Saturday, May 29, 2010
So what's cookin' ?
We had an awesome firing this week. Took a lot longer to clean things up than it used to, but it added lots more pots to already full shelves. So, rather than bore you with more words, let's SEE SOME POTS!
Friday, May 28, 2010
In Times of Green
In the past week, we have watched our garden race from the early Spring yellows and pinks, headlong into the heat of Summer with rich purples and thick greens. It got hot and humid all at once last week. We went from being able to work in the garden all day, straight into that time where even early in the morning it was just too sticky. So, when you can't be out weeding, the camera calls instead!
My birthday came early this year as my camera gear bag increased by way of a Hoodman Loupe. If you have ever despaired from having assumed you had the perfect exposure while looking down into your LCD on the back of your camera in full daylight only to get home and realize you blew it. Your highlights are big splotchy white blobs and your shadows are clumpy. Yeah, and nothing's in focus. Shit happens right? Well.... this loupe allows you to block out almost all the light hitting your LCD so you can focus on the image at hand. You can see the detail of focus. You can zoom in and really look at pixels if need be. Most importantly though is that you can really examine the image without trying to block incoming light from driving you nuts with glare. I had a blast playing with it today. TOO much fun. Built to last a long while.
Having been clued into their website by numerous photographers, I took a gander at their right-angle viewfinder. Yeah, I would be able to simply look down and not have to crane my neck when shooting below my waist or off a tripod when shooting plants and such. I guess this will have to wait till we see sales pick up in a few more weeks. Here's hoping Memorial Day weekend is wonderful, busy and fun.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Some Friends Help
And some friends help hide the body parts.
Marc is one of those guys.
He may be the most squeamish chickenshit in the room, but when I was tied to every fuckin' hose in the ICU, he was there. When my body was blown up to twice its normal size and wires and IVs were coming out of every orifice... he was there.
Every bone in his body said flee! but he came anyway.
When I started coming out of the coma, I was hooked to a trach-tube. That meant my mouth was open and suffering from chronic cotton-mouth. Due to the tracheostomy and the other abdominal surgeries, the nurses wouldn't let me drink until I had passed the swallow test. The "bedside" version of this test requires the patient to swallow applesauce doped with mega-blue dye. Then they ask you to cough. If the blue dye ends up anywhere other than DOWN your throat, then no solid foods, ice, water, etc.
I began my swallow testing while Marc and Carol came to visit. I wasn't uncomfortable, but I really wanted something to drink. I was stoned out of my mind on Fentanyl and other narcotics of the day. Meanwhile Marc kept making jokes about ArtTrail and offering to go "help" with customers.
I wanted to laugh so hard, but the drugs kept me nearly paralyzed. Even now, remembering that moment, I can hear the laughing in my mind, knowing full well I couldn't tell Marc how funny he was. Thank God for good friends. Each and every time Marc and Carol showed up, everything in my world improved.
Yesterday Marc surprised me by just showing up to check up on me. After talking indoors for a while about all my current maladies and general feelings of malaise, we went outside into some seriously shocking sunshine. I had to catch a few images of Marc kickin' back with the alliums.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Coma Dream #3 - Landing the Planes
Though these dreams probably flew through my mind in some order of disarray, I can no longer say which ones came first. If I had to guess, I would say they all happened simultaneously. Especially in light of how so many of them overlap in odd ways. Seriously, when asked to recollect which order these dreams happened, I am always at a loss. Some of them repeated multiple times. (We'll get to those sometime soon... kinda scary.) With that said, here is installment #3- Landing the Planes.
It is sometime post-war, probably late 1948 or so. I am stationed on a Marine air base somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, fairly near Japan. I know this because my job is to help land airplanes all day (and sometimes into the evening). The planes are predominantly Vought F4U Corsairs. Long and blue, with those beautiful bent wings. And the sound of their engines howling as they screamed at take off!
In this dream, my job is to establish radio contact with incoming airplanes and guide them back home. Most of the time this is proves to be fairly mundane. There are usually four to six of us manning the radio in shifts with two to three of us glassing the horizon, looking long for that broken wing silhouette.
Most aircraft at this time were not adequately equipped for nighttime landings. Without radar, it was even more difficult to land six to ten aircraft in short order at night. On this night, it was made nearly impossible with a fog that came in before dinner. The flight was late returning. Six planes coming back from Okinawa. Due in over half an hour earlier, we knew that the fog was delaying their arrival.
We asked the ground crew to prepare searchlights, but their beams couldn't penetrate the fog. For all their effort, only a dull glow reached through the fog. The woman who I was sharing the shift with suggested aiming the search beams low, almost parallel to the runways. Our hope was that then the runways would be lit up and more visible from the air.
When the rain began it was more of a wet mist first. It didn't take long though before none of us could see more than 100 yards or so along the runway... and that was with the help of the search lights. The tension on the ground was palpable. Each of us had somewhere they would much rather have been, only because worry had surpassed reason. Something was amiss and there was nothing we could do.
After what seemed like hours, the radio let loose the first crackle that didn't end in static. Numbers were squawked out, repeated and new coordinates relayed. Six times we traded this information until we knew each pilot could see our blur of light winking in the soggy wet. With sighs and relief we each surrendered our headphones and unplugged from our panels.
Walking down the stairs, I asked the woman beside me what she was hurrying off to. Looking like a teenager off to prom she laughed and let on as how she was going to a concert. Around me the room changed from air station to a space more akin to a waiting room in a large airport. She fell in line behind a crowd waiting to leave the terminal. Waiting there, I had to ask: what sort of music would they be playing at this concert. Punk music of course! Curious, I asked how she knew anything about punk music. She explained that the lead singer of the band was a friend of a friend, and he had invented a bionic knee device. I asked her if they were any good and she laughed. She said she was their biggest fan. Then the line opened up and with nothing more said, she was off into the night.
At first glance this dream seems to make sense (until the punk-rock concert goer rears her head)...
Reality:
I told my mom about this dream, since my memory of this coma dream puts her into the dream as it transitions from the air station to the waiting room/airport scene. As I related this story to her, she started to stutter. I decided to jump straight in and ask: Did you leave me at the hospital to go to a punk rock concert? Yep. And yes, the lead singer in the band happens to have invented a knee-replacement device which borders on science fiction. Very cutting edge. They have just released their newest album and guess what's on the back of the closing liner notes? "Dedicated to our biggest fan: Candace" (That's my mom for ya.)
Apparently though, that wasn't what had left my mother so speechless. Her concern was that I had never met my great-aunt Sally. My maternal grandfather was the youngest of ten siblings and the only male. From my grandfather I knew little bits and pieces about his sisters. I spent parts of my summers in Wyoming getting to know my great aunts Louise, Winnie and Ollie. But I never got to meet Aunt Sally.
The little I knew about her was that she had lived overseas. I think most of her adult life had been spent in and around Japan. Once she sent us a lamp in the shape of an owl, made from a tank shell casing from World War II... left behind in Okinawa. Some part of me always thought that it could have been fired from my grandfather's amphibious tank he crewed during the invasion of Okinawa.
What I didn't know about Aunt Sally was that she used to land airplanes. In the Pacific... around Japan, for years following the conclusion of the war. She landed Vought Corsairs. And according to my mother, women were often used because their voices came through the radio more clearly and their eyes more easily spotted the broken wing pattern against the sea and sky.
______________________________________________________
Other thoughts:
I have no idea how any of this could have entered into my dreams. Ideas? Has anyone read about this sort of thing? There is more to come. Maybe later in the week.
It is sometime post-war, probably late 1948 or so. I am stationed on a Marine air base somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, fairly near Japan. I know this because my job is to help land airplanes all day (and sometimes into the evening). The planes are predominantly Vought F4U Corsairs. Long and blue, with those beautiful bent wings. And the sound of their engines howling as they screamed at take off!
In this dream, my job is to establish radio contact with incoming airplanes and guide them back home. Most of the time this is proves to be fairly mundane. There are usually four to six of us manning the radio in shifts with two to three of us glassing the horizon, looking long for that broken wing silhouette.
Most aircraft at this time were not adequately equipped for nighttime landings. Without radar, it was even more difficult to land six to ten aircraft in short order at night. On this night, it was made nearly impossible with a fog that came in before dinner. The flight was late returning. Six planes coming back from Okinawa. Due in over half an hour earlier, we knew that the fog was delaying their arrival.
We asked the ground crew to prepare searchlights, but their beams couldn't penetrate the fog. For all their effort, only a dull glow reached through the fog. The woman who I was sharing the shift with suggested aiming the search beams low, almost parallel to the runways. Our hope was that then the runways would be lit up and more visible from the air.
When the rain began it was more of a wet mist first. It didn't take long though before none of us could see more than 100 yards or so along the runway... and that was with the help of the search lights. The tension on the ground was palpable. Each of us had somewhere they would much rather have been, only because worry had surpassed reason. Something was amiss and there was nothing we could do.
After what seemed like hours, the radio let loose the first crackle that didn't end in static. Numbers were squawked out, repeated and new coordinates relayed. Six times we traded this information until we knew each pilot could see our blur of light winking in the soggy wet. With sighs and relief we each surrendered our headphones and unplugged from our panels.
Walking down the stairs, I asked the woman beside me what she was hurrying off to. Looking like a teenager off to prom she laughed and let on as how she was going to a concert. Around me the room changed from air station to a space more akin to a waiting room in a large airport. She fell in line behind a crowd waiting to leave the terminal. Waiting there, I had to ask: what sort of music would they be playing at this concert. Punk music of course! Curious, I asked how she knew anything about punk music. She explained that the lead singer of the band was a friend of a friend, and he had invented a bionic knee device. I asked her if they were any good and she laughed. She said she was their biggest fan. Then the line opened up and with nothing more said, she was off into the night.
_____________________________________________________
At first glance this dream seems to make sense (until the punk-rock concert goer rears her head)...
Reality:
I told my mom about this dream, since my memory of this coma dream puts her into the dream as it transitions from the air station to the waiting room/airport scene. As I related this story to her, she started to stutter. I decided to jump straight in and ask: Did you leave me at the hospital to go to a punk rock concert? Yep. And yes, the lead singer in the band happens to have invented a knee-replacement device which borders on science fiction. Very cutting edge. They have just released their newest album and guess what's on the back of the closing liner notes? "Dedicated to our biggest fan: Candace" (That's my mom for ya.)
Apparently though, that wasn't what had left my mother so speechless. Her concern was that I had never met my great-aunt Sally. My maternal grandfather was the youngest of ten siblings and the only male. From my grandfather I knew little bits and pieces about his sisters. I spent parts of my summers in Wyoming getting to know my great aunts Louise, Winnie and Ollie. But I never got to meet Aunt Sally.
The little I knew about her was that she had lived overseas. I think most of her adult life had been spent in and around Japan. Once she sent us a lamp in the shape of an owl, made from a tank shell casing from World War II... left behind in Okinawa. Some part of me always thought that it could have been fired from my grandfather's amphibious tank he crewed during the invasion of Okinawa.
What I didn't know about Aunt Sally was that she used to land airplanes. In the Pacific... around Japan, for years following the conclusion of the war. She landed Vought Corsairs. And according to my mother, women were often used because their voices came through the radio more clearly and their eyes more easily spotted the broken wing pattern against the sea and sky.
______________________________________________________
Other thoughts:
I have no idea how any of this could have entered into my dreams. Ideas? Has anyone read about this sort of thing? There is more to come. Maybe later in the week.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Wrestling With Cleveland
My, what big teeth you have Cleveland!
I have been wrestling with the repercussions of having driven to the Cleveland Clinic last week. To say that my thoughts have been a little preoccupied the past few days would be an understatement. Before I delve into the morass, let me share the fun stuff.
After Aurora got home from school Tuesday afternoon, we loaded up the van and headed out. Driving headlong into the sun for the better part of four hours left us pretty beat so when it came time to take a break for dinner we were both more than ready. Watching the sun set over Great Lake Erie was something neither of us had seen before.
With a few more hours behind the wheel, we rolled into Cleveland wicked tired and ready to flop. Rummaging through our pile of maps and printouts and directions, we figured out how we were supposed to find the Cleveland Clinic Guesthouse. I had expected parking to be a four letter word with such an enormous medical complex. Someone else must have had the same concern, because there was parking by the bucket!
Before Aurora and I could do more than flip through a couple stations, we were out like a light. Click. Next morning found us sitting in the waiting room of the Digestive/Intestinal Diseases Department. I figured based on the alliteration alone, we were doomed. Hardly. Turns out, they rock!
An hour and a half later, we walked out. My head was more confused than ever. Might have been a product of having the nurses actually listen to what I was saying. Or it could have been all the different surgical scenarios the surgeon laid out. (HINT: For those of you who are even the least bit squeamish, this is a great stopping point)
Let's skip to the good stuff. Turns out, I am a candidate for a reversal. What does this mean? Well, for all intents and purposes, it means that I could rid myself of this colostomy bag and have my plumbing reconnected the way it was intended. In talking with this amazing surgeon though, I came to learn that this surgery is going to be far more complicated than I was led to believe.
Here are the surgical options:
Scenario One: We reconnect what is left of the large intestine to the rectum. Sounds easy right? Not quite. Due to the peritonitis and sepsis, there is a ton of scar tissue throughout the abdominal cavity. The intestines are essentially adhering not only to themselves but also to other organs. This means that they wont stretch nicely or unroll like they would have prior to the first surgery. As a result, he may have to move a huge array of blood vessels that are in the way of bringing the large intestine over the front of the abdomen. Probably a six hour surgery with the potential for some hairy scary complications.
Scenario Two: Take a loop of small intestine and make an illeostomy out of it. Since the waste stream would end there, he could then put the large intestine wherever he wants, and could then hook up the rectum and the large intestine without pulling on everything. This would require two surgeries separated by about six months to a year. More bags dangling off the belly and more chances of herniation.
Scenario Three: This was sort of a last resort solution and one that fills me with the greatest dread. Skip the large intestine completely and go straight from the small intestine to the rectum. For anyone who has ever had Anatomy 101, the function of the large intestine is primarily to de-water stool. What this means in terms of the surgery is that I would have liquid bowel movements six to 14 times each day. With very little control over them. In other words I would be a prime candidate for starring in a Depends commercial.
And then came the caveat: He wouldn't do any surgery until I had lost 50 pounds. Tentatively, he thinks we can do the surgery in September... that's four months. Fifty pounds. Sure. Cake, right? Oy veh.
After leaving the surgeon's office, Aurora and I went to the Cleveland Museum of Natural History. I guess I have never thought much about Cleveland's academic, cultural and cerebral offerings. Lo and behold, it's a pretty snazzy place! The area that surrounds the Natural History Museum, also encompasses the Cleveland Art Institute, the Museum of Fine Art, the Botanical Gardens and a LOT more. Aurora was in seventh heaven.
She got to see fossils of all sorts of dinosaurs including tyrannosaurus rex, a nano-tyrannosaur, triceratops, smilodon (saber toothed tiger), Lucy, dunkeleostus (armored fish), and way more than I can remember. It would have been the perfect way to spend most of an afternoon, but we needed to get hurrying home. We'll save the rest of that museum for another visit.
After returning home I met with my physican to talk about my blood workup he had done before I left. In turn, I shared with him the consult with the surgeon at Cleveland Clinic. As anyone who has been keeping up with this bizarre saga on either the blog or FaceBook is aware, I have been having a devil of a time sleeping. Add to that I am now verging on narcolepsy during my "waking" hours. During a short drive to Ithaca, I find myself falling asleep at the wheel regardless of time of day. I have to have someone beside me talking to keep me engaged and awake.
So I shared these new developments with my GP, and he shared the results of the blood workup. Looks like sleep apnea (as opposed to a drug side effect which was my first assumption)... so in the next few weeks they'll be putting a CPAP machine in my bedroom. We'll see how that affects things.
The most productive concept to come from my meeting with my GP though, was the idea that maybe after having lost fifty pounds I will be more inclined NOT to have the reversal surgery. My gut will be mostly gone, and hopefully the hernia will have subsided substantially. If that ends up being the case, I can't see a good reason to continue with this reversal. We shall see. For now, we diet like madmen and exercise like crazy! We'll see where things are a month from now. Wish me luck!
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Reflections on Sunday at the Rongo --- Benefit ROCKED!!!
Last Sunday was the most amazing gathering of friends, acquaintances, raconteurs, musicians, and family I have ever experienced. More than two HUNDRED people descended on the Rongovian Embassy to the United States (The Rongo!) for an amazing afternoon fundraiser. All of this insanity was organized by the coolest potter I have ever had the pleasure to know, Mary Ellen Salmon. Not only did she find accomplices (Wendy, Carol, Dorothy, Vanessa) to join her in this effort... she made it look like she had done it a hundred times. We had fabulous music from Kate and Nate, The Yardvarks and some wicked jazz by Rick Urda and his band.
I have been to shows at the Rongo and found the place hot, crowded, cramped, but always hopping. This Sunday was no exception. It was just jumping! We had folks standing outside, waiting to get in before everything got underway... and we had folks sticking around to cleanup long after the Yardvarks had put away all their equipment.
So many artists donated artwork that I don't even know where to begin. Everything from pottery looking like birch bark to enormous gorgeous prints; from hand-dyed yarns to superlative watercolors. In addition to artwork, we also had B&Bs offering weekend stays, and wineries auctioning off wines via raffle. Everyone who came went home with something phenomenal!
I am still blown away. I can't find a way to express just how overwhelmed I was. I tried my hardest to say hi to everyone who came in the door, and I know I failed many times. We had so many friends and family come from out of town (and in some cases pretty darned far away!)... and we spent nowhere near enough time with anyone.
At the end of the day, when all was said and done and the last powercord was coiled up and the last table cloth folded back up, Mary Ellen and her awesome crew raised over $6000 to help offset our upcoming surgical expenses at the Cleveland Clinic. Talk about an amazing bunch!
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
We are here
We drove all afternoon and most of the night. Now we are waiting to meet with the surgeon. This place is huge. Imagine 35k people working at Cornell. Then imagine an additional factor of 3 or 4 to acct for patient load. This place is massive.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Finally Getting to Try Stuff
This morning I went out to the studio, and got seriously depressed. What I wanted to do was make pots. I have been wanting to make pots since getting out of the hospital. Despite a quick foray back in January, the studio has been quiet. Every time I try to throw, I am reminded (painfully) about what I can and cannot do. This herniation at the ostomy site wont simple vanish overnight. It needs to be dealt with, and that's the plan now. I miss making pots in the worst way.
I feel very lucky to have had Hannah here through March. She kept me working in the studio most weeks even if I couldn't throw pots. I could be glazing work she had thrown, or helping her get ready to load a kiln, or maybe start working on a new glaze. Now the studio is pretty quiet.
I decided today to take advantage of that quiet. I have wanted to PLAY in the studio since before my surgery. After buying all that flash photography gear, I had mountains of ideas to try. Here's the thing with flash photography... if you're doing it right, no one knows that flash was used. Some of my favorite flash images look like they were shot with daylight peeking through a window. That's what I have been craving. Gentle light, directional... but I think by starting with two lights I was more than confused about how to proceed.
Today, with just one light on a stand, shooting through a white umbrella, I took a few snapshots for a customer far-far-away. After looking at them, I thought, HEY! Why not shoot some samples from around the gallery so people can see what we have on our shelves. Not to boast, but for the first time ever, we have stockpiles of some forms. Mugs we have LOTS of. Plates we have by the bushel. We have more pots on the shelves now than we normally do before July. Not bad considering I can't make more right now! Here's hoping that we learn a lot at the Cleveland Clinic this week!!!
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
What really happened and what is up with Alex?
The best answer to both of these questions was answered this evening, by my lovely wife. In her blog.
Give her blog posting a read. You'll have probably more than enough information (probably too much info).
http://coldspringsstudio.blogspot.com/2010/04/on-stoicism-and-stomas-or-what-hell.html
At this point I am pretty glad no one took any pictures of me during my stay in the ICU. The earliest images post-surgery were shot at my out-patient physical therapy.
Give her blog posting a read. You'll have probably more than enough information (probably too much info).
http://coldspringsstudio.blogspot.com/2010/04/on-stoicism-and-stomas-or-what-hell.html
At this point I am pretty glad no one took any pictures of me during my stay in the ICU. The earliest images post-surgery were shot at my out-patient physical therapy.
Busted Belly Benefit - May 2nd, 2-6pm @ the Rongo!!
For those that haven't heard yet, this weekend on Sunday from 2-6pm is the Busted Belly Benefit. The Rongovian Embassy is hosting it and Mary Ellen Salmon, Carol Bloomgarden and quite a few other friends have been organizing it. There will be two awesome live bands playing. And best of all, there will be a fantastic auction of art, fine crafts, and lots of fun stuff from local wineries and bed and breakfasts. Should be a phenominal gathering on Sunday! Come one, come all!!
Friday, April 23, 2010
Shootin' in the Settin' Sun
We don't get many chances to hike as a family. I think it is mostly my fault. I hate feeling this broken and old. So on good days, where the body works and I can convince everyone to join me, a walk along the upper rim of the Taughannock gorge is always fun. Last night was perfect. Great sun, lovely light, perfect temperature and NO bugs. A week from now this trail will be a highway for midges, mosquitoes and biting flies. Yuck!
Ideas coming on strong - instead of sleep
By now, everyone reading this is aware of my pathetic 3am alarm that goes off inside my head every night. Usually I can find a way to wake up briefly, hit the bathroom and be back asleep before ten minutes have passed. Not last night.
Sitting there in bed as the clock worked its way towards 5am, I realized that most of what was keeping me awake wasn't worry or dread, but a whole fleet of new ideas for a ceramics curriculum which could theoretically be made into a book as well. I started with the idea that when teaching throwing on the wheel, we immediately look to history to solve our formal problems... shoulders of a vase, feet of a bowl, lip of a mug etc... all have historic precedence. The issue arises when a student wants to understand the "why". So as I sat there last night, I thought through all the discussions I had sat through in college and grad school... and there was always just assumed to be an understanding of the "why" particular forms worked. That led me to question how far to the extremes could you take things as a way of exaggeration and was there a metaphorical comparison I could use while teaching to explain how far was too far.
Setting: Twenty students in a classroom with muddy hands. Most have already thrown for more than a semester but these are still beginning potters for the most part. They understand the names of the parts of the pots. By and large, they can make the pots they set out to make each day. The pots function more or less as they should. Then comes experimentation. I have seen most schools shy away from this aspect of pedagogy. I assume because it often amounts to excessive failure. I guess I assume that reaching failure is a perfect goal in art. To know that you have crossed a line of acceptability and have made something hideous, awful, insert your euphemism of your choice here.
So how do we demonstrate how far to take this idea of exaggeration? I was seeing images in my head last night of mugs and pitchers and how the forming of the lips gives so much of the character of the pot. That triggered images of human lips and what they told us of their human character. The hard part came when I was thinking of which pots do I use to compare to this person and so on.
As the early morning hours wore on, I found myself thinking about all the things that are taught and once learned are seldom questioned again. I feel that by and large, most potters seriously overlook the feet on their pots. Even those that profess to enjoy making a good foot seem to do so grudgingly. Feet are not simply a stump or a resting place for the pot. They can be anything. They can be everything from a pedestal to a high heeled shoe. I am seldom surprised in a good way when I flip a pot over to examine the foot.
When I decided finally that being awake was more productive that laying in bed reflecting on all the ideas I wanted to bring into my curriculum, I realized that I need to be teaching again. I need to do more writing. Maybe if I can get this ball rolling it will start to gain some momentum and carry itself someday!
Sitting there in bed as the clock worked its way towards 5am, I realized that most of what was keeping me awake wasn't worry or dread, but a whole fleet of new ideas for a ceramics curriculum which could theoretically be made into a book as well. I started with the idea that when teaching throwing on the wheel, we immediately look to history to solve our formal problems... shoulders of a vase, feet of a bowl, lip of a mug etc... all have historic precedence. The issue arises when a student wants to understand the "why". So as I sat there last night, I thought through all the discussions I had sat through in college and grad school... and there was always just assumed to be an understanding of the "why" particular forms worked. That led me to question how far to the extremes could you take things as a way of exaggeration and was there a metaphorical comparison I could use while teaching to explain how far was too far.
Setting: Twenty students in a classroom with muddy hands. Most have already thrown for more than a semester but these are still beginning potters for the most part. They understand the names of the parts of the pots. By and large, they can make the pots they set out to make each day. The pots function more or less as they should. Then comes experimentation. I have seen most schools shy away from this aspect of pedagogy. I assume because it often amounts to excessive failure. I guess I assume that reaching failure is a perfect goal in art. To know that you have crossed a line of acceptability and have made something hideous, awful, insert your euphemism of your choice here.
So how do we demonstrate how far to take this idea of exaggeration? I was seeing images in my head last night of mugs and pitchers and how the forming of the lips gives so much of the character of the pot. That triggered images of human lips and what they told us of their human character. The hard part came when I was thinking of which pots do I use to compare to this person and so on.
As the early morning hours wore on, I found myself thinking about all the things that are taught and once learned are seldom questioned again. I feel that by and large, most potters seriously overlook the feet on their pots. Even those that profess to enjoy making a good foot seem to do so grudgingly. Feet are not simply a stump or a resting place for the pot. They can be anything. They can be everything from a pedestal to a high heeled shoe. I am seldom surprised in a good way when I flip a pot over to examine the foot.
When I decided finally that being awake was more productive that laying in bed reflecting on all the ideas I wanted to bring into my curriculum, I realized that I need to be teaching again. I need to do more writing. Maybe if I can get this ball rolling it will start to gain some momentum and carry itself someday!
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Shooting into the shadows
A.Solla - Cold Springs Studio Photography ©2010Today was one of those Spring days you wait for all Winter. Sunny, not cold, dry and a nice breeze. The cherry trees are in full bloom but I'm not seeing a lot of bees yet. Probably still a little too chilly at night for them.
A.Solla - Cold Springs Studio Photography ©2010Tonight when Aurora and I went for our walk we spotted a couple little brown bats. I love seeing bats. When I first bought this house we had at least 5 little brown bats living in our garage (which is now our studio). Closing in the walls and windows of the studio was one of the toughest things to do (back when we were building it) since I knew it would have a major impact on our bats. Sure enough, between loss of habitat and this white nose disease stuff, we just dont have anywhere near as many as we did a decade ago.
This afternoon was quiet. The phone calls had stopped. Nothing pressing going on in the studio. Dishes had been washed and dinner prep was done. Perfect time for a quick jaunt around the yard to catch what flowers were left after the weekend's rain. The cherry trees look so marvelous! Just had to catch a few images before the sun dropped in the sky.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Thoughts on Dying --- Coma Dream #2
Let me begin with the obvious: I am alive. But I think of death often. Not with any morbid fascination, but more the casualness one would exhibit looking through a family photo album.
Perhaps we should call this the first glance through an album of memories.
But are they your memories if they didn't happen during your lifetime? What do you call things that happen while your body sleeps and your mind doesn't?
_______________________________
Let me say again: I am alive. I know this because the smells are different. The light is better too.
For a long time I lingered in a twilight haze of ashy shadow and grease. It was always 3am. For years at a time, it was always 3am.
Each day began with me sitting at a table. Outdoors, but without the weather that comes from being outside. The table was made of downward curving metal, perforated with large half-inch holes over the entire surface. The tabletop was covered in a thin rubber coating that once must have been mustard colored but now, like everything else around me, was dingy, grey and fading. Not quite black but never again anything remotely as lively as yellow.
The table was the end of the line for the production of the fast-food joint I was at. No one stood at a counter to take you order... well, not really. There was always someone standing there... but they just looked at you and then looked down as though that would tell you all you needed to know about ordering your meal. A meal. Even now I am not sure I can call it that. Imagine the ubiquity of water fountains and now imagine that in the same way, all food supply units were essentially a bastardized version of Burger King.
After looking down to order, something would be garbled back behind a wall, sounds of movement would begin, quiet, hushed then loud clunking and slow feet shuffling. Far across the open space of the dining plaza, a garbage can would start to beep. Incessantly, but quietly so as to not annoy you if you weren't really sure yet that you wanted the food coming your way.
Then with a whir it would present, through the open slot. Your food. On a tray, grey-brown with wet paper separating the food from the sticky plastic tray. Almost warm but by no means hot. Smells of old onions, scorched coffee and egg shells are the first smack to the face.
Leaving the tray and food intact, I am sure there has to be something better around to eat. I also desperately need to find a bathroom. It has been days since I could pee. I would trade a perfect chocolate milkshake for a chance to pee in a clean bathroom. But there is no bathroom. When I ask at the counter where the meal originated, I get the same bleary eyed response... that downward cast glance as though one could order a trip to the bathroom through this device.
I look down at my clothes. A cover-all that once must have been blue-grey with thin white stripes, but now, like everything else, it was greyed with time, grease and dust. I can't find the sun in the sky. The buildings around me rise ceaselessly into the sky, each one a copy of the one beside it. There is an occasional breeze which at first feels like it might have the warm touch of spring but by the time I can sort out the smell I am overwhelmed with the sickly sweet aroma of decay. The wind grows until I have to duck into an entryway of building so as to escape from the stench that threatens to coat my skin with an oily scum.
Looking through the scratched silver windows of the building lobby, I keep my eyes moving... hoping for someone to talk to. I really want to find a bathroom.
Walking farther down the street, I find a body curled around a bench made from the same perforated metal rounded into tables like I saw earlier. Finding at first his head amongst the papers and rags, I was unsure he was awake. With none of his hands visible I feared that if I asked of their absence, knowing would be worse than the reek wafting from him. Just when I was sure that he was deep aslumber, he opened one eye at me. Asking me with that same downward glaze and soundless hush, he asked why I was there.
I told him I wanted to die.
I also needed to pee.
Laughing into last month's urine soaked newspaper, he turned his head to me. Our eyes met only briefly before I turned away, afraid that his one good eye might see me for what I was. His other eye, caked with drying puss, kept oozing with each blink.If only he would look away... I could ask him again.
Before I can repeat myself he lifts his shriveled hands from beneath his shabby mound and points to an alleyway a few feet away. Slumped between a wall uncertain of its future and the ground well past worn, a woman looks at the needle in her arm, hoping for release. I am not even worth a glare from her direction.
With a plaintive look on my face, I ask again: how can I die?
Shouldering the wet mass of cloth and sopping cardboard, paper and shit, he pushes me headlong towards a guardrail over a highway. Looking down, bits of detritus falling away, he admonishes me to pick one. Slow or fast, both definite. Either way, I could die. Looking for some merciful solution, I look all around, hoping someone would see me in my plight. I asked again: How can I die?
Laughing that piteous laugh again, he slurs through wet teeth that all I need to do is keep eating the food that came out of that slot.
________________________________
END
________________________________
For folks who wonder: I have contemplated suicide only a few times in my life. Mostly during a rough time in college when my girlfriend had been replaced with a demon from hell.
I find it interesting that while in the coma, I needed to pee. I find this to have been almost an omnipresent sensation throughout all of the coma dreams.
But the wish for dying? I did want to know. How could I escape the 3am grey-gloom? I would have done anything to break free of those awful smells and sights. Even now, I feel the need to scrub my body with borax in the shower... anything to get that oily stench off of my skin.
I know you don't smell things in dreams. I never dreamed for years at a time before either.
Perhaps we should call this the first glance through an album of memories.
But are they your memories if they didn't happen during your lifetime? What do you call things that happen while your body sleeps and your mind doesn't?
_______________________________
Let me say again: I am alive. I know this because the smells are different. The light is better too.
For a long time I lingered in a twilight haze of ashy shadow and grease. It was always 3am. For years at a time, it was always 3am.
Each day began with me sitting at a table. Outdoors, but without the weather that comes from being outside. The table was made of downward curving metal, perforated with large half-inch holes over the entire surface. The tabletop was covered in a thin rubber coating that once must have been mustard colored but now, like everything else around me, was dingy, grey and fading. Not quite black but never again anything remotely as lively as yellow.
The table was the end of the line for the production of the fast-food joint I was at. No one stood at a counter to take you order... well, not really. There was always someone standing there... but they just looked at you and then looked down as though that would tell you all you needed to know about ordering your meal. A meal. Even now I am not sure I can call it that. Imagine the ubiquity of water fountains and now imagine that in the same way, all food supply units were essentially a bastardized version of Burger King.
After looking down to order, something would be garbled back behind a wall, sounds of movement would begin, quiet, hushed then loud clunking and slow feet shuffling. Far across the open space of the dining plaza, a garbage can would start to beep. Incessantly, but quietly so as to not annoy you if you weren't really sure yet that you wanted the food coming your way.
Then with a whir it would present, through the open slot. Your food. On a tray, grey-brown with wet paper separating the food from the sticky plastic tray. Almost warm but by no means hot. Smells of old onions, scorched coffee and egg shells are the first smack to the face.
Leaving the tray and food intact, I am sure there has to be something better around to eat. I also desperately need to find a bathroom. It has been days since I could pee. I would trade a perfect chocolate milkshake for a chance to pee in a clean bathroom. But there is no bathroom. When I ask at the counter where the meal originated, I get the same bleary eyed response... that downward cast glance as though one could order a trip to the bathroom through this device.
I look down at my clothes. A cover-all that once must have been blue-grey with thin white stripes, but now, like everything else, it was greyed with time, grease and dust. I can't find the sun in the sky. The buildings around me rise ceaselessly into the sky, each one a copy of the one beside it. There is an occasional breeze which at first feels like it might have the warm touch of spring but by the time I can sort out the smell I am overwhelmed with the sickly sweet aroma of decay. The wind grows until I have to duck into an entryway of building so as to escape from the stench that threatens to coat my skin with an oily scum.
Looking through the scratched silver windows of the building lobby, I keep my eyes moving... hoping for someone to talk to. I really want to find a bathroom.
Walking farther down the street, I find a body curled around a bench made from the same perforated metal rounded into tables like I saw earlier. Finding at first his head amongst the papers and rags, I was unsure he was awake. With none of his hands visible I feared that if I asked of their absence, knowing would be worse than the reek wafting from him. Just when I was sure that he was deep aslumber, he opened one eye at me. Asking me with that same downward glaze and soundless hush, he asked why I was there.
I told him I wanted to die.
I also needed to pee.
Laughing into last month's urine soaked newspaper, he turned his head to me. Our eyes met only briefly before I turned away, afraid that his one good eye might see me for what I was. His other eye, caked with drying puss, kept oozing with each blink.If only he would look away... I could ask him again.
Before I can repeat myself he lifts his shriveled hands from beneath his shabby mound and points to an alleyway a few feet away. Slumped between a wall uncertain of its future and the ground well past worn, a woman looks at the needle in her arm, hoping for release. I am not even worth a glare from her direction.
With a plaintive look on my face, I ask again: how can I die?
Shouldering the wet mass of cloth and sopping cardboard, paper and shit, he pushes me headlong towards a guardrail over a highway. Looking down, bits of detritus falling away, he admonishes me to pick one. Slow or fast, both definite. Either way, I could die. Looking for some merciful solution, I look all around, hoping someone would see me in my plight. I asked again: How can I die?
Laughing that piteous laugh again, he slurs through wet teeth that all I need to do is keep eating the food that came out of that slot.
________________________________
END
________________________________
For folks who wonder: I have contemplated suicide only a few times in my life. Mostly during a rough time in college when my girlfriend had been replaced with a demon from hell.
I find it interesting that while in the coma, I needed to pee. I find this to have been almost an omnipresent sensation throughout all of the coma dreams.
But the wish for dying? I did want to know. How could I escape the 3am grey-gloom? I would have done anything to break free of those awful smells and sights. Even now, I feel the need to scrub my body with borax in the shower... anything to get that oily stench off of my skin.
I know you don't smell things in dreams. I never dreamed for years at a time before either.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Letters Written and Never Sent
I have toyed around with the idea of putting some of my ongoing in-my-head conversations down onto paper (or in this case blog) as a way of sharing some of these unwritten letters. Sometimes these letters are to friends, peers, mentors, but always people I so seldom hear from.
I just wonder if that makes for interesting reading. Anyone out there curious?
______________________________________________________
Another topic for a later blog posting... maybe.
Anyone interested in hearing more about life in the coma? I have held off, mostly because things around here have been focused on trying to get me well. I have been trying to avoid looking into that dark corner. Instead we've had all of our attention pulled to the bright hot spot light of day to day survival and healing. With bankruptcy staring us in the face and another major surgery (to re-connect the colon to the rectum) on the way, tension has replaced peace and tranquility.
So... anyone want to hear musings from the dark side?
I just wonder if that makes for interesting reading. Anyone out there curious?
______________________________________________________
Another topic for a later blog posting... maybe.
Anyone interested in hearing more about life in the coma? I have held off, mostly because things around here have been focused on trying to get me well. I have been trying to avoid looking into that dark corner. Instead we've had all of our attention pulled to the bright hot spot light of day to day survival and healing. With bankruptcy staring us in the face and another major surgery (to re-connect the colon to the rectum) on the way, tension has replaced peace and tranquility.
So... anyone want to hear musings from the dark side?
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Thoughts on the Korean concept of Han
NCECA brought some very powerful and cathartic emotions to the surface of my life. I went down to Philly expecting to see some folks from year's past, eat some great food, see some pots, and maybe, just maybe, sleep a little. Things seldom work out the way I initially envision them.
Within ten minutes of arriving at the Convention Center, we found our way into the hall of merchants. It took even less time to pick out the frame of the biggest man in my world of mud... Lee Burningham. Wrapped in his arms it is hard not to feel like an undersized stuffed toy.
A few minutes later we found one of Lee's former students, TJ. I haven't seen TJ in probably three years, but for a moment, no time had passed. Our eyes met from one end of the hall to the other, and all the movement around us came to a halt. Both of us more than capable of having enough tears to fill the room, but knowing the fear that passes near death and steals those tears away. Looking into his eyes he was so surprised to see me alive, walking... and at the same time, I could see in his eyes the anger and pain knowing what I had lived through. Han.
Wikipedia describes the Korean concept of han as a "feeling of unresolved resentment against injustices suffered, a sense of helplessness because of the overwhelming odds against one, a feeling of acute pain in one's guts and bowels, making the whole body writhe and squirm, and an obstinate urge to take revenge and to right the wrong—all these combined." Yeah, han. Probably the only way to describe it.
TJ and I met when he was a sophomore at Box Elder High School in Brigham City Utah. I knew then as I have learned countless times since, that he stands apart. I remember the first conference we really spent time together at: Indianapolis. Nancy joined me on my first foray back to NCECA after my divorce. For all I know, he might have been with us when Lee took his students to NCECA in Columbus, but I have no memory of that. At that time, my heart was rent. Not much of any substance came from that conference.
Indianapolis was different though. Both TJ and his fellow student Corey sat around Nancy and I listening to stories from the studio. We had such high hopes and aspirations for the studio. Our hands held the jewels of our latest glaze tests. Both Nancy and I had visions of great firings to come, sell out shows and workshops lined up months in advance. Seated across from us, TJ and Corey wanted it too.
I think that was what really amazed me. TJ has always had a peculiar intensity to his demeanor. Despite his furry visage, there is inevitably an air of vulnerability about him. Here we were, describing building our studio (with the help of Lee!) and the trials of bad firings etc... and these high school/soon to be college students wanted in.
Fast forward more than a few years... back to this year's NCECA in Philly. Walking back from an obscure Chinese noodle shop in Chinatown we talked about all the things un-related to clay. The family stuff. The expectations, goals, aspirations, dreams. And then we talked about all the things that have gone wrong.
TJ is off to Germany soon. He spent the better part of a year in China over two years ago. Someday soon he'll find an MFA program, settle down and pull together a fantastic exhibition. I look forward to being able to show up to see the fruits of his labors. Inherent in all of our talks together this trip was the common thread that someday, my body would be healed and my life in clay would re-boot. He has all the faith in the world that I can heal, repair, be fixed... made well so that I can be hip deep in the work that he has admired for so long. And here I was ready to throw in the towel.
"There is no literal English translation. It's a state of mind. Of soul, really. A sadness. A sadness so deep no tears will come. And yet still there's hope." President Bartlett, West Wing tv series.
Within ten minutes of arriving at the Convention Center, we found our way into the hall of merchants. It took even less time to pick out the frame of the biggest man in my world of mud... Lee Burningham. Wrapped in his arms it is hard not to feel like an undersized stuffed toy.
A few minutes later we found one of Lee's former students, TJ. I haven't seen TJ in probably three years, but for a moment, no time had passed. Our eyes met from one end of the hall to the other, and all the movement around us came to a halt. Both of us more than capable of having enough tears to fill the room, but knowing the fear that passes near death and steals those tears away. Looking into his eyes he was so surprised to see me alive, walking... and at the same time, I could see in his eyes the anger and pain knowing what I had lived through. Han.
Wikipedia describes the Korean concept of han as a "feeling of unresolved resentment against injustices suffered, a sense of helplessness because of the overwhelming odds against one, a feeling of acute pain in one's guts and bowels, making the whole body writhe and squirm, and an obstinate urge to take revenge and to right the wrong—all these combined." Yeah, han. Probably the only way to describe it.
TJ and I met when he was a sophomore at Box Elder High School in Brigham City Utah. I knew then as I have learned countless times since, that he stands apart. I remember the first conference we really spent time together at: Indianapolis. Nancy joined me on my first foray back to NCECA after my divorce. For all I know, he might have been with us when Lee took his students to NCECA in Columbus, but I have no memory of that. At that time, my heart was rent. Not much of any substance came from that conference.
Indianapolis was different though. Both TJ and his fellow student Corey sat around Nancy and I listening to stories from the studio. We had such high hopes and aspirations for the studio. Our hands held the jewels of our latest glaze tests. Both Nancy and I had visions of great firings to come, sell out shows and workshops lined up months in advance. Seated across from us, TJ and Corey wanted it too.
I think that was what really amazed me. TJ has always had a peculiar intensity to his demeanor. Despite his furry visage, there is inevitably an air of vulnerability about him. Here we were, describing building our studio (with the help of Lee!) and the trials of bad firings etc... and these high school/soon to be college students wanted in.
Fast forward more than a few years... back to this year's NCECA in Philly. Walking back from an obscure Chinese noodle shop in Chinatown we talked about all the things un-related to clay. The family stuff. The expectations, goals, aspirations, dreams. And then we talked about all the things that have gone wrong.
TJ is off to Germany soon. He spent the better part of a year in China over two years ago. Someday soon he'll find an MFA program, settle down and pull together a fantastic exhibition. I look forward to being able to show up to see the fruits of his labors. Inherent in all of our talks together this trip was the common thread that someday, my body would be healed and my life in clay would re-boot. He has all the faith in the world that I can heal, repair, be fixed... made well so that I can be hip deep in the work that he has admired for so long. And here I was ready to throw in the towel.
"There is no literal English translation. It's a state of mind. Of soul, really. A sadness. A sadness so deep no tears will come. And yet still there's hope." President Bartlett, West Wing tv series.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Quick images from NCECA
For those of you who might never have heard of NCECA (National Council on Education in the Ceramic Arts), it is hard to imagine the overwhelming nature of a national clay gathering. It was a ZOO! 5000 potters, teachers, professors, engineers, geeks and mudslingers of every shape and size converged on Philly from Wednesday through Saturday of last week.
We traveled to Philadelphia with our apprentice Hannah and Mary Ellen Salmon. Thursday we were joined by Douglas who rounded our group out in the best way. Whether as a gang of five or as pairs or off on our own, NCECA was a blast!
We saw more pots than imaginable. We ate fantastic food. We saw and heard great presentations, workshops and demonstrations. For Nancy and I, the most important aspect of NCECA will always remain the reconnection with our friends. I wish I could say that I brought my dSLR on this trip, but it stayed home in the interest of saving weight. As it was, hauling our minimal gear from pillar to post was plenty hard enough. I think we walked 4-5 miles each day (at least, that's what our feet were yelling at us at the end of the day!).
What else can I say?
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