Saturday, April 28, 2007

What is Art?

What is art?

The questions "What is beauty?," "What is truth?," "What is good?," and "What is art?" make an appearance in high school classes, and elicit year by year the same arguments, same thoughts, and by and large the same decisions in young hearts and minds. Across cultures there are some differences, but by and large the students and their answers in every culture can be grouped into two camps:

First group: individuals who believe that beauty is related to harmony of form; truth and error are discernable to anyone with common sense and a wise heart; good and bad are likewise discernable; and art is man’s attempt to convey beauty, truth and good to others. In the USA, these folks are usually labeled idealists by their teachers and classmates. I will take a flyer here and guess that among these, many believe in a God.

Second group: people who believe that beauty is always in the eye of the beholder and therefore one man’s beauty can be another man’s ugliness; truth and error are relative, cannot be dictated, and probably cannot ever be discovered by mere common sense; good and bad are also relative and not absolute or unarguable; and that art is anything the artist feels like expressing, like it or not. In the USA, these folks are usually labeled realists and are often encouraged by teachers and peers. They are also labeled ethical relativists by some--and again, risking censure, I guess that many are agnostics or outright atheists.

So who is right?

And so what?

If you are an atheist you may glom onto the second question, mutter an expletive, and move on to another blog. Bye-bye, and thanks for stopping.

If you wonder--or care--who is right, you may be a seeker of truth, no matter what your religious stance. To you, it is important to know why you believe what you believe, and what in the world to call that meaningless (to you) and garish splash of paint others are “oohing” and “aahing” at, which occupies a prime spot in the gallery you got dragged into and carries a price tag that could get your car completely fixed AND repainted.

Is it art?

Can you read between the lines to see which camp I’m in? Art conveys beauty! But--there are meaningless-looking odd splashes of paint that are just right to convey a feeling, and if that feeling is one someone wants to permeate his living room, I say by all means, “Buy it.” Why? Because feeling is at the heart of art, whether the art is representational or not.

Now, some artists claim that getting even a feeling of revulsion looking at a work of “art” qualifies it to be called art; the piece has stimulated a gut response in the viewer and that is sufficient--the piece has done its job as artwork. I disagree: personally I think that if we're talking about feeling here, getting only a good feeling from a work of “art” qualifies it to be called art. I know many artists disagree with me, and especially those who make a lot of money selling, well, stuff that would revulse me out of my own living room.

But philosophers and non-philosophers alike have argued about beauty, truth, good and evil, and art for millennia; this debate is not new at all. The endlessness of this debate itself leads me to wonder, where do we get our opinions from? What guides us to our beliefs, anyway? And why do people believe strongly such different things? If there is a universal truth, why don't we all agree on it? Does the sheer endlessness of disagreement prove that there is not a universal truth?

When I sought answers in my youth--and yes, I was one who always wanted to know the why and how of things--I was confronted by the many differing answers that adults gave me to the same questions; and that fact led me to wonder early on: how in the world can one discern who is wise and who is “blowing smoke,” if one does not already possess some wisdom with which to measure and discern? It is the chicken-and-egg problem! But as a kid I sure wanted to be able to tell which adults were trustworthy and wise truth-tellers and which were the jerks--BEFORE I got into trouble following the advice of the jerks. Yes, I was spanked for misbehaving! Thus you may guess I had plenty of motivation to find wisdom, and quickly. And I quickly found that I "knew" the difference between trustworthy and untrustworthy information; among adults that I met, I could size up the phonies pretty fast. Adults marveled at how smart I was about that, for a kid.

When I met David Stewart, I knew he was no phony. He didn't look like an artist--no long hair, hippie beads, existentialist stance. He was, as I've mentioned before, balding, middle-aged, and a good provider for his wife and three kids. All he smoked was cigarettes! He didn't fit the mold for "artist;" but when he talked about beauty, truth, art, good and evil, he made sense. He was classic. What he said, Raphael had said, and Michelangelo, Rodin, da Vinci, and Wildenhain. When I looked at his pots, there was nothing "tweaked" about them. Dave's teapots held tea. They poured tea obediently, and without dribbling. They were well-balanced in the hand. They were not expensive. They were real teapots, meant for real people to use. They were honest. They were beautiful. Dave talked the talk, and his pots walked the walk. I believed him. I liked him. I trusted him. And I determined to learn all I could from him.

Looks like I got off the topic of "what is art?" a bit, here. But, actually, I don't suppose I can fully tell you. You may have your own already-formed certainty of truth. But, not being able to tell you does not mean that I believe art is incapable of being described (as believe the second group of individuals, see above), or that art is anything you want it to be.

Art is the expression of beauty, truth, and good. I think I will return to this topic at a later time; there is still much to express.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

Sand and Grog

I have had a heck of a time over the years struggling with sand and grog. Without knowing it, problems I’ve wrestled with for years such as “bumpy” clay and glazes, and ware cracking, have originated from trouble with these two clay components.

Sand is what? Tiny granules of silica, ideally. Geologically, rocks of various kinds weather down, eroded by abrasion, until small grains of the very hardest component--silica--are all that remain. Everything else the rock is made of weathers down faster and blows away or is washed away. Deposits of silica sand are mined for construction-grade use, and are sold by the bag. Beach sand has shell parts, salt, feldspar, mica, iron, and organic debris included--which can cause unwanted chemical complications. Impure beach sand should NEVER be used in making clay, even though it is a lot cheaper than silica sand.

Grog is what? Clay that has been fired once in the kiln, then crushed into fine particles. Grog can come from low-fired clay--such as bricks (sweepings from brick factory floors is occasionally bagged and sold cheaply as grog)--or higher-fired clay. Grog can be ground and sieved carefully and sold by size of particle. Grog can be red (as in brick grog), tan, or white.

What does sand or grog do to clay? Either sand or grog are added to clay to separate the platelike clay particles from each other. Mechanically, the rounded and rough clay or grog particles keep the flat and smooth plates of clay from sticking together. The result is twofold: a clay body with sand or grog added will dry out faster than a clay body without sand or grog, because water can exit more easily (think: pure sand in the garden drains water very fast while pure clay retains water a long time. Mixing the two gives you something in between). Secondly, adding sand or grog makes the clay body more able to “stand up:” higher pot walls can be thrown without collapse, therefore larger pieces can be created. Sculpting clay has a great amount of sand and coarse grog added. The reason sand and grog allow greater strength in clay walls escapes me, but thus it is.

What’s the difference between using sand and using grog?

Anyone reading this who'd like to fill me in, please add a comment. I am still not sure, beyond my understanding that grog absorbs water and sand does not. But I've had a bad experience with sand, and so now I prefer grog (fine gog). Here's the story:

I used to make up my own clay bodies from scratch. Without the addition of either sand or grog, my large pieces would inevitably warp or crack. I tried adding whatever I could get cheaply, but I would get new problems, without understanding that my choices came with prices. Sand (and large-size grog) abrades my hands and wears my fingernails to the quick. Though grog is more expensive, it is available in SMALLER particle size than sand does, and it still does the job of “opening” a clay body. Now I know that I can avoid the price of raw hands from the abrasion of sand, by adding very fine grog instead: I get the “open” clay, and increased pot wall height, without the abrasion.

I decided to buy clay ready-made from a supplier. It's not that expensive (clay is, after all, "dirt cheap"). Years ago I decided this was altogether a better solution for me than mixing my own. Some potters get very excited about digging their own clay, and preparing it; but for me it was too much exhausting work, and I finally gave in to buying it ready-made.

However, I encountered another hellish problem for years, and only recently found out that bagged clay was not infallible. Through two competitors giving me information, I heard that the maker of my favorite clay body was adding beach sand instead of more expensive silica sand to their proprietary mix. Not good! I would have smooth, very smooth bisque ware, but then discover after the final firing that my clay was now mysteriously bumpy. These rough bumps were quite noticeable on the unglazed undersides of my pots, but also made my should-have-been-smooth glazes intolerably bumpy as well. After looking at the clay with a 10x loupe magnifier I discovered bubbly whitish “zits” to be the culprit--and it was explained to me that these were feldspar blemishes caused by impurities in the sand.

When I switched manufacturers, the zit problem disappeared; my naked clay is now smooth and the glazes are smooth as they should be. I must assume that impure beach sand indeed was being added to that commercial clay body. But finally! I've got clay that stays porcelain-smooth through cone 6, yet has enough "tooth" due to the addition of fine grog to hold up in nice, thin walls rather than collapse.

When I want to make the occasional larger piece, I've got a supply of fine white grog in my studio--I just throw a handful on the wedging table and wedge it in to that chunk of clay I'll be using to make the larger piece. The glaze still fits, everything's still smooth, no cracking or warping. Bingo!

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Pot Aesthetics

What I find desirable in a pot is its ability to snuggle happily in my hand. That’s anthropomorphism, of course, but since my pots are a lot like children to me, you’ll forgive me. What makes a pot “right” is very elusive, and it’s taken me years to get my mind around it. Marguerite used to talk about pots that “sang”--I believe she was describing a similar “rightness” about certain pots. Here are insights clarifying this desirability, this feeling of rightness, happiness, singing, tactile satisfaction, contentment in holding a snuggler:

A pot that is too heavy for its size doesn’t feel right to me--it feels dead. This judgment of correct weight comes from semi-consciously assessing what volume ought to be contained inside a pot’s “skin,” I suppose, based on hefting many pots. I don’t care to hold onto dead pots very long.

A pot that feels too light for its size (a rare occurrence) makes me assume it is fragile, and that I must be careful with it--which makes me less confident holding it--and I’ll soon put it down. I believe pots are meant to be held, not just looked at; and many of my customers approach my pots hesitantly until I tell them it’s part of the process of finding the pot they want. Once encouraged, customers are very happy to pick up pieces and heft them, caress them, turn them upside down, get to know them better. It helps if they have the proper weight.

A pot whose dimensions, proportion, shape, or outline is not pleasing (“bad form” as Dave Stewart referred to it), doesn’t seem right either. My eyes will not rest easy on such a pot--they “fret,” and keep sweeping over the pot, repeatedly getting stuck on the visual error. There are pots too fat, too skinny, too saggy, too tired, too exaggerated. Pots must stand with poise, grace, and confidence. Curves must not be hesitant; they must be bold--yet not overstated. The balance which creates good form is VERY difficult to see--and to achieve.

A pot with decoration--texture or color--placed too low, looks like a man with his pants ready to fall down. A pot decorated too high is not as bad, for some reason. A pot with too much decoration is garish, like an overdressed woman--especially if the form is bad as well! But a well-balanced form can do well entirely devoid of decoration--again, much as a well-proportioned human looks good stark naked.

Tactile pleasure in holding a pot is very important to me: a warm mug cupped in both hands feels vaguely like a baby’s bottom. If the clay is smooth, and the glaze is matte (not shiny), the feeling is like bare skin. If the glaze is glossy, the feeling is as though the baby’s bottom is swaddled in silk.

When one stirs the liquid in a mug, or moves a fork across a plate, there should be no grating sound! Some clay is inherently far too rough and should never be used for ware seeing everyday use--though rough clay has its place in sculpture.

Another thing I look for in a “good” pot--a bowl, especially--when I flick the rim with my finger, it should ring like a bell. A cracked pot or one whose glaze does not fit right will sound dull. Pots that ring melodiously are special to me--it’s a secret treat they reserve just for me and other finger-flickin’ pot ringers.

What makes the nicest glaze differs with each potter, and the personal preferences I have are strictly my own. I have always enjoyed picking up rounded river rocks of various colors. Not the highly polished ones you can buy in tourist shops, but smooth matte pebbles from a river bank or a beach. I believe that one reason I loved Dave Stewart’s dark red matte glaze with black speckles at first sight is because it reminded me of river rocks--jasper, maybe. His pots looked as though they were carved from jasper. Maybe the “stone look” makes a pot look more indestructible and timeless to me, I don’t know--I’m on very intuitive ground here--but the glaze I now prize as my best creation is a smooth, semimatte turquoise with black speckles--it looks like turquoise granite, and I love to look at it.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

The Right Tools Make the Job Easy

I learned to ski in the late ‘60s on rented wooden skis with cable bindings and square-toed lace-up boots. The first skis I owned were metal and longer than my arm’s reach above me; my boots were still lace-ups, and I skied for years with that system. Eventually I rented new, short skis and step-in boots--and discovered that miraculously I could parallel beautifully and go down difficult slopes with ease. Wow! The lesson I learned that day? THE RIGHT TOOLS MAKE THE JOB EASY.

But a second, hidden lesson also lay behind my newfound ease in skiing: IF THE JOB CHANGES, THE OLD TOOLS MAY NOT STILL BE THE RIGHT TOOLS. In powder snow on ungroomed trails, long skis buoy you up by virtue of having more surface area--better than short skis. But short skis make it a heck of a lot easier navigating modern, mogul-ridden, well-packed, steep slopes. As packing more people onto a smaller skiing surface area became ever more profitable for ski resorts, skiing changed (surprise!) from traversing or “cross-country” to downhill; and the tools changed to manage the new job better. Skis got shorter.

The potter’s wheel is an ancient tool; and though there are many variants in many lands the basic kickwheel hasn’t changed much. However, the “job” of pottery has changed significantly, so--is the old tool still the right tool for the new job? Today, if you want a utility mug or bowl or cheap dinner set you can go to a superstore and get mass-produced stuff, for pocket change. No studio potter can compete with that! Like the local cobbler, blacksmith, and tailor, the potter who once made containers for the local villagers is obsolete. The rise of the electric potter’s wheel reflects an attempt to “stay viable” in the craft. Is an electric wheel the right wheel for the job now?

That depends on what the new job of potters is. Since making a living selling the neighbors their dinner sets is gone, potters have turned in one of two directions. On one hand, they gear up to make vast quantities of pots--”production pottery”--which they sell at low piece-rates, often to others who resell their wares (since these potters are so busy throwing and firing, they have no time to run their own storefronts, too). Some potters do well becoming part of this mass-production drive, staying ahead of Wal-Mart by adding some little signature “extra” that costs little time to throw in, and gives them brand recognition.

On the other hand some potters knock at the tightly-closed doors of the art world. They create fewer pieces--because more of their time is spent selling themselves and their work in the ferocious arena of art galleries--but often, these pieces are more outrageous, less functional, more dependent on the “look” of glazes, more dependent on fashion (“Sorry, but I can’t sell brown pots anymore; bring me mauve ones this year and we’ll talk”) than traditional pots. These potters worry about their portfolios and resumes; they fight endlessly to get their work shown in glossy magazines and in the “best” galleries.

Now, you may detect that I dislike both of these alternatives. I do, and I’ll explain what’s happened to me in another chapter. As for the electric wheel being better than a kickwheel for the potter of the new age, consider: the electric wheel allows the potter to make more pots in less time; it saves his energy kicking, so (theoretically) he can spend longer hours sitting at the wheel making more pots. In addition, the electric wheel also allows one to make larger pots more easily--and for the art world, the larger the better (rich people have huge houses, and a six-foot pot in the foyer is just right). So far, both directions of the new age of pottery are well-served by the new tool.

But electric wheels are costly. I made my first kickwheel with $75--for lumber, a maple cheeseboard wheel head, a steel wheel shaft, and Volkswagen wheel bearings to spin the plywood flywheel and the wheel head. At the time, an electric wheel cost more than $300--cash I didn’t have.

Instead of removing each piece from a wooden wheel head after it’s thrown--a process requiring delicate touch--an electric wheel sports a metal wheel head. This head doesn’t warp over time, but is murder on the fingernails and the sides of your hands--so it requires a flat wooden or plaster disc called a “bat” to be anchored to the metal head; the pot is thrown on the bat instead, and then the whole bat-with-pot is removed to dry. Less requirement for finesse in removing the piece. More room needed in the potter’s studio for the bats to sit side by side while drying, and for storing them between uses. More money required to buy the bats in the first place. More money must be charged the customer, to cover costs of the larger studio and the “necessary” equipment.

Pueblo Indians reading this must be laughing their heads off by now. They use no wheel, no fancy glaze, no fancy kilns. Their work is slow, patient, and lovely. Almost as nice as the museum pieces of their forefathers...

Electric wheels make a constant annoying hum. The studio must have electricity to run them. These wheels force you to sit, unmoving, in one position for hours (kickwheels force you to exercise, breathe, and to sit back occasionally to take a good look at your work). Dave Stewart said he could spend more time sitting on a kickwheel, enjoying his work, than he ever could on an electric wheel. He felt “machine-ized” by the electric wheel, and they made his back ache and his ass fall asleep. He liked the "flow" of work on a kickwheel. And I agree with him very much.

If you want to compete with the mass-production pottery industry, then by all means an electric wheel is the way to go; but expect dehumanization by your tool as well as by your goal. If you want to compete in the “art” world by throwing huge vessels, an electric wheel will require less strength in your legs and possibly less throwing time on your part. It’s a firm “maybe.” If you work in a noisy environment, you won’t appreciate a kickwheel anyway.

But if you want to hear the birds, think about what you’re doing as you’re doing it, oxygenate your lungs while you work, and feel the satisfaction of tiredness at the end of a working day, then a kickwheel is for you.

Tuesday, April 3, 2007

Clay is Frustrating

Clay is frustrating. All my big ideas, my great plans for how a pot will turn out, hinge on so many little details of execution, that only in my later years have I made what I have imagined actually come to pass predictably. Pottery requires discipline and attention to details. I am primarily a “big idea” person, a visual-spatial learner, one for whom generating fresh ideas is no problem at all, but for whom the execution is tough, keeping track of sequential details is boring, and finishing projects is never easy.

But this is not strictly my fault! It is also a result of the inherent difficulty of the craft. Clay responds to the laws of physics and chemistry, and makes exceptions for no one. Only my determination to try, try again has led me past seemingly endless disappointments.

Anyone who has watched a potter throw on the wheel knows how easy it looks--it’s like watching gymnasts in the Olympics. But the reality behind the wheel demo is “practice, practice, and more practice.” Not just practice in throwing pots: good pots appearing on the wheel also require a good clay “body”--the composition of the clay lump itself--as well as proper aging of the clay, wedging, a stable wheel to throw on, and probably a dozen other details. Then, too, the clay must dry right, and survive a first or “bisque” firing; the application of glaze must be consistent and correct (not too thick or too thin); the clay body and the glaze must match in expansion coefficients; and all must culminate in a good firing (not too hot or too cold, too fast or too slow). All these areas require meticulous note-taking, and years of practice before they all “sing together” (as Marguerite Wildenhain would say).

Too many students exposed to pottery classes in college think that in a semester or two, working a few hours a week, they will be able to master clay. This United States assumption was one of Marguerite’s pet peeves: in Europe (and probably Asia as well, although I am not certain), it was expected that seven years of full-time effort could turn a novice--with talent and determination--into a Journeyman, who could then branch out on his own and eventually attain Master recognition. When Marguerite trained with Max Krehan at the Bauhaus in Germany, she and six other pottery students were not allowed to show or sell any of their work for two years at least.

When I studied with Marguerite, her students were not allowed to keep ANY of their work during the six week course; in fact, we didn’t fire a single piece--we focused only on throwing. Without true perspective on how hard this craft is, would-be students of pottery in college become completely discouraged at what they think is their own failure. And they stop right there, and see no way to get to their dream.

This state of affairs is a shame, and I know of very few places in this country which really take pottery seriously enough to provide adequate support and training in the craft. All the good potters I know have gray hair! Where are the kids, the young adults, who want to risk all to become excellent in an “outdated” craft? I think college pottery classes have been killing their dreams. There are exceptions, but too few.

Is apprenticeship the answer? Many people have asked me to teach them how to make pots. I have responded by asking them if they just want a private demo, or if they want to “take home something” that they’ve made, or if they really want to become potters. So far, none have really wanted to become potters. Dave Stewart saw that I really wanted to make pots. He taught me at his home once a week, and let me pick up what was useful out of college classes on the side. I would do the same for some younger person--but so far, I have taught no one.