remorse.

"It's just clay.  I can ake a new one" I mustered, an insincere warble in my voice, a hint of annoyance in my tone.  It had been the biggest and best pot I had managed to eek off the wheel in a year.  A large lump of clay is hard to center, and challenging to lift into a thin walled vessel that doesn't collapse.  But the look on his face told me that his heart was more fragile than that brittle clay pot.

The sadder he felt the less the pot mattered to me.  I shook off my pride.  "Adam, your heart means more to me than some dumb old pot" I said, this time with true conviction.  How many times have I made one of my children feel badly about something that really didn't matter at all?  Not today.  His face relaxed.  He cleaned up the mess.  I smilled at him and went back to my waiting lump of clay.

I am getting ready for my second Open Studio Sale.  I have gotten a late start on things, and as of today even decided I must postpone the sale a couple of weeks.  Broken washer.  Broken computer.  Broken pottery.

So during the day I do school with the kids, and sometimes a little laundry when the washer is cooperating.  And from 9 to midnight I work in the studio.  I hope each night that I can make something beautiful, but more important, I need to remember each day not to destroy the work of another Potter.

Heavenly Father gave me the job of tending his little vessels, his beautiful creations-in-progress.  I am a real clutz about it sometimes.  I forget how tender little feelings are.  I focus too much on the "teaching" and "disciplining" and not enough on the message being sent in my tone of voice, my expression... my sighs. 



I am a work in progress, too.

Aren't we all just lumps of clay?

Isaiah 64:8 But now, O Lord, thou art our father; we are the clay,

and thou our potter; and we all are the work of thy hand.

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Other works in progress...