I long so much to make beautiful things. But beautiful things require effort and disappointment and perseverance. --Vincent Van Gogh
This isn't the best pot I've thrown, but it's the most important. Why? Well, let me tell you. I threw this pot after I'd been working with clay for six weeks. I wanted to throw a large pot like some of the other guys were throwing at HPG and that meant throwing a larger piece of clay. I remember kneading six pounds of Rods Bod on the wedging table, feeling its massiveness in my hands. All that clay felt huge and I had to change my technique to handle so much of it. I didn't stop and think it through but made small adjustments each time I pushed the clay into the table. I felt the changes that needed to be made. When the clay was thoroughly wedged, I sat down at the wheel, raised the clay up and BAM, slammed it down on the bat, the sound ricocheting off the walls. The guy sitting across from me, another newbie, jerked up his head. "Man, Jon, how much clay is that?" "Six pounds," I said, "Six pounds of Rods Bod." It sat there like a mountain daring me to tame it if I could. I'd never thrown more than 3 pounds of clay but I wanted to challenge myself, to try something I wasn't ready to do. I put my hands on the clay and started centering it, startled at how solid it felt, how immoveable. After about 5 minutes or so I had it centered and ready to open up. After opening the hole, I began pulling up the walls, the thick walls. Everything was going well until I squeezed the clay too hard about 2 inches above the base, thinning it out and torquing it. I tried to straighten it out but its movements became even more eccentric and soon it was swaying like a belly dancer. Cursing myself, I pushed the clay down and cut it off the bat. Sheepishly I shuffled to the wedging table keeping my head down, staring at the lumpen mass in my hands like it was some offensive thing. I kneaded the clay again, pushing it into a homogenous mass, squeezing out the air bubbles, thinking about what had just happened and how to keep it from happening again. I walked back to the wheel, sat down, raised up the clay and BAM, slammed it down on the bat. After about 5 minutes or so I had it centered and ready to open up. After opening the hole, I began pulling up the walls, the thick walls. Everything was going well until I squeezed the clay too hard about 2 inches above the base, thinning it out and torquing it. I tried to straighten it out
but its movements became even more eccentric and soon it was swaying like a belly dancer. Cursing myself, I pushed the clay down and cut it off the bat. Sheepishly I shuffled to the wedging table keeping my head down, staring at the lumpen mass in my hands like it was some offensive thing. I kneaded the clay again, pushing it into a homogenous mass, squeezing out the air bubbles, thinking about what had just happened and how to keep it from happening again. I walked back to the wheel, sat down, and as quietly as possible put the clay on the bat. After about 5 minutes or so I had it centered and ready to open up. After opening the hole, I began pulling up the walls, the thick walls. Everything was going well until I squeezed the clay too hard about 2 inches above the base, thinning it out and torquing it. I tried to straighten it out
but its movements became even more eccentric and soon it was swaying like a belly dancer. Cursing myself, I pushed the clay down and cut it off the bat. I looked around the room. All the other potters had their heads down, looking like they were concentrating on their pots. No one wanted to look at me.
By my count I threw that same piece of clay 21 times over the course of 5 days. 21 times. Slowly it shrank; slowly I corrected my mistakes, learning all along the way, oscillating between frustration and self-loathing. Most nights I went to bed solemnly swearing never to touch clay again, certain that I'd never get this right, that I didn't have the talent for it, that it wasn't worth learning how to do this. And why was I making pots anyway? What's the point? But the next day I picked up the same piece of clay and went at it again. Over the course of 5 days I discovered how creative I was: I was creating new ways of messing up pots that no one had dreamt of. In fact, I grew so fond of my unique mistakes that I repeated them over and over again to make sure I'd gotten them right. But most of my mistakes were typical garden variety mess ups that we all make: I bellied out the bottom too quickly and collapsed the pot; I whacked the pot with my hand as I was reaching for something; my hands hit a dry spot which created too much friction and knocked the pot out of round; the clay became too wet and couldn't hold it's shape; I ripped off the top because I pulled the clay up too fast and with too much pressure. You get the idea. Learning a skill is a process. We know that. But the notion of process implies that mistakes will be made, that the apprentice will move from inadequacy to greater adequacy, that the only path to greater perfection is the path of imperfection, and that the path must be persevered in even though the process beats down our self esteem, disappoints our hopes, and mocks our abilities. I learned a lot about perseverance along the way because failure was my constant companion. But what other way could I take to learn this skill? The path of imperfection is the only path I know of, and it's often pretty rough going. But by the final day I'd grown quite a bit. I wasn't thinking about taming the clay; I was wooing it. When I finally finished the pot to my satisfaction, I remember looking at it wistfully knowing how much the process had meant to me. What I learned over those 5 days about clay and about myself laid the foundation for everything I've done since then. It loosened me up, made me less afraid to make "mistakes," to be less paranoid about what others might think of my work or how they might evaluate me as a potter. It made me more confident in my skills and my ability to make anything out of clay. Looking at the pot now, all 8 inches of it, brings a smile to my face. At the moment I thought it was such a great pot, and for me it was, but I couldn't have done anything better without going through that pot and dozens of others that weren't much better. That's why this is the most important pot I've ever thrown.
This isn't the best pot I've thrown, but it's the most important. Why? Well, let me tell you. I threw this pot after I'd been working with clay for six weeks. I wanted to throw a large pot like some of the other guys were throwing at HPG and that meant throwing a larger piece of clay. I remember kneading six pounds of Rods Bod on the wedging table, feeling its massiveness in my hands. All that clay felt huge and I had to change my technique to handle so much of it. I didn't stop and think it through but made small adjustments each time I pushed the clay into the table. I felt the changes that needed to be made. When the clay was thoroughly wedged, I sat down at the wheel, raised the clay up and BAM, slammed it down on the bat, the sound ricocheting off the walls. The guy sitting across from me, another newbie, jerked up his head. "Man, Jon, how much clay is that?" "Six pounds," I said, "Six pounds of Rods Bod." It sat there like a mountain daring me to tame it if I could. I'd never thrown more than 3 pounds of clay but I wanted to challenge myself, to try something I wasn't ready to do. I put my hands on the clay and started centering it, startled at how solid it felt, how immoveable. After about 5 minutes or so I had it centered and ready to open up. After opening the hole, I began pulling up the walls, the thick walls. Everything was going well until I squeezed the clay too hard about 2 inches above the base, thinning it out and torquing it. I tried to straighten it out but its movements became even more eccentric and soon it was swaying like a belly dancer. Cursing myself, I pushed the clay down and cut it off the bat. Sheepishly I shuffled to the wedging table keeping my head down, staring at the lumpen mass in my hands like it was some offensive thing. I kneaded the clay again, pushing it into a homogenous mass, squeezing out the air bubbles, thinking about what had just happened and how to keep it from happening again. I walked back to the wheel, sat down, raised up the clay and BAM, slammed it down on the bat. After about 5 minutes or so I had it centered and ready to open up. After opening the hole, I began pulling up the walls, the thick walls. Everything was going well until I squeezed the clay too hard about 2 inches above the base, thinning it out and torquing it. I tried to straighten it out
but its movements became even more eccentric and soon it was swaying like a belly dancer. Cursing myself, I pushed the clay down and cut it off the bat. Sheepishly I shuffled to the wedging table keeping my head down, staring at the lumpen mass in my hands like it was some offensive thing. I kneaded the clay again, pushing it into a homogenous mass, squeezing out the air bubbles, thinking about what had just happened and how to keep it from happening again. I walked back to the wheel, sat down, and as quietly as possible put the clay on the bat. After about 5 minutes or so I had it centered and ready to open up. After opening the hole, I began pulling up the walls, the thick walls. Everything was going well until I squeezed the clay too hard about 2 inches above the base, thinning it out and torquing it. I tried to straighten it out
but its movements became even more eccentric and soon it was swaying like a belly dancer. Cursing myself, I pushed the clay down and cut it off the bat. I looked around the room. All the other potters had their heads down, looking like they were concentrating on their pots. No one wanted to look at me.
By my count I threw that same piece of clay 21 times over the course of 5 days. 21 times. Slowly it shrank; slowly I corrected my mistakes, learning all along the way, oscillating between frustration and self-loathing. Most nights I went to bed solemnly swearing never to touch clay again, certain that I'd never get this right, that I didn't have the talent for it, that it wasn't worth learning how to do this. And why was I making pots anyway? What's the point? But the next day I picked up the same piece of clay and went at it again. Over the course of 5 days I discovered how creative I was: I was creating new ways of messing up pots that no one had dreamt of. In fact, I grew so fond of my unique mistakes that I repeated them over and over again to make sure I'd gotten them right. But most of my mistakes were typical garden variety mess ups that we all make: I bellied out the bottom too quickly and collapsed the pot; I whacked the pot with my hand as I was reaching for something; my hands hit a dry spot which created too much friction and knocked the pot out of round; the clay became too wet and couldn't hold it's shape; I ripped off the top because I pulled the clay up too fast and with too much pressure. You get the idea. Learning a skill is a process. We know that. But the notion of process implies that mistakes will be made, that the apprentice will move from inadequacy to greater adequacy, that the only path to greater perfection is the path of imperfection, and that the path must be persevered in even though the process beats down our self esteem, disappoints our hopes, and mocks our abilities. I learned a lot about perseverance along the way because failure was my constant companion. But what other way could I take to learn this skill? The path of imperfection is the only path I know of, and it's often pretty rough going. But by the final day I'd grown quite a bit. I wasn't thinking about taming the clay; I was wooing it. When I finally finished the pot to my satisfaction, I remember looking at it wistfully knowing how much the process had meant to me. What I learned over those 5 days about clay and about myself laid the foundation for everything I've done since then. It loosened me up, made me less afraid to make "mistakes," to be less paranoid about what others might think of my work or how they might evaluate me as a potter. It made me more confident in my skills and my ability to make anything out of clay. Looking at the pot now, all 8 inches of it, brings a smile to my face. At the moment I thought it was such a great pot, and for me it was, but I couldn't have done anything better without going through that pot and dozens of others that weren't much better. That's why this is the most important pot I've ever thrown.
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