| Have you ever read Ceramics Monthly? It's
a publication for all sorts of ceramics, but mostly these days it is geared toward the
Artists. Artists, you see, are the opposite of Craftsmen. Artists create one of a kind,
imaginative, absolutely useless things, to express their "journey of discovery".
If you can't use the teapot, because they didn't actually make a lid that comes off, oh
well. It's a "statement on society and the cultural mores of an industrial
nation" or something, and it sure shows how very mundane you are if you expected to
make tea in it! Or it is a twisted piece of slag that looks like the pug mill was
violently ill, and only the Artist could see "the changing shapes of man's struggle
to overcome his anger and hate". They showcase it, put a fancy card on it, and hope
that someone buys it. For, like, two hundred bucks.
Then there's the Craftsman. The Craftsman likes to make Functional Pottery. That means plates, cups, bowls, teapots with lids AND spouts, and generally things that people use. Craftsmen take pride in their collective Usefulness. They debate the proper way to shape and cut a spout to keep the tea from dribbling. They argue the merits of glaze hardness, and how to make everything match even though it's Hand Thrown. Craftsmen look askance at Artists, and Artists return the look. Once, in an issue of Ceramics Monthly, there was one of the most bizarre letters I ever read. And, considering Ceramics Monthly, that's really going some. It was from a man who was explaining his spiritual journey, and the contribution to his journey of a bird. You see, he fires in a woodburning kiln, outside. He throws pots and plates and cups on the wheel, and then loads them into this kiln, and when he is done he feeds this brick belly with little, tiny sticks of wood until he has a good fire, and then regulates the fire for quite a day or more. You sort of picture this guy, a rather rustic looking bearded fellow, who is growing his own veggies out back and has a couple of goats. He is a very nice man, who has found his muse, and really doesn't care if anyone else notices, as long as he sells enough Hand Built Stoneware to pay the feed store. Anyway, his letter tells us that once a bird sacrificed itself for his ware and left its fluttering impression on the glaze of his best platter. He waxes poetic about the shadowy carbon dusting, capturing the feathers in a spiritual moment of glory, and praises the bird for its supreme gesture. It was a bird. A Dead Bird. A Very Very Dead Bird. It flew down the chimney and couldn't get out. It died on top of his nice stoneware platter, all stilted and glazed. It burned like a Twinkie in a toaster oven. Get real, you chide in your head. Wake up and smell the roast dove. Whether you are an Artist or a Craftsman, whether you take pride in your Journey, or your Usefulness, everyone has their moments. But keep your kiln closed. Joanie |
