Glazed Over
Last night I went to pottery class to pick up my finished pots. Charlie and his daughter were both there and as we waited for our instructor to arrive we both gazed anxiously into the kiln. It was evident that a pot had melted (which struck us as odd at this point in the firings) and we both prayed that it didn’t affect any of our other pieces. (I should say, Charlie prayed and paced and worried and stressed and I just casually hoped it hadn’t hurt anything but for all I knew it was my pot that had melted!) As it turns out, for all the times Charlie came in on his own, one of those times he used a low-fire clay and it melted during the high-fire firing. I was much relieved that it wasn’t one of mine because it had adhered to one of his nicer pots and run over onto three of his others. WHEW!!
Charlie had 12 pieces that he had made. By my standards they were beautiful. Some of the bowls were truly amazing to me. From big to small he really showed his abilities. The glaze on several of them was particularly stunning as well. Charlie, however, was so struck by the melted pot and the glaze on a few of his pieces that didn’t fire well that he was solemn and quiet and withdrawn while we excitedly looked over the pieces and I packed mine up to take home. Charlie went on and on about how this or that one was supposed to be a gift, or about how he had created that one on a particularly bad day (he’s going through a divorce) and had wanted it to be symbolic of his recovery. He was really emotionally tied to these pieces and heartbroken when they weren’t what he had imagined them to be.
I stopped packing and told Charlie how envious I was of his abilities. How beautiful his bowls were. I picked up a couple and made specific comments on each. I told him how proud he should be of the pieces he was taking home. That part of the enjoying each piece is knowing the risks that you take when you create and fire them. When they turn out well, it’s almost as much out of your control as anything. Although one of his deep plates wasn’t useable for food (because of cracked glazing) it would make a beautiful bowl to force bulbs in. I told him so. He gave me the plate. I gave it back. I complimented him on it’s beauty even if it wasn’t useable in the way he had intentioned.
He would hear none of this.
We finally just tried to change the subject. Charlie asked if I would be taking the class again. I (again) reiterated that it was too costly for me to repeat at this time and that if I chose to spend money on a hobby, I’d probably invest it in a class of a different theme. Photography, perhaps. Maybe sketching. Something new to try. He was forlorn. Truly. Our instructor shared that she wasn’t sure when another class would be offered. This studio really needs a class of at least 5 or 6 to make it worthwhile and so far they just don’t have that interest.
Charlie was devastated. He NEEDS this, he said. He just finally got back to doing pottery after 29 years and with all that’s going on in his life he NEEDS this. Our teacher tried to suggest other ways to enjoy the hobby without having to be at this studio – ways to create at home and just pay for firing time in the kiln. He was broke, he said, as it is he’s scrounging for food money. He went on and on as if someone had just told him his own mother was dying.
The entire time this is going on, his daughter sat at the table right next to her dad. She is LM’s age and attends the same school. She had made a cookie-jar bear that had turned out very well. My heart just went out to her as she listened with a burdened heart to all that her dad was laying out on the table.
Charlie spent hours and hours in the studio. He molded pot after pot after pot. He threw away more forms than he kept. He worked them for hours at a time until he was as satisfied as he could get. In glazing even, he was meticulous about what and where and how much and just which color balance he wanted. All this time, his heavy heart has been pouring itself into clay when his daughter is sitting right next to him. She needs his time, his attention and his love. She needs to be molded and formed, taught and guided. She is going through a transition as well and needs to know that she is safe and beautiful and adored. At some point, I hope Charlie will lift his eyes from the pottery wheel and see the beautiful, freckled face of his daughter standing there, waiting to love him.
I learned a lot during this class. A little bit was even about clay.
Charlie had 12 pieces that he had made. By my standards they were beautiful. Some of the bowls were truly amazing to me. From big to small he really showed his abilities. The glaze on several of them was particularly stunning as well. Charlie, however, was so struck by the melted pot and the glaze on a few of his pieces that didn’t fire well that he was solemn and quiet and withdrawn while we excitedly looked over the pieces and I packed mine up to take home. Charlie went on and on about how this or that one was supposed to be a gift, or about how he had created that one on a particularly bad day (he’s going through a divorce) and had wanted it to be symbolic of his recovery. He was really emotionally tied to these pieces and heartbroken when they weren’t what he had imagined them to be.
I stopped packing and told Charlie how envious I was of his abilities. How beautiful his bowls were. I picked up a couple and made specific comments on each. I told him how proud he should be of the pieces he was taking home. That part of the enjoying each piece is knowing the risks that you take when you create and fire them. When they turn out well, it’s almost as much out of your control as anything. Although one of his deep plates wasn’t useable for food (because of cracked glazing) it would make a beautiful bowl to force bulbs in. I told him so. He gave me the plate. I gave it back. I complimented him on it’s beauty even if it wasn’t useable in the way he had intentioned.
He would hear none of this.
We finally just tried to change the subject. Charlie asked if I would be taking the class again. I (again) reiterated that it was too costly for me to repeat at this time and that if I chose to spend money on a hobby, I’d probably invest it in a class of a different theme. Photography, perhaps. Maybe sketching. Something new to try. He was forlorn. Truly. Our instructor shared that she wasn’t sure when another class would be offered. This studio really needs a class of at least 5 or 6 to make it worthwhile and so far they just don’t have that interest.
Charlie was devastated. He NEEDS this, he said. He just finally got back to doing pottery after 29 years and with all that’s going on in his life he NEEDS this. Our teacher tried to suggest other ways to enjoy the hobby without having to be at this studio – ways to create at home and just pay for firing time in the kiln. He was broke, he said, as it is he’s scrounging for food money. He went on and on as if someone had just told him his own mother was dying.
The entire time this is going on, his daughter sat at the table right next to her dad. She is LM’s age and attends the same school. She had made a cookie-jar bear that had turned out very well. My heart just went out to her as she listened with a burdened heart to all that her dad was laying out on the table.
Charlie spent hours and hours in the studio. He molded pot after pot after pot. He threw away more forms than he kept. He worked them for hours at a time until he was as satisfied as he could get. In glazing even, he was meticulous about what and where and how much and just which color balance he wanted. All this time, his heavy heart has been pouring itself into clay when his daughter is sitting right next to him. She needs his time, his attention and his love. She needs to be molded and formed, taught and guided. She is going through a transition as well and needs to know that she is safe and beautiful and adored. At some point, I hope Charlie will lift his eyes from the pottery wheel and see the beautiful, freckled face of his daughter standing there, waiting to love him.
I learned a lot during this class. A little bit was even about clay.
Comments
Another amazing post, Amy. I love your writing (for the hundredth time!)