TRUE TO MYSELF

For many years, I worked with very precise, low fire, sculptural vessel forms.  I exhibited my work in galleries and shows all over the country and sold virtually everything.  I simultaneously taught in the art department of a small liberal arts college in the Midwest and stayed in that position for about ten years.  The logistics of teaching and potting got pretty complicated, and I gave up both for almost thirteen years.  When I resigned my position, I thought the day would come when I would want to get my hands back in clay. 

About ten years ago, I discovered wood firing, and that day arrived.  This time, though, I decided my pots would only be those that felt true to my nature, with no pressure from the marketplace.  Predictably, as I amassed a tremendous number of pots, my family suggested, rather strongly, that I try to sell some.  Developing this market was a little tougher than securing an audience for colorful, low fire work.  Wood fired pots exist in a realm that is frequently not in line with Western ideas of beauty.  The information that follows is my take on the aesthetics of this firing process and, in essence, the way I try to explain it to some of my clients. 

Wood fired pots can be visually challenging.  A certain aesthetic needs to be embraced to fully appreciate the wealth of chance effects, accidents, and changes that occur with this mercurial firing technique.   Old ideas of beauty may need to be expanded in order to open up space for this new dimension.
There is, without question, a dynamic relationship between the makeup of the artist, the process, and that which is made.  When these three elements coalesce, it’s like three rocks hitting each other, mid air - crack!  The beauty of this correlation is that it can be manifest in the work of less experienced potters/artists, as well as in the efforts of old hands.  

Bernard Leach hit it squarely when he said, “The pot is the man; his virtues and vices are shown within – no disguise is possible.”  Sometimes it is very easy to see how art reflects its creator.  If we step outside of ceramics for a moment and look at the lives and work of two artists from different media, the point becomes clear.  Jackson Pollack was one of the more colorful, conflicted, and impulsive personalities of the Abstract Expressionist movement.  His work shows it.  His spontaneous approach and jarring images are a reflection of the man.  They are the man.  Likewise, if one looks at the quasi surreal boxes of Joseph Cornell, with their references to Victorian imagery and their precisely controlled construction, we can see that they, too, are a reflection of the artist; in this case, one who led a very staid and conventional life.  Works by both artists are, of course, expressions of genius.

My own pots are typically pretty loose, and wood firing is a perfect fit.  They can take a hit, visually.   Pots can be kind of like the shirts we wear.  When I wear a denim work shirt in my studio, a splash of clay looks great on it.  On a freshly pressed dress shirt, a splash of clay just looks like dirt.    Some of the most famous varieties of wood fired pots present in a similar way.  American Jugtown pots tend to be pretty plain; pretty casual.  Japanese Shigaraki pots are really loose.  They can both take a hammering from fly ash and kiln accidents and, as a result, look like they’ve come home.    Extremely precise, detail laden forms have a harder time.

The progression of forces that start a fire is always the same; but flame follows its own path, based on the causes and conditions that arise each moment.   Pots that have been through it carry part of it with them in the form of ash and vapor flashing.  Flame is a primordial fluxing agent and it emphasizes, articulates, and gives voice to subtleties of form.  It never makes a poor form better, but it can emphasize the highlights of a strong one.
A highly successful pot is usually the product of years of getting one’s chops down with the basics of technique, form, design, and materials.  Then muscular memory, aesthetic sensibility, and the clay take over.   Nothing can be forced.  Materials and processes speak.  When they do, their voice is the same as yours.

This evening, I had a small pile of trimming scraps that I dipped in water and quickly wedged.  I threw one last tea bowl of the day.  I decided to carve its foot while very soft.   The wet clay stuck to the tool, oozed over the edge, and adhered to the lower wall of the bowl.  My ring finger tapped the stray piece of clay; stay there.  It felt just right.  Maybe the fire will point it out.  How was this motion different from a pianist hitting an unrehearsed key, or a painter twisting his brush without thought?  I don’t think it was.  These actions all arise from a deep well; one that is always full, always ready to share its contents, but unfathomable and difficult to access; especially when we try too hard.   This well, partly a mystery and partly our storehouse of experience, is the birthplace of art - as a dancing and vital entity.

When we concentrate fully on our work, it’s only the eyes, the hands, and the clay; the work will come from a place that is both unconditioned and constantly changing.   The kind of concentration necessary to connect with your material can’t be realized without a clear head; a clean eye.   Clay is a remarkable medium in that its nature is one of fluidity and transformation.   When you make a truly “clay” pot, you see it and you know it. 
If someone has a very precise picture, in their mind’s eye, of what their pot should look like after firing, they miss a great opportunity.  The very best that pot can be, to its maker, is something that is identical to his idea.  If we let go of all this, the entire contents of a kiln can be our teacher and can take us to new and exciting places.   The fired kiln is alive with beauty.  It is only the imposition of our stories and expectations that kills it.  If pots could speak, they could tell us astonishing stories about their experiences in the flames.  Being fired with wood must be a pot’s version of shooting the rapids on the Colorado River.  We can be part of that trip.

I fire in a kiln designed and built by my friend, John Thies.  He’s been wood firing at his Monocacy Pottery in Thurmont, Maryland for over thirty years.  There are about thirty of these “Manibigama II” kilns in the United States and I often wonder what people see in them, after firing.  The one thing I know is that everyone needs to surrender to a process that is both in league with nature and that is beyond their ability to touch.  Waiving the white flag may be the key to a new realm of enjoyment.
The next time you start to throw that “ugly orphan” into the landfill, stop your hand for a moment.  Put your pot down on an old board, stick a weed in it and watch it change; the pot and the board and the weed.   They all change together; along with you.  Live with your funny little pots for a while and see what they have to offer.  You may be surprised.

Bruce Bowers

August 20, 2009