While I use brushes for much of my glazing decoration, the kiln does just as much painting as me. Unlike painters, potters have to give up some control of their artwork by using fire to finish the surface. I brushed iron stain onto the rim of the mugs below, then the iron dripped down the walls during the firing.
Each pot is first dipped in a bucket of glaze. I chose glazes that move and drip during the firing. The image below shows how I brush colorants like iron or cobalt onto the surface. This adds color contrast, and encourages drips and movement.
After glazing, my pottery is loaded into a natural gas kiln. This is basically a huge oven with no windows that heats to about 2400 degrees F. for about 12 hours. After 2 days of cooling, I open the kiln with fingers crossed, hoping that the “kiln gods” gave some good colors to the pots.
The images below show how I use iron, cobalt and copper stains to add color and movement. I brushed them on as a vertical line, then the stains melt down the pot during the firing. This big pot barely fit in the kiln- we had to take out a few of the floor bricks!
The Copper Red glaze is very responsive to the flame path in natural gas kilns. The gaseous atmosphere produces red colors, while the clear/green colors show up where the pot was more oxygenated. The flame naturally paints the glazed surface.
This past weekend I set up over 100 pots to show at the 3rd annual Art Festival in Bayfront Park in Duluth, MN. My parents, a few of my aunts and uncles, and 4 good friends also joined me! Special thanks to everyone who helped make this a successful weekend.
I brought 100 pounds of clay and my pottery wheel for throwing demonstrations. 4 bricks, each 25 pounds of clay, were formed into about 300 shot glasses using my hump throwing process. Check out the photos below shot by my Aunt Dolly:
Also check out my store to see just a few that I have for sale online:
Guest Posting by my friend and writer Laura Fuller:
My sister wonders at my memory for weird details of childhood. I remember when I was four and she was seven, and Dad caught us flushing the toilet with our feet in it after 10 PM, you know, just to see.
But it’s trouble to remember what others don’t. In my last post, I remembered that Joel and I had big plans to build a fort in third grade. He’d forgotten this; I looked like a creep.
My Lumberjack friend drove me home sometimes when Dubai got too hot for walking. Toward June, this frequently became a ride home plus happy hour or an episode of Mad Men. I’ll remember these moments with weird clarity, for I liked them. He said something on the final ride home about the last three weeks of concentrated expriences like this – ex. college, international teaching posts – being “pregnant with meaning.” We’re purposeful on the way out the door.
Two days later, I squinted through salty contacts at my computer screen somewhere above the Atlantic, committing to language a memory from the last year:
I stood in the center of the Souq al-Arsa in Al Sharjah at noontime while the Whitneys went to see about lunch. I stayed in the hallway, out-of-homebody and drunk on the Call to Prayer. I felt in my pocket for the Joker card I’d found in the parking lot, the first in a mysterious collection of mismatched playing cards acquired on Middle East adventures. I’d later find a seven of hearts at Wadi Damm in Oman, a queen of spades near Mt. Nebo in Jordan.
Lipton table tops and a hand-washing sink in the dining area.
Over bottomless chicken biryani, they told me about moving abroad, how their family wasn’t too excited about it. They exchanged confident smiles. Non-English-speaking men bustled through spicy air, weaving between Lipton Tea tables. My friend proclaimed that she would one day honor this deliciousness with a dog named Chicken Biryani. I quietly tasted the idea of living a life that scared me.
Six months later, I came back.
I wonder now whether it even happened, whether she recalls naming her imaginary dog.
It’s disappointing, moments like this disappearing from the rearview mirror, leaving me with an incomplete hand of foreign cards from a deck of memories too specific to mention. No one will draw the Queen of Biryani, the Ace of Al Sharjah.
Joel invited me to write about Abstract Expressionism.
Championing this movement in a previous post, “ROCK! Music that makes the wheel go round,” Joel said, “With Abstract Expressionism, you go with the flow and surrender to the process.” This school of art heavily influenced his piece “Mindscape” and the work he recently showed at St. Cloud’s Paramount Arts Center for his FROM THE BASEMENT exhibition. In particular, his work reflects his admiration for Jackson Pollock. Joel says, “I’m thinking about the innovative ways he used paint to bring out the essence of the material. Each hanging sculpture reminds me of one of Pollock’s drips.”
To help me understand what that means, Joel passed along a Youtube clip of Pollock discussing the activity of art-making:
“When I am painting,” Pollock says, “I have a general notion as to what I am about…There is no accident, just as there is no beginning and no end.” He is as much a part of the art as the paint or the canvas. He doesn’t say he knows what the painting is about, but what he is about. Surrendering to the moment, Pollock says, “Sometimes I lose the painting, but I have no fear of changes, of destroying the image. Because the painting has a life of its own, I try to let it live.” He can be a part of the creative moment without deciding how it will turn out.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art’s crash course in Abstract Expressionism helped, too, for I knew nothing of this stuff until challenged to write about it. The Met’s Stella Paul uses language similar to Joel’s in boiling down the movement. Abstract Expressionists, she says, “accorded the highest importance to process.” As I understand it, then, the moments spent in creating the thing are more important than the thing itself. The piece of art is only that—a piece, an artifact of the more-important creative moment.
Paul quotes the 1952 writing of critic Harold Rosenberg, who considers a piece of Abstract Expressionist art “not a picture but an event.” We call it a painting, after all, not a painted.
His very blog is evidence of Joel’s Abstract Expressionist tendencies. Sure, it’s nice if you like his work, but he cares deeply about how it’s made, what materials go into it, what music he hears while he’s working. All of the variables in his creative moments add to the eventual thing. If you were there while he was working, you’d be in it, too.
In his novel Bluebeard, Kurt Vonnegut writes as a fictional character named Rabo Karabekian, a retired former Abstract Expressionist painter whose paintings no longer exist. They destroyed themselves because of the materials he used, leaving nothing but the memory of their creative moments.
Rabo explains why even before his work was lost, he couldn’t compare to the real masters of Abstract Expressionism. He failed to paint time in motion: “life, by definition, is never still,” he tells us. “Where is it going? From birth to death with no stops on the way.” He calls it a “miracle…which was achieved by the best of the Abstract Expressionists,” that for their work to be great, “birth and death are always there.” The moment accounts for its own changing place in time.
There’s solace in knowing that to Abstract Expressionists, the creative moment is the art. For better or worse, time travels, and we have no choice but to go with it or risk missing new moments.
But if we spend our moments in a way that respects their quick passing–creating something, collecting cards– that is, if the thing you’re doing qualifies as art in and of its active self, you can remember that art when you look back, stoneware vase or abandoned playing card in hand. The magic is in the moment, and the moment moves.
Joel: “So Don, when do you know when to stop working on a piece?”
Don: “When someone hits me over the head with a baseball bat.”
Don Reitz, Abstract Expressionist in Clay, quoted during “Potters As Sculptors, Sculptors as Potters: NCECA Pre-Conference Symposium” Flagstaff, AZ, 2009.
Ken, Brady and I share studio space in the basement of the Paramount Arts Center, in downtown Saint Cloud, MN. We installed a pottery and sculpture exhibition in the gallery space right across from our studios. Hope to see you at the closing reception June 29th!
Also, heres some awesome music that inspired the show, the title and a bit of the artwork. Thanks Radiohead for putting some of your best stuff out in the world for free!
I’m not Joel, but in third grade, we spent Mrs. Sullivan’s class scheming on the fort we wanted to construct around our desks. Joel doesn’t remember or deny this, but he does confirm that he had a “fort phase.” Naturally I now write about his pottery.
I’ll teach six more weeks in Dubai, UAE, which is ultimately an airport: Being unsafe takes effort, you can get what you need but with preservatives, and jewels and gadgets of all countries attempt to constitute a style of one’s own. If flying through O’Hare is not visiting Chicago, being in Dubai isn’t the definitive Middle Eastern experience.
Ski Dubai: Where Arabia goes to ski and shop and the environment goes to die.Jacques Peak, photo by Joel while skiing at Copper Mt. Colorado.
I can’t curse it, though. Safety, convenience, dreamy beaches, solid job, and good friends — not torture. And there are little glimpses of an older-than-me culture here if I bother to look. You can hear the call to prayer from five mosques at once at Kite Beach. Graffiti and Iranian merchant ships frequent the creek in Diera.
But these joys are fleeting, up against the cranes, malls, Maseratis and TGIFridays. It’s mostly contrived to look Arabian. Give the people what they want: stucco, marble, huge doorways–literal smoke and mirrors. Look at our fancy Arabian-esque mall! It’s just like Arabia, but big! And with retail! It’s like Arabian retail Inception!
People list Dubai’s location as a reason to stay here. “Well, it’s just so easy to travel from here.” The place’s value is attributed to the ease with which residents can escape it? Huh.
But it’s true. I hopped to Jordan for spring break this year to reorganize my self. I traveled with a kind family of hippies and a lumberjack, the best travel crew I’ve ever known.
Jordan is even more Westerner-friendly than Dubai but doesn’t abandon its culture to be this way. Like a family dinner instead of a fancy restaurant meal, Jordan offers what it has instead of what it thinks you want: its own food, open air markets, monolingual Arabic signage, and even locals who groom their own facial hair.
The whole week gave off an aroma of chance as we took in seemingly private moments, decidedly uncontrived. I felt snug and small as I watched them, un-special myself but privileged to see something special, like a rare phenomenon of nature.
We took a scenic route and would fall short of Petra by sunset. Hani, driver and guide, consoled us with an iPod adaptor cord. Banjos and guitars and wailing harmonies crowded into all the van’s empty spaces, and we howled out open windows as the afternoon began to droop. At sunset, we unloaded on the side of the road. A fresh wind bloomed from a vast gorge. The sun resolved down in the valley and a mist settled below. Our hair swirled in the continuous gust, and we laughed our exhilaration, maybe at the implied joke of possibly passing that moment anywhere else. The unexpected wind swept upward, not threatening to knock us into the gorge but to blast us far from it — Southeast Asia, New York, Seattle. We threw our arms wide to catch air that was left off our itinerary.
I slept with my windows open in Petra. At 4:30 AM I popped awake, panicked by the bullhorn fervor of a grown man hollering at full voice. I laid back down and let the loud, emphatic call to prayer steamroll into the room. The snoring cut out abruptly from the next bed, startled into a hush. If he was awake he didn’t say anything. Neither of us rose to shut the window. The curtains undulated with the breeze, giving the illusion that the invitation to prayer was a physical thing, one that could move fabric and make noise and feel cold. I smiled, flat on my back, that someone’s job was to wake us up to be grateful. It would have happened without me. The call would have sounded and Petra’s men would have walked to the mosque with their prayer mats even if I had slept in my Dubai bed.
Joel explains two reasons for using wood ashes in his glazes: philosophy and aesthetics.
The philosophy bit carries a sense of participation in a community or cycle. His ashes come from a family in Collegeville, MN, who heat their home with a wood burning stove. This wood is entirely deadfall or dying trees, which the family harvests from the St. John’s Arboretum. The ashes then are “an expression of the landscape,” he says. They reflect the types of trees from which they come and where those trees grew.
But wood ashes are harder to work with. It takes “dozens of hours” to sift through them and special glaze chemistry to mix custom glazes, which are ever-changing: “When the ashes change from year to year, so must my glaze recipes. Pine ashes differ from Oak, Walnut, etc.” The trees don’t really care that Joel has a glaze to make. They live and die on tree watches, and the Nuka glaze takes from them what it can get. The pots that use this glaze are simply reflections of the small moments that Joel catches — a season heavy with pine or oak, a stop on the side of a Jordanian mountain. Things happen, and sometimes we’re both lucky enough to see them and crafty enough to capture them.
The second bit is the aesthetics. Joel says of his ashes, “I’m curious how this earthen material often creates an earthen aesthetic.” He points to “complex glaze surfaces, rustic tones, natural color variation, spots, drips, asymmetrical patterns that” remind him of “colors and surfaces in nature.”
He appreciates the unpredictability and experimentalism of every firing when he uses these materials, especially when he incorporates iron, which reacts with the ashes to create dark contrast. The more labor-intensive and unruly work is rewarding.
He boils it down to this: “Constant challenge helps the artwork learn and grow.” I like the idea that the art itself is being challenged, that art learns. I like even more that he goes looking for this challenge because art’s learning is a worthy pursuit.
It’s a human tendency to tuck that learning into a classroom, a box, or a fail-proof glaze formula to use for all time: This is how we learn about culture. This is how we make the Nuka glaze. But it’s not that simple, and that’s why it’s so valuable. The end product is at the mercy of all the calls to prayer and winds from Jordanian valleys and fallen Minnesota branches from any family of trees — nothing we can plan or reign over. And the statement that forms won’t ever be said that way again, not for us and not for as long as we live, which makes that mug seem like quite a privilege for your coffee refill, no?
