evolution

this, i suppose, is what friends are for. yesterday, at the wonderful funeral march for my friend john payne, i got the chance to talk to a friend that i have not spent much time with for some months. in telling him about the new things i am thinking and doing in ceramics, i mentioned "this machine kills fascists." he laughed at me... and called me pro-capitalist. continuing to laugh, he said that he was surprised at me, wanting to kill anyone..." sooo violent!" he mocked me. i choked. sputtering, i was unable to defend myself. it might have had something to do with the fact that there were several other friends present, i had an armful of four-year-old, and we were about to start a march across the haywood street bridge. sigh. i have just never been glib under pressure. it speaks well of my sincerity, but not so much for my intellect. at any rate, the thought that this provoked has fermented and bourne the following.
i love words. i always have. they are for me the first blush of creativity. new forms are created in my mouth before they are drawn on the page. if i can't describe it to myself, i can't do it. but, even more than their effect on my internal processes, i am fascinated by the effect that they have on the masses. any masses. all masses. think barack obama. kennedy. MLK. hitler. woody guthrie. all of their words moved tremendous numbers of people to action (for better or for worse.) if anything has been missing in my asheville experience to date, it has been a powerful, passionate discourse with my own work. don't get me wrong, i love my work. it speaks volumes to and about me. but where it fails is in speaking to the greater issues that move me. oppression of women and minorities (be they traditional minorities, or the the urban poor.) mechanization. job loss. war. nuclear proliferation. the manipulation of american culture and legislation by corporate factions. (okay. keep laughing. how much did that last tank of gas cost? how much high fructose corn syrup do you imbibe on a daily basis? why can more kids identify ronald mcdonald than george washington? why are wild fish not safe to eat? who is actually profiting from the wars in iraq and afghanistan?) in putting brief, powerful statements paired with striking/unexpected visuals on my pots, i risk being dismissed as the ceramic equivalent of a bumper sticker. could be. or, in juxtaposing phrases like "canary in a coalmine." with a raven sitting on a nuclear warhead, perhaps i am releasing into the viewer the visual equivalent of a brain worm. (that piece of song that gets stuck in your head.)it will squirm and rankle until the possessor exorcises it by learning more about the issue at hand. and perhaps acting.
and as for the violence inherent in, "this machine kills fascists," passionate speech is not peaceful. not in the sense in which i so long embraced peace and non-violence. my own ideals created in me a stagnancy and helplessness and bitter silence that cankered and chafed. so, now i speak. loudly. using words that i eschewed before as too harsh. but in the din of pop culture, i have to shout to hear myself. but yes, i will study the great peace makers, too, to relearn a vocabulary of peace that moves mountains.
lovepeace
heather

oncemoreintothebreachgoodfriends

(oooo, i hate that title glitch!)(harrumph.)
so today guthrie and i had our first culinary science class. he learned:
one quarter cup= 4 tablespoons,
one Tablespoon= 3 teaspoons,
how to grind flour,
why to grind flour,
how to combine water, yeast, and sweetener,
the origins of sorghum,
why yeast needs sugar,
how to knead dough by hand,
that kneading dough by hand is harder than it looks,
that a light bulb in the oven really makes it warm enough to rise dough,
how to punch down a risen ball of dough,
why to be gentle with dough when forming a loaf,
what egg white does for the top of a loaf,
why i spill water in the oven after putting in the bread,
how to divide a single drop into four parts,
how to curdle goat milk with microbial rennet and yoghurt culture,
and not to end a sentence with a preposition in front of his mother.
all valuable lessons that ended with two loaves of bread and half a gallon of milk on its way to chevre. and we'll do it all again next week! (or when the bread runs out.)
lovepeace
h

...

and then the dogs ate them.
damn it.
h.

flourpower

after several years of considering it, i finally bought a grain mill attachment for my kitchenaid. it is on its maiden voyage, grinding 6 cups of hard red winter wheat for my favorite oatmeal bread. my hopes are high, but my expectations are low. remembering years of doorstop loaves as i learned to bake edible bread, i figure that there is a learning curve here, too.
and so there is... i have ordered a cookbook on whole grain artisan breads. but this bread rose well and tastes good and has a crumb much like that of my good old oatmeal bread. sadie can't stop eating it. that is a good sign.
excelsior!
lovepeace
heather
ps. and it really isn't as dumpy as it looks. i forgot that my loaf pans take a pound and a half loaf. i should have tripled the recipe. (oops.still yummy.)

conversionexperience

yep. this is me. nose-deep in a sweet, succulent, o-so-fragrant little canteloupe from the city market.(i confess that i have forgotten which farm it came from.) the pony-tailed and bearded purveyor of deliciousness smelled their little belly-buttons and smiled knowingly. my years of hating melons would soon be over. as i walked home from the market with the basket on my head the prevailing breeze kept tickling my nose with the delicate perfume of sweet basil and baby melons. it brought to mind the almost pornographic enthusiasm for them shown by a peripheral character in the "toujour provence" books. living here makes me want to write food porn, too. of course, the moment sadie and i got home, we sliced up a juicy pale green orb. the flesh was... melon colored... and delectable. i even tried it with basil. ooooo.
next week: watermelon.

thankyouwoodyguthrie

THIS MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS.
though originally woody guthrie's, this idea comes from sadie, who wrote this on her computer. whereas i am not sure that i agree with that entirely, i like her idea about communication and information making good old-fashioned fascism impossible. my own idea, however, is that corporations are the new american fascists. in the abused names of security and convenience we have allowed ourselves to be vastly separated from our real sources such as food, family, and community. if we take back control over our food supplies and means of production, opting for local and handmade sources over imported goods and engineered foodstuffs, we draw closer to our families and communities. food is not junk. your coffee mug is not a nameless cog in the machine. where did that coffee come from, anyway? as these things become objects of thought, there is a shift in the mindset. we sit down for dinner. we meet our neighbors and our farmers. it becomes easier to make decisions that are good for all of us and not just based on fear, speed, or what will buy us that mercedes benz.
(note: i am not really advocating killing anyone. not even dick cheney. but with their means of control eradicated, they can adapt or die. ideologically, anyway.)

happybirthdaytome

[yes, it is a little late. my birthday is still the 7th day of the 7th month, but michael (having been in honduras for a month) gets a dispensation.] isn't it lovely! this is the beautiful cedar and mahogany box that michael made for me. it is even more exquisite in person, especially as it is full of fascinating things that he found on the shores of honduras. there is a nautilus carved on the front, and the inside is segmented in the proportions of the fibonacci sequence. most wonderfully of all, he made it with his very own hands, learning most of the skills as he progressed with the help of folk he works with on the farm. it is a labor of love, and i am so proud of it. and him.
lovelovelovepeace
h.

new

this is a slight alteration of an old pitcher form that i like. it gives her some attitude. and a butt. art imitates life.

ahhh

this is one of the most beautiful teapots i have ever seen. i wish that i had made it... it is by the wonderful canadian potter cathi jefferson. sigh. such simple artistry and skill. this is your moment of zen.
lovepeace
h.

myartiststatement

(if i use more than one word in the title, it turns into blocks. damn.)
(i had to write this for the book for the show tomorrow.)
I am vastly enamored of the wood-fired surface. The complex patterns of flashing and ash, the myriad surfaces smooth to stony, the obvious paths of flame across the face of the pot all combine to fascinate me at every kiln unloading. My work, which is entirely functional, evolves constantly to better suit my interest in the effects of fire. My glaze palate is spare, mostly liner glazes to preserve functionality. I use a variety of slips and a black underglaze to make simple designs. These designs are pulled from my surroundings and distilled into as few brushstrokes as possible. My goal in decoration is to find motifs that lend themselves to the organic nature of wood-firing. My overall desire in making pots is to create a body of work that is both functional and intriguing to the eye and hand.

reply

of course you have to weigh in on this one, gabey! all that philosophy has you primed for questions like this one. i have to disagree, though, on your concept of "art." there has to be some element of craftsmanship involved. andy warhol, who irritated many with his deification of household objects, still had the incredible skill to depict it. there must, in my mind, be some synthesis of intention and craftsmanship. art is not just whatever you feel. blue ducks in bow ties are not art. they are paper towels. (sorry, grandma.)and no, maybe the title "art" is not a prize, but it is something that you earn.
i do not think that the market actually dictates what is art. i think that it often misses art entirely. my point was merely that the market does get to dictate what the larger audience gets to see, therefore informing its idea of "art."
but now, as much as i would really really love to stay up and think about this some more, i have to go to bed. i have an opening at the Front Gallery tomorrow evening!

koons

jeff koons: art? or bullshit? i am nervous about making calls like this, but something in my artistic sensibility is offended by gigantic blue metallic hearts suspended by silver ribbons being proffered as art. by basketballs suspended in distilled water. by enormous pseudo-balloon poodles cast in colored steel. by toasters or deep fryers or vacuum cleaners suspended in front of fluorescent tubes and displayed by national art museums. i am greatly in favor of found object art. my recently departed friend john payne was a master at it. he created astounding moving sculptures with recovered metal. koons seems to merely think "SHINY!" and count it good. in the NPR article on him, the curator summed up his motif as "ta-da!" yes, i can see that. but does that make it art? is it enough to have a sense of whimsy and the money to cast it into stainless steel or assemble it into REALLY huge piles of shrubbery? the damnable thing is that the market will ultimately decide if koons is art or not. and the fact that his super-enormous Tiffany-christmas-ribbon-bauble sold for 2.3 million dollars seems to say that it is. i only hope that history takes pity on us, the culture that eviscerated robert maplethorpe (yes, but have you seen his OTHER photos?)and deified the shiny orange poodle. ouch.

loco for locavores

yes, i am still on the local food bandwagon. it is hard not to be when you can get up at 7 and pick things like these out of your own garden. well... i use garden in the very loosest of terms. blackberries and raspberries grow wild all over my yard. the blueberry bush is a single specimen which bears like crazy all by its little lonesome just outside the kitchen window. the mint is a volunteer underneath the overflow of the clogged gutter. i hope it doesn't die when i clean them out. my other gardening endeavors have yet to manifest. well, i did buy a lovely fig tree, which michael planted for me. but that is the extent of my actual planting about the place. i had the distinct disadvantage of having moved in on june first, after all of the planting and early work should have been long done. i suppose that if i had dropped everything, built raised beds, and bought sets of baby plants, i might be reaping a first harvest about now. alas. i did not. there is always this winter and next spring. but i do have the comfort of bi-weekly tailgate markets and a wonderful CSA. annie even lets me trade out the summer squash and zucchini. (daddy, you would love her.)
and here is where audience participation comes in... i need a good cobbler recipe. preferably the one grandma used. my grandma, your grandma... someone's grandma! if i get one i really love (you bet i will vet them until my berries run out!) i will publish it here. i will ask my culinary secret weapons, jane and karen, and let you know what they come up with, too.
thank you! and i look forward to hearing from you.
lovepeace
heather

locavore

this is my new favorite word. having been a slow foodie for almost two years now, it has taken a couple of well placed books to completely swing me over. i recently read michael pollan's "omnivore's dilemma" and am now reading barbara kingsolver's "animal, vegetable, miracle." (i say read... but i actually am ingesting them unabridged through my auditory canals. more about the wonders of audiobooks later.) for those of you unacquainted with the term, "locavore" means one who eats locally. no, not at the mcdonald's up the street. locavores eat food that was grown, spawned, birthed, hatched, milked, laid, or otherwise produced within a hundred miles of where they live. the food is usually not certified organic, but most of it is grown with more attention to the original intentions of the organic movement than its vacuum sealed, styrofoam-bedded, cellophane-wrapped grocery store counterparts. i am a little wary of the old fella who grows obscenely mammoth winter squash and bushels of greasy beans, but only because i remember grandpa and granddaddy's fondness for sevin dust. the advantages are myriad, but i will stick to the big three. one: because it comes from farms within an half an hour radius of asheville and is mostly grown without the dubious benefit of petrochemicals, it involves far, far less petrol than the same sort of thing shipped from california. or peru. the benefit in that is irrefutable. regardless of how you feel about al gore. two: variety! o my goodness! leafy greens like kale, collards, chard, russian kale, lacinato kale, every imaginable lettuce except iceberg, callaloo, bok choy, pak choy, and stuff i've never even heard of! tomatoes in every shade except maybe blue. carrots in purple, red, orange and near white. strawberries and blueberries. a plethora of eggplants and the dreaded summer squash. herbs to savor up any dish. because these farmers are real people and not agribusinesses, they have the ability to plant heirloom varietals that may be too delicate to make it a thousand miles to your table. or too regional to sell in peoria. like the hillbilly tomato. a sunset in every bite, the plant tag suggests that it be served in a sammy with wonderbread and duke's mayonnaise in front of the television set along with a cold PBR and a serious dose of nascar. that's a lot for one little plant tag. they also turn to pulp if handled too much, and they hate cold. so nix that one from the refrigerator truck. many farmers here are proud to be growing varieties that have been local for many years. like greasy beans and cherokee purple tomatoes. they exchange seeds and seedlings, much to the disgruntlement of monsanto and other botanical kidnappers. no one owns the genes of these little heroes of the plant world. with so much of the arable land of this planet dedicated to only a very few, very specifically bred varieties of corn and soy, the food supply that the majority of the world depends on is in incredible peril from microbial attack. did these folk learn nothing from the irish potato famine? besides, and this brings me to number three, it just tastes better and is better for you. locally grown produce is fresh from the field. the kale we ate last night was pulled yesterday morning. as were the carrots, beets, shallots, and potatoes. they taste like vegetables, not cardboard. the flavors and textures are bright and crisp. they have a flavor unique to those grown in these soils, with this particular water source, a terroir if you will. and foods eaten so soon after harvesting still retain all of the nutrients that leach out on a long trip across the world. vitamins, minerals, antioxidants, micro-nutrients, TASTE.
we will see how i feel about local food in midwinter, when all i can find are eggs, goat milk, potatoes, onions, sweet potatoes, and (if the crop is good) lots and lots of apples. i think that my next purchase will be a gigantic freezer for my basement, so that i can preserve the bounty of summer until it arrives again next year.


post script: i am still not eating the spawned, birthed or hatched. i am still a vegetarian, too. but with excellent sources of truly free-range eggs and goat milk (been to the farm!), i feel better about some consumption of animal products. i am even learning how to make cheese. look out for the cooler when i visit, my dear family. goat mozzarella is my next frontier. and no, traveling 697 miles WITH food is not so much an ethical dilemma.

perspective shifts

(yes, i know... long time no blog. blame it on the dog.)
i don't think that i have ever before been irritated with myself for broadening my perspectives. today, though, when i went looking for fodder for a sneer, i failed to find it. no, i don't usually go looking for things to dislike, but i was in a non-specifically cranky self-critical mood and really wanted to focus my distaste on something other than my own shortcomings. so, having heard a scathing review of frank gehry's architecture (including the bilbao guggenheim museum and the strata building at MIT), i decided to look them up and have a good derisive chuckle at the crap that people will buy for millions of dollars. i should have looked up imelda marcos' shoe collection instead. i found myself actually admiring the sinuous curves and protruding windows of the structures. i enjoyed the radical non-functionality of them both. they WERE whimsical and even daring. they made no effort to fit in with their surroundings. from what i understand from the review, they leak terribly... and the upper floors of one of them makes the people who work in it nauseated by dint of the slant of wall and hallways. it was even suggested that he did the latter on PURPOSE! all of this is a recipe for work that i would have completely despised a year ago. what happened to me? why am i appreciating forms that i have never liked? it is artists... damn it. i know too many of them. i have been forced to cultivate a habit of standing back from new work (of my own and others) and giving it a little space before i judge it. otherwise, i would on a regular basis be in the uncomfortable space of disliking work made or cherished by those near and dear to me. suddenly, i find harmony in all sorts of odd (for me) places. pleasing angles in i.m. pei. joy in the undulations of antonio gaudi. utter peace in rothco's blending blocks of color. hmm. and so it leaves me without a object of scorn in my hour of need. sigh. i guess that there is always pop music, but that seems like a cheap shot. and who knows, i might end up liking it! aigh!
glad to be back...
heather

विथ अ मोनुमेंतल crash

so... is there a reason that my computer is translating what i am writing to sanscrit? oooo. fascinating. especially as what i am writing to announce is that i have just replaced my hard drive and am back in action! winter is a surreally busy time for a potter here in asheville. i am working on a (wonderful and much needed) mountain of commissions and trying to get christmas presents ready for everyone. o... you didn't know it would be ceramic? well........... okay....... we can discuss it. i promise not to try to make a bike out of the stuff.
but jackson is whining, and i must take him to the woods. and then off to put the handles on 24 more mugs. i can do this. breathe deep! more soon!

lovepeace
heather

better than reportingly

apparently, the bottles are coming around. after writing a highly technical and detailed explanation of why, i decided to spare you the agony of boredom and just say that i changed clays. it is working.
and at long last, it rains. it has been raining since last night, and even the air is soggy. i am loving it. the wilted redbud tree outside my window is again stretching out and up. water is beading in bright drops on leaves that brush the screen. the air is cool and smells of wet dog. (not really) my house is warm with the smells of after school snacks of popcorn and brown rice. it looks as though we may be in for the weekend, as the car is not accelerating over 25 mph, and it is forecast to rain a good bit. this is okay. i will take the back road to greenlife and stock up on groceries, hit blockbuster and get a new movie or two, and the kids should be good until sunday afternoon. i will try to throw pots. we will see exactly how far i get. between kids and dog, it is a little like trying to read in the bathroom at mom's on a sunday.
wish me luck.
lovepeace
heather

less than stellar

hmmm. heavy. lumpy. graceless. not quite optimal. not quite the nadir of my ceramic efforts, but certainly my most recent abject failure. bottles. how i hates them. but it is a good hate, actually. i have not failed so miserably at something outside of a relationship in some time. it almost feels good to be angry at myself for not being able to figure it out. i have tried everything that i know how to do, even asking my dearest teachers for help. nada. they are more than willing to help, but i am stuck. almost literally. there is a pound of clay stuck in the bottom of my bottles, and i have to get it into the top. it doesn't want to move. i am unable to make it. and so i throw bottle after bottle and cut them in half. this is not helping me to fill the soda kiln. this is not helping to fill laura's west a-ville kiln. but when i am done, i will make a whole load of good bottles.
and to add insult to not so serious injury, i lost half a kiln load yesterday. the pyrometer quite, the interiours are lovely, ooo... i fell asleep. goig to bed.
tomorrow is another day, scarlet. go clean up and away to the ladn of morpheus.
lovepeace
heather

notes from the front line

they have acquiesced to my demands! the kitchen has been tidied. the masses have been fed. a new contract is in place. if the kitchen is, shall we say, less than optimal, they have half an hour from the time i cross the threshold to get it that way. otherwise, i go to rosetta's for a cup of soup, and they stay home with the peanut butter. i think it sounds fair.
we'll see how long it lasts.
lovepeace
heather

mom goes on strike

i know my mama wanted to do it. (she actually did it successfully several times.) my grandmother probably wanted to do it. i am joining the ranks of the disgruntled rank and file. i am on strike. there has been a pot half full of soy sauced rice in the sink for a few too many days. leftovers in rapidly expanding containers are beneath cutting boards and frying pans. and then they made cookies. how many moms have left the house as their teenagers prepared to bake, only to turn and say, "clean up after yourselves?" raise your hands! mine is up! and so is the proverbial jig. this beleaguered lady of the house has had enough. i am not cooking until my children wash the dishes. i put every last dish in the sink, replaced the minor appliances, and wiped down all the surfaces. it actually looks fairly decent. lots of workspace, not a thing out of place. but the big knife that i use to chop all of our vegetables is pinned beneath three saucepans, a cutting board, and a frying pan. those saucepans come in handy, too, when you want to cook dinner. tonight was night one. they did not go to bed without dinner, as i am certain that at least some of that overflowing pile were used in the pursuit of semi-standard nutrition. there were eight eggshells on the counter and an oily frying pan. somebody ate something! they always do. dr. welty told mom when we were children that when we were hungry, we would eat. (never a problem for me.) the little known corollary is, "when they are hungry, they will clean."
we will see how long it lasts.
lovepeace
heather