lifeinthealong.com
repository for the occasional perambulatory rumination

Aug

14

Claying Alone and Together

Filed Under Doin's

Had my first clay date yesterday, made my first bowl. Weeks ago, I signed up to learn pottery from my friend Janet, then came the thunderstorms, car mishaps, and the unfortunate garage door scenario. But finally, yesterday, I made it to class.

Janet* has a lovely studio in her backyard, her Virginia Woolf spot, her “room of her own.” I’m not a complete stranger to clay because I took a wheel class decades ago (which means I know what it looks like), but still I was nervous. Starting something new - I want to know it all right now, and I want a fully-stocked space of my very own, too. Janet gave me a tour and went over the basics, then she created something and explained more as she worked. Finally it was my turn, and the pleaser girl popped right out: Would I do it right? Would I seem less than creative if I copied Janet’s work? What if I made a mistake? I don’t think I can do this - I don’t know where to start. What if I couldn’t think of anything to do? What if Janet could see right then and there that I am in over my head, that I am a hopeless case? What if she has to think of a nice way to tell me at the end of my four-week class, that I shouldn’t come back? I had to impress her and fast because I like working with clay. I don’t have any images in my head waiting to be birthed, I just want to do this thing. I want to . . . I need to . . . just turn my hands loose and let them play.**

And so I did.

Janet put on an Eva Cassidy*** cd and told me the story of how Eva was a budding musician when her hip began to hurt. She (Eva, not Janet. Pronouns can be such stinkers, can’t they?) thought it was an ache associated with getting up and down on stools to play the guitar. Turns out it was cancer, and at the age of 33, Eva Cassidy died. But not before she recorded an exquisite, haunting, emotionally-loaded version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow. After sharing the background, Janet cranked up the volume, and I set to work. Or play, depending on how you choose to look at it.

In the end, my piece did look a lot like Janet’s. Because I like her work. Because I liked the two textures she used. Because, well, just because it did. It’s not an exact copy, mind you, but there is definitely a resemblance, and before my little screechers could crank up and start chastising me for being a copycat, I reminded them that painters often learn how to paint by copying works of “the masters” and writers often learn to write by copying works of “the classics.” The screechers just said, “Ooohhh, yeah, you’re right” and settled back down, waiting, watching for another opportunity.

I held my creation up to Janet and asked for suggestions. She didn’t like this one place, she said, but then she changed her mind, and the funniest thing: before she decided she did like it, back when she said she didn’t like this one spot, I didn’t feel a thing. No angst. No quick-hurry-up-and-fix-it, no desire to rush back over to my spot and change it to something she would find more pleasing. There was no internal banging my head on the table in despair. I liked it, and that was enough.****

~~~

* http://www.hummingbird-hollow.com

** I hasten to add that this was all me, Jeanne. Not Janet. She would never be dominatingly critical. She’s just not that kind of girl.

*** http://evacassidy.org/eva/

**** And I even knew when to stop. I have a problem knowing when to stop sometimes - I get to the end of a piece, and I just keep on fiddling, tweaking, polishing until I’ve worn out my welcome. But not yesterday. No siree. I got finished and stopped. Ha.

If you enjoyed this post, make sure you subscribe to my RSS feed!

Comments

Leave a Reply