Doesn't everyone?

I love Nathan. His friendship is a gift to me through my brother. He has such a good heart and he makes everyone smile. We made the trip to visit with him last October and he graciously housed my family and me for a weekend. It doesn't sound like much, but I know that meant preparing three bedrooms in order to accommodate all of us. It also meant he gave up his own bedroom and slept on an inflatable mattress the weekend we were there. He arranged activities for my girls and toted us around as we visited with new friends. And he happily did it all.

Nathan's bowl

I called him a couple of weeks before our visit to finalize details. When I asked him what he was doing he said he was ironing the bed sheets in preparation for our stay. "Really? You do that?" I asked. "Well doesn't everyone?" He joked.

When we visited I decided what decorative something I would make for his home. I text him a photo saying, "I hope you like this bowl because I etched 'for Nathan' on the bottom and you're the only Nathan I know!" He replied,"It's beautiful! I love it! But I know that you are aware, that I spell it NATHEN, with a hyphen. Lol." I called him in a panic telling him there's no taking it back and I guess no one better turn it over! He laughed. He got me!

Perfection

Perfection is an illusion. We strive for perfection and it is a noble goal, but isn't imperfection part of the human condition, and so unavoidable? We are so ready to judge ourselves harshly when we don't meet our highest expectation. Yet often there is more value in the journey then there is in the goal.

In art, we create the illusion of perfection. We finesse and finagle the arrangement of elements until everything looks evenly spaced and perfectly aligned, but in the end, we make it so that the imperfections are really unnoticeable.

A large pot in progress

I worked once in the company of Marva Jolly who watched as I smoothed every wrinkle and crevasse out of a form and fussed over it to make sure it was perfectly symmetrical. After working a great while, she looked at my smooth surface and said, "You just took the character out of it." She also observed how hard I worked to make everything so perfect.  She noted that one small unexpected happening could take that perfection away. She said it was better to embrace the imperfect and make that part of the art.

This is a lesson I keep in mind when I work. I strive for perfection, but embrace the character of the imperfect and treasure the random, knowing a happy accident may be around the corner.

Rambling about the dirt

ranunculus in one of my pots

When I was working at Lill Street, there was a woman who said that clay was not dirt, but I realize there is a relationship between clay, dirt, and the earth.  I've always thought potters have a sense of spiritual centeredness much the same way carpenters do.  Some say it comes from working with our hands. I've heard others say it comes from making long physical contact with something natural and old. Maybe it's because the act of creating gives one time to think and to reflect. 

Although clay may not be dirt, I've noticed many potters have an affinity for gardening.   I've often thought that somehow we must be drawn to something that comes from the earth.   Gardening  also, like pottery, gives one time to work their hands to reflect, to remember, and to be grateful. 

helleborus planted in the garden

I live off a busy Chicago street and often when I garden in the front of my house I reflect on my neighbor, Katie. I remember once as I was bending over, planting flowers in the front of the house, cars kept honking at me. I presumed these were piggish men who were honking at my butt.  A little bit later, Katie came out to garden, and before long, cars were honking at her.  I asked, "Doesn't it make you mad when they honk?"  To which she responded, "It would make me mad if they didn't honk."   I laughed, enjoying her perspective on things. 

Now whenever I garden in the front of my house, I reflect upon Katie's friendship, I am grateful for her perspective, and I smile.