The Year 2014

Looking back at the year, I feel a sad regret that so much of my time was spent out of the studio, struggling with writing and reading, travelling and seeking.

Starting about this time last year, I made two large pots which took me to challenges I had not faced before and about 35 tiny fold-up pots that taught me the humility of the artisan; the  painstaking work of controlling objects smaller than you and the muscle-building work of attacking a pot bigger than your arm.

I wanted to slow down production, to make everything count.  Instead, I had to turn my back on ceramic for most of the time.  I allowed that to happen.

For next year, I have a challenge that has to be faced: a mural inspired by the cobbled sidewalks of Lisbon.  I am back on the blog, this time monthly, to chart the progress of the plan.

First up: buy enough clay to finish the job.

Back to Sculpture

Started yesterday a large piece working in a different way.  Made a drawing indicating overall dimensions and planes, and some of the marks that might end up in there. Then, using Earthstone Original (2 bags found in the workshop!) made large slabs leaving texture and natural edges in place.  The idea would be to use these in the finished piece.  The texture has been a bit random:  it derives from stretching the clay over plastic and then peeling it off, The suction leaves sticky marks.  Left it more or less covered in plastic, hoping to get to the right consistency and hoping to have made enough slabs.

Today pieced together two very sharply pointed triangles making an angle and attached that to a dorsal piece, also at an angle.  The worry of collapse and failed joints takes over and the finer hopes for using the texture were somewhat lost in translation.  Also made the other half of the dorsal piece, joining three slabs at different levels and one of them making a conical mass to the side.  Tried to stuff material underneath to start curving the labs so they don't just stand there stiffly.

It is impossible, at present, to get underneath and cure the joints from the inside, as pieces will collapse.  I fear the forthcoming need to stand the pieces up to make a vessel and also the inability to look further than a couple of simple moves.  I know now why I never took to chess.

I need still today to work on the front of the piece as well, so that the whole can be assembled further come the weekend.

This piece feels like combat armour. It feels like old and perhaps discarded or obsolete body protection. in part of it there is resignation (front) and in the back an entrance or portal for coming and going - maybe a revolving door.

The Coy Craftsman

Preparing for workshops. Thinking about the format, getting the publicity done.  Then, endless lists of materials and possible directions. Endless checklists. Endless, tedious, resolving of small questions, endless, finicky, decisions.

But yet, somehow, the enthusiasm persists and the contours of life become more vivid with plans and participation.

I get so much out of doing workshops: will I get anything at all out of giving them?

workshops

I have decided to plunge in and offer some slabbing workshops, hoping to bring together a few people who can see their manipulation of clay and fire as a vehicle for ideas and connection. It is hard to imagine the leap of faith necessary for people who have never touched clay to see how they can produce something that is not blobby and disgusting. It is my job to offer real boundaries to someone's aspiration: not too ambitious, but ambitious enough. We will probably not find anyone who is totally a beginner and perhaps even come up with some people who have ideas and know their mind. But I have no expectations one way or another, in this regard.

In fact, it is patent that I have very few expectations: I am sure of what is on offer and positive that it is good value and worthwhile. I am sure that the experience of working in a group towards a three dimensional object that you create from a blank material should be richer than working alone in pre-formed substances that offer much more limitation from true outset... so long as you are not too intimidated at the prospect!

The reason for insisting on slabbing is that you have to have a solid starting point given that everything else is open to interpretation.

We will see who takes up this challenge and what the end product will be.

Workshop will be on 22nd and 29th June and on 13th July 2012 in Holymoorside Village Hall.

Ancient Rugs

Under my feet, a beautiful Persian rug. The angular designs are full of movement and expression. The fine threads stand perfectly erect, side by side, all absolutely identical, a deep blood red ground contained by exquisite black lines, columns, boxes and hatchings.

Our smart living rooms are a fit context for these superb works of art. They sit there and give us the feeling of great luxury and affluence. But where did this serene artefact start life? In such a different place, in such different circumstances! Can I imagine where the first crossing of threads took place? The room, the village, the family? what sounds were about, what smells? What payment? What inspiration? What cause and reason? Why this and no other pattern? This and no other colour? How is it done, this perfect example of this ancient craft?  How was it arrived at?

There are records of patterns, names, descriptions; it is known where a rug comes from; its value can be estimated from the number of threads per inch and the quality of the material employed. There is a whole field of scholarship dedicated to this ancient tradition of rug making.

But the people who pursue this scholarship do not necessarily dedicate much time to considering the hands that do the work, or even those who profit from it.

I think of ancient patterns being handed down in families; I imagine small children and fine-boned women working the looms day on day, year on year, their slender fingers playing the described tune of their templates on the weft and weave; I think of dusty floors, cavernous, solitary, dusty workplaces and dimmed eyes counting threads,  choosing the next hue, putting in a mistake, unpicking a piece.

These books are full of nostalgia and wistfulness; they are sad and deliberate;  they have endured and survived many a mishap. They definitely take the long view; but they are fragile and vulnerable in their old age.

Team and Solo

Is it better to go it alone or team up?  The question has arisen so many times lately and in such different contexts, that I feel the need to take a good look at it, turn it around and give it a whirl.

I find that potting has been firmly in the back seat for a long while.  I have ideas, I sketch, I make space and time, I plan and yearn to go to work, but there is always some other activity pulling me away from the worktable. And all these 'urgent' things have to do with other people.

Last time I spent some time with the clay, I produced a series of objects that I was very pleased with - as a starting point to something; at the same time, I noticed that I started to receive a series of emails asking why it was that I was not responding, or turning up, or pulling my weight...

I don't actually resent this or find it irksome: I feel very energised to be working with others. It is just that I seem to be doing a lot of the organising and planning, and enjoying being thanked for it.

The Cruzader

The Cruzader is a figure of the imagination. He abandons home and safety to travel far away into dangerous lands, full of enemies of all kinds and traps. He seems naive, sad, depressed and lost. He is shrouded in the great christian zeal - Defender of the Faith, Hammer of the Infidel but  to look at he appears puny, vulnerable and bewildered.

Behind him, the shadow of the Inquisition:The fortress to be conquered, the fear to bear and die under.

There is something of the clown in the Cruzader, for the modern person. It all seems so pointless!

As a Portuguese person, I have in my past the shadow of these Cruzaders as well. They started the obcession with North Africa that would be the equivalent in England of Britanny: we have to have it, occupy it, conquer it, but can't and it took time to give up the idea.

Dark Material: a box for fears and doubts

Cloth is the theme of this box. I have been involved in textiles all my life.  As a child, I learned to sew and crochet, embroider and knit. It was supposed to be what a woman contributed to the family: the skills in household craft.

In Guatemala, the women of the countryside sit on their heels on the dusty ground, tie themselves to the nearest tree by the waist and weave intricate family patterns into huipils for themselves and their children. They are surrounded by chickens, children and chores, but there they remain, tied up and in control of all the family.

In Japanese painting, often cloth is the star of a picture. Cloth drapes, floats, lends stature or conveys languid, sensual pleasure. Its colours and patterns are a message, coded. Geishas wear multiple layers of soft printed kimonos; Lovers get lost in the profuse confusion of patterns and folds.

In Africa, women wrap themselves with lengths of Indonesian printed cotton.  Sometimes the prints are abstract and of strong contrasting colours; sometimes they wear the portrtait of their favourite ruler or visitor. The capulana serves as cover against the cold, shroud, swadling; it makes a good pad to protect the head carrying the water pot; it hangs at the door like a curtain, for privacy; it is a picnic cloth, a flag, a sofa.

When cloth is pushed and bunched, it drapes and curls mysteriously. I try often to  reproduce that movement but it defeats me every time.

The glaze in this box ran freely and carried separately each of the elements of the slip beneath. It chose its path capriciously and so it flames and quivers, consuming itself in light and shade.

Inside, the first of the strip poems. The innaugural vessel of memories and secrets, first of many.

Derbyshire Arts Cooperative in Cromford

I have been for months preparing for this pre-Christmas show at the gallery in Cromford Mill, Matlock Bath.  It has been about opening a different aspect of the work that has gone into making the books: if books are about sharing stories, then I need to know why the stories are important int he first place.

Inevitably, I ended up with boxes: when I think about how a book referring to oriental rugs symbolises for me child labout in some countries around the world, then in a box I will put my feelings and memories about children being subjected to unjust pressure. Terror and despair at a tender age can be hard to bring out into the light of day, so it may end up inside a box, with very little sign of it permeating to the outter decoration.

The challenge is to maintain the tie without becoming too particular and personal; to express the acceptable and universal in a whole-argument way.

The show will be on from 12th to 19th November, at Arkwright Cromford Mill, Cromford, Derbyshire
http://www.arkwrightsociety.org.uk/All+event+details/AS+Events/Derbyshire+Arts+Co-operative

HOLYMOORSIDE DARTS

On May Day this year, I organised an event with Derbyshire Arts Cooperative in the village of Ashover. May Day is a very active and exciting day in the village, but for us, it was a quiet day. I felt it was quiet. But at the other end of the month, quite another story: in Holymoorside, a group of 11 art and craft designer makers got together for three days of exhibiting. We were delighted in each other's company; we were excited and so was the abundant crowd who came to visit.  The Village Hall was happy and so were we. There were refreshments and lunches, there was a little bit of gentle fundraising for the local charity and there was much visiting each other and chatting and planning.  Lets do it again!

Still Travelling, Still at War

The website is coming along and I look more and more foreign as the years pass, which has to be good.

I am excited with the new twist that has happened in the journey: thinking about the old Portuguese Crusaders - they were the same people who founded the country in the 11th Century - and the explorers of the 15th and 16th centuries and how their adventures seem so remote now. Thinking of how my own travels and sense of braving the unknown seems so long ago also, of no interest to others and impossible to recall. However, much is left within us from these journeys. On a national level, a sense of being indomitable and 'up for it', which is communicated to each child growing up; on a personal level, using those experiences of other people to find new paths; in everyday life, remembering the hard moments and knowing that I am able to understand and overcome the present difficulties.
My traveller's tales, however, refuse to stay quiet.  I make these clay pieces with such earnest interest and they are for me like pieces of who I am. I imagine here a primitive war machine, in Africa, made of jagged, angular pieces of iron. Through the scrubby Savannah it moves, much like the Trojan Horse, bearing its gifts of death. Against it, the ululating hordes of Zulu pride, a forest of azegais and spears brandished with powerless menace. The heat and horror of battle. The screams and clashings, the cries and sighs and finally the silence of the circling buzzards and hyenas. The machine, too is exhausted, painted with tints of pain and evil intent. It lies for a while, silently watching over the carnage. Then, one day, someone comes and pushes it gently out of the way of the plough, into the lake. A mighty splash, and there it lies. Rusting, cracking, symbol and embodiment of its own demise. It becomes a portrait of the fallen of long ago.
It is really all still about war. The remembered wars are bad enough, but the ones that have been forgotten really are the worst.
I was listening to Christopher Hitchin talk about the legacy of Agent Orange in the Vietnam war, still being visited on both Americans and Vietnamese three generations later. And we don't know how much longer the Dioxin will go on doing its work. But, as he says, we have forgiven ourselves that outrage as we have forgiven ourselves Enola Gay.
So, it is fortuitous that there is no chance that anyone with the attention span to read through this diatribe will actually find this blogg. It is quite safe to publish, for sure.

Back to the fray

Working on a range of useful pieces with experimental embelishment. Story boxes have hidden tales to tell. On the outside, various different methods of decoration are used and on the inside, some link to the themes in other ranges of work. This is the focus for this year end.

Symbolism of the Centre - Arrival in Ithaca

" A mandala can be used in support, either at the same time or successively, of a concrete ritual or an act of spiritual concentration or, again, of a technique of mystical physiology. This multivalency, this applicability to multiple although closely comparable planes, is a characteristic of the Centre in general. This is easily understandable, since every human being tends, ecen unconsciously, towards the Centre, and towards his own Centre, where he can find integral reality - sacredness. This desire, so deeply rooted in man to find himself at the very heart of the real, - at the Centre of the World, the place of communication with Heaven - explains the ubiquitous use of 'Centres of the World'. (In archair societies)... the habitation of Man was assimilated to the Universe, the hearth or the smoke hole being homologised with the Centre of the World; so that all houses, like all temples, palaces and cities are situated at one and the same point - the Centre of the Universe.

A whole array of myths, symbols and rituals emphasizes with one accord the difficulty of obtaining entry into a centre; while ont he other hand another series of myths and rites lays it down that this centre is accessible. For example, pilgrimage tot eh holy Places is difficult; but any visit whatever to a church is a pilgrimage. The Cosmic Tree is, on the one hand, inaccessible; but on the other it may be found in any yourt. The way which leads to any "Centre" is strewn with obstacles; and yet every city, every temple, every dwelling-place is already at the centre of the Universe. The sufferings and the trials undergone by Ulysses are fabuolous. Nevertheless, any return to hearth and home is equivalent to Ulysses' return to Ithaca." Images and Symbols, Studies in religioius Symbolism. Miecea Eliade, 1991, Princeton University Press.

My return to the Centre was accomplished by means of a tide of serendipety. Each time over the course of this journey that I have tried to force the pace, I have been thwarted and to the very last minute my way was barred until I accepted to avert my eyes from the Goal (or Grail) and trusted to fate.

Like Ulysses, I was wrought by remorse and guilt and pain. Like Ulysses, I cried and pleaded. Like him I showed heroic courage and fortitude and saved my companions from assault and malefice. I prayed and I despaired. I sang my saga in sorrow and despair. Not being heard, not being embraced, I dreamt over many years, decades and cycles of a redeeming smile of welcome. Eventually, I resigned myself to the baseness of real life: trial and tribulation, storm and anger, selfish design and contempt was all I met with. Until one winter's day teh sun shone and I was able to be heard and to be seen. I visited the sacred place of my childhood dreams, I was cherished and admired and today, back in my workaday life of normal good-and-bad, back in the real life with its many unbreakable ties, I lie. satisfied of having arrive in Ithaca, alive and still hopeful, still intact, still weak and still strong - arrived caring for my immortality. And see: I asked that question, didn't I? - who is the Grail for?

Parsifal

The Myth of Parsifal

as retold by Kev Martin

Once there lived a boy who was so unimportant he didn't even have a name. He was born on the edge of civilisation and raised by his mother, Heart's Sorrow. He knew nothing his father, who was dead. The boy grew up an only child, uneducated and simple, wearing homespun clothes.

During his youth, the Young Man was out playing one day when five knights rode by in all their dazzling red and gold regalia. The sight of the shining armour and weapons overwhelmed the Young Man, and he raced home to tell his mother he'd seen five gods. He announced he was leaving immediately to join them. Heart's Sorrow was greatly saddened by this, and told the boy that his father was killed as a knight, as were his two brothers. She told him this was the reason she brought him to such an isolated place to live - so that he could grow up safe, shielded from the perils of knighthood. She always knew that she could not stand in his way when his father's knightly blood began to boil in him.

Heart's Sorrow blessed her son and sent him on his way. She gave him a single homespun garment and two pieces of advice: 'respect fair damsels', and 'don't ask too many questions'. These were the legacies she bestowed upon him. He embarked happily on his journey to find the knights and become a man.

In his travels, the Young Man came upon a tent. Having grown up in a hut, he had never seen a tent before, and was truly amazed. His mother had told him of a divine cathedral, where all the nourishment he would need for his whole life would be available to him. He thought this place so grand it surely must be God's place, so he burst in to worship. Inside he found a fair maiden, and a table set out for a banquet. This confirmed his suspicions, so he sat down to eat.

He remembered his mother's instructions to respect fair damsels, so he embraced the maiden and took a talisman from her, to be his inspiration for the rest of his life. The damsel was waiting for her knight, and begged the Young Man to leave else he be killed when the knight returned. He obeyed, leaving the maiden's tent, and found that life was good, just as his mother had foretold.

The Young Man asked everyone he met of the five knights, and how he should go about becoming a knight. People told him to go to King Arthur's court. There, if he was brave and strong enough, he would be knighted. Eventually he found his way to Arthur's court, but when he suggested he wanted to be a knight, he was laughed at. They told him knighthood must be earned through a life of valour and noble deeds. But he persisted, asking over and over until he was eventually brought before King Arthur. Arthur was kind and did not laugh, but explained how a man must learn and achieve many things before he may become a knight.

In Arthur's court at this time there was a damsel who had neither laughed nor smiled for six years. Legend had it that when the best knight in all the world appeared, she would burst into laughter. As the damsel saw the Young Man in his homespun tunic, she did indeed burst into joyful laughter. Everyone in the court was very impressed by this. Could this really be the best knight in all the world? King Arthur knighted him on the spot.

Outrageously, the Young Man requested of Arthur the armour and horse of the infamous Red Knight - the most feared knight in the land. Again everyone laughed, but wise Arthur said "You have my permission. You may have them - if you can get them."

As the Young Man left Arthur's court, he was met at the door by none other than the Red Knight himself. The Young Man was dazzled by the Red Knight's trappings and regalia, but nevertheless asked him for his armour. The Red Knight was amused, but said, "You may have it - if you can get it." The Red Knight and the Young Man battled briefly, and the Young Man was knocked to the ground. It seemed the Red Knight had won and would surely kill the Young Man, but as he lay there, he threw his dagger at the Red Knight, piercing his eye and killing him. The Red Knight was the last person the Young Man ever killed. From that point on, he always chose instead to spare the lives of those he conquered. In exchange for this, he forced them to travel to Arthur's court and swear fealty to King Arthur.

Having defeated the Red Knight, the Young Man claimed the knight's armour and horse as his own. He tried to put the armour on, but had never seen anything as complex as a buckle before and could not manage by himself. A page helped him with these matters, and tried to convince the Young Man to take off his one-piece homespun garment. The Young Man refused, clinging to the clothing given to him by his mother. Instead he put the armour on over the homespun item and rode away.

The Young Man's next encounter on his journey was Gournamond, a godfather. Gournamond taught him information essential to his attaining manhood: "never seduce or be seduced by a fair maiden" and "you must search for the Grail castle with all his might". Specifically, when you find the castle you must ask a certain question: "Whom does the grail serve?". After receiving these instructions, the Young Man suddenly remembered his mother and went off in search of her again. He found out that Heart's Sorrow died soon after he left her.

Feeling terribly guilty, he continued his journey and met a fair damsel named Blanche Fleur. The castle of Blanche Fleur was under siege, and she implored the Young Man to rescue her kingdom. He did exactly that, by first seeking out the second-in-command, and then the commander, of the besieging army. He duelled with each of them, then sent them in fealty to King Arthur's court.

After raising the siege from her castle, the Young Man returned to spend one night with Blanche Fleur. They slept together in the most intimate embrace - head to head, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, knee to knee, toe to toe. Nevertheless, the embrace was chaste and worthy of the Young Man's vow that he never seduce or be seduced by a fair maiden.

The Young Man travelled all day, and at nightfall asked someone if there was a lodge nearby where he might spend the night. He was told there was no habitation within thirty miles. Soon he found a man in a boat fishing on a lake. Again, he asked if there was any place to stay the night. The man, who was the Fisher King, invited the Young Man to his own home. "Just go down the road a little way, turn left, across the drawbridge." The Young Man followed these directions, and found the castle. The drawbridge slammed shut just as he crossed it, clipping the back hooves of his horse.

The Young Man found himself in the keep of a great castle, where four youths took his horse, bathed him and gave him fresh clothing. They then led him to the master of the castle, the Fisher King, and the whole court of the castle - four hundred knights and ladies - greeted him. A great ceremony took place, including the nightly rituals of the Grail castle. The Fisher King lay groaning in his litter while three maidens entered. The first carryied the lance that pierced Christ's side at the crucifixion, the second had the metal plate from the Christs's Last Supper and the third held the Holy Grail itself.

A banquet was held. Everyone, except the Fisher King, drank from the Holy Grail and each was granted their greatest wish, even before they knew what it was they wished. The Fisher King's niece brought forth a sword which the King strapped to the Young Man's waist. This sword was to be the Young Man's for the rest of his life. But the Young Man did not ask the question that Gournamond had told him to ask, "Whom does the Grail serve?"

Soon the King was taken from the chamber, moaning in agony. All the other knights and ladies dispersed and the Young man was escorted to his sleeping chamber by the four youths. The next morning, the Young Man found himself alone. He saddled his horse and rode across the drawbridge, which again snapped at his horses back hooves as it slammed shut. Turning about, the Young Man found the castle was nowhere to be seen.

Riding on, the Young Man came upon a tearful maiden, holding her dead knight-lover in her arms. She explained that her lover had been killed by another knight, in vengeance over something the Young Man did in one of his earlier, more naive adventures. The maiden asked where the Young Man had been, and he explained. She said that this was not possible, as there was no habitation within thirty miles. When he told her more details, she said, "Oh, you have been in the Grail castle!" The maiden asked the Young Man his name, and as the answer abruptly came to him, he blurted it out - "Parsifal".

Parsifal rode on again, and found another weeping maiden, who also had suffered through some repercussion from Parsifal's earlier, naive times. This maiden informed Parsifal that his sword would break the first time he used it, and that it could only be mended by the one who forged it. Once repaired, it would never break again.

Parsifal conquered many knights, sending them all back to Arthur's court. He rescued many damsels, lifted sieges, protected the poor, slayed many dragons. When the fame of Parsifal's deeds came back to Arthur, the King set out to find this great hero in his land. Arthur vowed "not to sleep two nights in the same bed", until he found this wonderful knight.

As Parsifal travelled on, a falcon attacked three geese that were flying over his head. Three drops of blood fell on the snow next to Parsifal and he fell abruptly into a lover's trance. He stared at the drops of blood transfixed, thinking of nothing but Blanche Fleur. It was in this state that Arthur's men found him. Two of them tried to lead him back to Arthur, but Parsifal fought them off. He broke the arm of one - a man who had jeered at him when the sad maiden laughed in Arthur's court. Parsifal had vowed to avenge her for that scorn, and that vow was now completed. Gawain, a third knight, asked Parsifal gently and humbly if he would return with them to Arthur's court, and Parsifal agreed. When they arrived, Arthur set Parsifal at the head of a court and declared a three day festival and tournament in the knight's honour.

At the very height of the festival, a most hideous damsel appeared. She rode in on a twisted mule that limped on all four feet. She recited to the court all of Parsifal's sins and stupidities, the worst being his inability to ask the healing question in the Grail castle. Parsifal was left humbled and silent before the court that had moments before been praising him. From the Hideous Damsel, Parsifal learned his new task - to find the Grail castle a second time. He vowed not to sleep in the same bed twice until he found the castle again. The hideous Damsel reminded the court that the search for the Grail required chastity from the knights and limped off, her task complete.

Parsifal then spent twenty years searching for the Grail castle. He grew more and more bitter, more disillusioned; he grew further away from his beloved Blanche Fleur, sometimes forgetting the reason for his search. Then he came upon a group of ragged pilgrims wandering on the road. They said to him "What are you doing riding in full armour on this, the day of our Lord. It is Good Friday. Come with us to the Forest Hermit, say your confession and be shriven in preparation for Easter Sunday." Parsifal was wakened from his dark mood and went with the pilgrims to the old hermit.

Before the old hermit, Parsifal was berated again with the long list of his faults and failures. Again, the worst was his failure to ask the healing question in the Grail castle. The hermit grew gentle with Parsifal then, and took him out on the road. He gave Parsifal instructions: "go a short way, turn left and cross the drawbridge. The grail castle is always close at hand."

Parsifal followed the hermits instruction and found the castle as before - the same ceremonial procession, and the Fisher King groaning on his litter. Finally, after twenty years of experience, Parsifal asked the question: "Whom does the Grail serve?". His question was not answered, for with this question, to ask well is also to answer.

At Parsifal's question, rejoicing burst forth in the Grail castle. The Fisher King was healed, and peace and happiness finally reigned over the land.

Clay Books

I have been intrigued by Trudy Roe's suggestion that I make books out of clay. The whole story of claybooks seems quite an exciting road and so I did some finding out...
Take a look at Mark Power's blogg on http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=265101956588893855&pli=1

He has some images of books well worth a look, but particularly he talks about the japanese ceramicist Nishimura Yohei, who dunks books into clay slip and then fires them and obtains veritable flowers of literature! Also check out Victor Schreger, who has a wonderful eye for composing absgtract landscapes with books...

The collection in the V&A is splendid and worth a look as well.

Henry Fanshawe School

Right down to the wire, as I try to pack for the holyday and at the same time resolve the artis list for the 2011 Holymoorside DARTS Festival. Georgia Peskett and Trudy Roe have signed up so far, so there is three of us and five to go - or 6, depending on their size!

But today, in Dronfield there is the Henry Fanshawe School exhibition, which has a couple of pieces of mine and so have to help set up and man if I can!

Off I go, hoping to come back with photo.

Have worked on boats and books lately: two books and one aircraft carrier to the good this week, cant be bad!

Beauty

"Whatever is in any way beautiful hath its source of beauty in itself, and is complete in itself; praise forms no part of it. So it is none the worse nor the better for being praised." (Marcus Aurelius)

I am struggling with the new project of making books out of clay. Books are what I use for information, for comfort, for refuge and for guidance. Books surround me in every room in my house: stacked, ranged, they wait and offer.

What will a clay book offer, what will it wait for? Art books are objects of enigmatic content. Instead of offering more or less literate, more or less informative, more or less obscure information, they offer the opportunity of receiving from the observer, the reader, the user, whatever content they wish to impose on it.

They are humble and yet arrogant, these clay books. They querry your innermost doubts and confront your weaknesses; they offer a possibility for confression or for boast. They are, above all, containers of thought and feeling.

They are in my hands, in teh process of becoming - and they at present challenge me to give them form.

I suppose I have always wanted to write a book, but felt I had neither the talent nor the content worthy of the enterprise. But now I know I can write this kind of book. In fact, I have so much to say I need to keep the whole thing on a tight rein.

So let me go to it and enough of the writing with words.

The Chesterfield Arts Centre

The first single step in this journey of a thousand miles seems to be taken: the CAAF group are meeting with the Feasibility Study consultant. They are showing him the results of a social consultation that happened last month at Chesterfield Market Festival. We have our photo with the Lord Mayor!


We also have absolutely wonderful support from the public, as seen in their comments, made with humour, earnest interest, hopefulness and encouragement.

We feel that the many hours of dawn meetings at Shirley's house, were well worth the trouble. See here:

And of course Shirley's fire-red locks were captured in the course of the day for all to admire:

With Half term raging, parents and children took to the bustling market lanes of the town centre and some brave souls took their crayons and paper and created images of the old buildings, their vision of the old town, of what they know and love, and of what they would like to see.

There were prizes and there were good laughs! But above all, there was consensus: WE WANT AN ARTS CENTRE FOR CHESTERFIELD. Marvellous!

Beauty and Ugliness

In making these pot women, I stray into the notion of joining the clay and bringing to life the feelings of people I have met only in abstraction. How can I do that?! It seems too arrogant and presumptuous. And of course it is.

What I do, in fact, is give form to part of me that I feel the need to negotiate with. I need to bring out the abandoned person, fashion its likeness, sustain its collapsing tendency, allow it to retain precariousness and flaw: just make it all bearable before it can be fired and fixed satisfactorily. So, no, this is not a strangely vulnerable, barely human form. This is not an emigrant with a small baby having to roam and desintegrate in a careless and violent society. This is who it is: a shard of me.

A lump of clay is, unlike the bright white page, a thing without dignity, packaged in a red or buff plastic bag. It is not hard to gouge lumps out of it, to knead it, to compress it, to attack it with fury or to coax it softly into shape. The only sentiment it will not brook is disregard and negligence. If left, it will become resentfully brittle or it will slump discouraged. So, staying together, the form evolves with thought and becomes.


Nevertheless, the risks are immense. All that time, all that planning, all that sketching, all those materials for what? One has to be prepared to end up with a piece that has all the ugliness of one's fears, all the split badness of schyzoid dread and no resolution of integrated beauty; it is not for me shameful that the clay refuses to obbey my command, nor that I fail to pursue it until it does. The shame is that I fail to press myself beyond the ordinary level of awareness and discover that scary cavern within and there delve for acceptance of my ugly self and my beautiful self. When Beauty falls in love with the Beast, there is success, there is glory.


The artist "who needs to control [the work] completely will produce an over-refined, stifled and lifeless work that has been allowed no independent intrinsic vitality and life of its own." Instead, I should learn to "develop a genuine and sensitive dialogue witht he artwork as an independent object." - so says S.J. Newton in Painting, Psychoanalysis and Spirituality.


Furthermore, says he, the art work should expose the entire creative process in its dynamic, it should have the mark of the hand that dealt with it, should have traces of incompletion, so that the further dialogue of the piece with the viewer can continue. The artist leaves the door open for others to share in and relate to the work.


No, I genuinely do not worry about my incompetence as a potter. That is, like the common cold, an inevitable nuisance not to be avoided but to be cured in time. I worry about resisting ugliness and dictating what beauty looks like; I worry that I will not be able to remember that it is a symbol I want to produce and not a statement.


I write this because I want to remember. Mostly, in the light of day, out there in the dialogue with each significant other, I forget so easily this quiet flame that burns while I work but flickers when I don't. The question I ask myself is, where lies my road in life? Is it in the clay? Is it in the counselling? Is it with the nurturing family? Am I trying to do too much? Am I living too much inside my own head?


Yes, Bernard, why am I so serious? Because my life is very serious business to me: I remember very well feeling as a child that nobody else seemed to think so! So I've always been this way...

The Return and Rebirth of Madame Seuss

She is an old friend. She has meaning rooted deep in my soul and it is a great pity that upon her latest firing she met with a great obstacle to fulfilling her potential: her feet distorted and she can no longer stand. She has lingered prone on the sidelines, a hopeless image of restless abandon. Things have now changed, at least in theory...

Propped up, she awaits eagerly developments to come. Action is afoot and planning is hotting up, thanks to Hanne Westergaard, a much admired potter in Sheffield who knows a thing or two about moulds...

Cheerfulness is a triumphant bonus to life. It lifts the clouds and lets in the vitamin of hopefulness. Even if dashed later, the moment has been saved in a frame of golden optimism and can be glanced, in passing and savoured.

I am cheerful and hopeful about moulds. I shall work on remaking Mme. Seuss with feet square on a plynth. How magnificent she will be, poised in inscrutable superiority atop a stony outcrop, a grassy knoll or even a soap box.

I met Mme Seuss for the first time through a relative of hers, a warrior of great spirit, striding through the streets of a devastated city under enemy bombardment, in one of Edward's ellustrated drawn strips. This heroic general, a leader of men, is nothing to me but had to have a profoundly influential relative, a female, whose wisdom and fortitude gave him his swagger and self-confidence. I found her emerging from a billowing porcelain dream.

Having lost her footing in the infernal heat of vitrification, Mme. Seuss is about to become once again the towering figure whe was meant to be from creation. She will emerge, re-cast but unbowed and will once again dominate the landscape of significant women, augmented by new technique and reinvigorated by new adornment. Good news, eh!?