| Yesterday, cleaning out the
"barn" which is where the ceramics are done, I was picking up little bits of
horses and started thinking about the different views of hobbyists and factories.
To a factory, such as Hagen-Renaker, ware is only worth something if it is ready to sell. If its head broke off, a leg crunched or its eyeballs didn't get painted, it is probably not worth fixing. Volume, volume, volume... so there isn't anyone sitting in a corner, crouched over a pile of mismatched critters, carefully wetting the giraffes legs to reattach them! There are little piles of broken bodies under tables and workstations, like sad little drifts of snow. They are swept up and thrown away, poor little lost souls that they are. In the old days, Hagen-Renaker would sell their already fired "broken" ware to a concrete company, so we have long said that "The streets of Monrovia are paved with Hagen-Renakers!". Most factories are like this, because it is easier to cast new pieces than repair broken ones. Of course, some ware is worth fixing. I have an HR "Misty" that has a noticeable repair on her leg. For eyes that know how to see... Contrast that with your average everyday horse collector. Each horse has value. I have often mused that even parts of horses have value, because there is little difference in the reaction between seeing a disembodied head (Oh dear what happened?! Poor thing!!!) and a headless body (Oh dear, oh my, where did your little head go?!!) We feel the pain, we mourn the loss, even though we know that the "poor little thing" is just a mud casting. For a factory, it is a statistical loss and is part of doing business. For a hobbyist, it is a creature that needs rescue. Often, when people are here to visit and they break the leg off of a greenware horse, they are in quite a hurry to reattach it, as if it felt pain! I have felt that compulsion myself. The other story that the floor reminded me of is the snake. Remember, Kristina? We drove into the driveway, back in the station wagon days, when the "factory" was the front bedroom and garage. A long black snake was lying alongside the garage door, no doubt basking in the sun. We probably screamed, we tried to chase it away, but it slithered under the door and into the garage! The garage was full of Stuff. Lots and lots of Stuff. Not only the kiln, the casting tables and the molds, but makeshift tables that were really doors resting on cabinets and old rusty metal shelves. There were LOTS of places a black snake could hide. It was dark, with creepy shadows in cobwebbed corners, and there was NO WAY to pull everything out and chase Mr. Snake away. I hate snakes. I hate snakes a LOT. Now, Kristina worked mostly in the bedroom, where the greenware was cleaned and the handwork done. And the door from that room to the garage was ordinarily propped open to take some of the chill off the garage so Joanie's hand would not freeze solid to the airbrush. There's Kristina, in the bedroom, secure in the knowledge that if Mr. Snake came in she could at least see him. But poor me out in the dark garage with the fluorescent lighting throwing dancing shadows... I must have been casting that day, and as I began to de-mold Kristina piped up from the bedroom: "I think snakes can climb." I flinched and looked sideways up at the
ceiling, which is open beamed with a couple of old mattresses shoved between the beams. Then, in bare feet, I stepped on something wet. And cold. I screamed and jumped and cussed and yelled, and it stayed stuck to my foot for a few seconds. It was some wet clay, from the pour holes. Sure that I would never calm down, and not wanting to go into that den of snakes again, we took off to have a little rest at our favorite Thai place, Siamese Basil. During our very excited discussion about The Terrible Thing In The Garage, our favorite waiter came by and wanted to know what was wrong. He was from Thailand, and spoke fair English. We said that there was a snake in our house, a king snake. His eyes widened, and he stepped back. "King Cobra?" he asked. "No, no, just a king snake." we replied, feeling rather foolish at being shown what Mr. Snake COULD have been. "I had cobra in my house once. In my drawers. Very bad." He shook his head, and walked away. We never found Mr. Snake, he either slithered out again, died and disintegrated or is still in there, up in one of those mattresses, having missed his chance to drop on my head. Sometimes the floor of the factory has a story to tell, so make sure to look around. Joanie
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