Clayzilla Strikes Again!

Queen of the Jungle Gym

Sat, 24 Jul 2010 20:03:36 -0700

In elementary school, I was probably single-handedly responsible for bringing an abrupt end to more than a few teaching careers.
My kindergarten teacher took a two-week leave of absence after an encounter with my intelligence that left her questioning whether she had anything to teach me at all. The class was working on pre-reading skills when she walked over to a poster tacked on the cork bulletin board. Pointing with her pencil to a row of illustrations on the poster: a table, a shoe, a turtle, and a bald man’s head, she asked, “Which of these items would you polish?” To me, the answer was obvious. I raised my hand.
“You could polish all of the above.” I replied, matter-of-factly.
The teacher shot me a look of exasperation. “Now Teri,” she said in a measured cadence that I found patronizing, “surely you must know that the table and shoe are the only things you would polish.”
I smiled at her patiently. This lady, with her 2-inch-long, glossy red fingernails and lipstick to match, must have gotten her teaching credential out of a Cracker Jacks box.
“Actually, that’s not true,” I reasoned. “I wrote my turtle’s name–Henrietta–in pink nail polish on her shell last weekend. And my grandfather told me he polishes head with floor wax every night.”
The teacher sank down into her chair and dropped her pencil in a gesture of defeat.
Teri–1, Teacher–0.
I forced my first my first grade teacher into retirement with incessant questions. From the first week of school, I wasted no time getting myself into trouble. My daily academic schedule frequently culminated in detention after school, writing 10 times on the blackboard: I will not talk in the cafeteria line.
In those days, students were supposed to wait silently in line to get our lunches–trays of Salisbury steak with pencil gravy (so-called by me because it tasted like the smell of pencil shavings), mushy brown spinach, Tater Tots™, and fruit cocktail from a fifty gallon drum that existed long before the Cold War. We were to eat quietly, carry our empty trays to the window, sit down and put our heads on the table until we were dismissed.
Not me. I was all over the place, asking why couldn’t we go out and play after we ate, or how many pounds of pencil shavings did it take to make a pot of gravy, or was the spinach actually bird poop like Jimmy Lipschitz said? As long as I was awake, I never stopped moving.
In fourth grade I hatched a diabolical scheme to force Mrs. Dructor–affectionately called Mrs. Tractor by yours truly– into early retirement. My idea was to make the rotund woman so fat that she wouldn’t fit through the classroom door. I convinced all the other kids to bring in calorie-laden treats like cupcakes, candy, and cookies. Despite its brilliance, my plan failed to work. Instead, I spent most of the year with my desk right next to hers.
One day, there was one small triumph. At the end of the class, I walked up to Mrs. Dructor and said, “I don’t feel so well.”
She looked up at me and said, “Well the bell just rang, so why don’t you get on the bus and go on home?” At that point I lurched toward her and threw up in her trashcan as she gasped in horror. Ah, victory is sweet.
I was a tomboy in grade school–the girl who spent most of recess hanging upside down from high atop the jungle gym. The girl who invented wearing shorts under her dress for obvious practical reasons. Yeah, that was me–historically significant in the world of early womanhood. With a right leg like a rocket launcher, and a wicked left leg secret weapon curveball kick, I was always first pick draft choice for a game of kickball. And as the ruling dodge ball champion, I was so quick and so ornery the ball just kept its distance.
If you were a boy, you pretty much stayed clear of me–unless you were very, very foolish.
Perhaps you were imprudent like the neighbor kid, Mark Boudreaux, who threatened to knock me off my royal perch atop the fire hydrant. I pounced on him and thrashed within an inch of his life, yelling, “And get off my property!” Naturally, I had the satisfaction of knowing he’d never tell anyone that he was beaten up by a girl.
You may have been unwise in the manner of Dean Costis, who carried around a troll doll likeness of me that he held by its long yellow hair and whacked regularly on his desk, stealing sideways glances to see if I was looking. My usual strategy was to stick out my tongue and flash him a scowl that would burn rubber and stink like it, too. But in a defining moment of genius, I bought a troll doll with black hair, drew a Snidely Whiplash mustache on it with Magic Marker and stuck thumbtacks into every square inch of its body, taunting, “Look Dean, it’s you!”
A similarly unfortunate fate was in store for Matt McCrocklin, which is how I earned my undisputed reputation as reigning queen of the jungle gym and how he lost his right front tooth. Hey, it was loose anyway. I just helped it along.
My parents used to comment sardonically that a certain nursery rhyme was written especially about me.
There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
And when she was good,
She was very, very good.
But when she was bad
She was horrid.

If you were thinking that I didn’t have a feminine side, you’d be wrong. I was just a closet romantic. When I wasn’t hollering, “Watch out for snapping turtles!” as he dropped off our makeshift rope swing into Buffalo Bayou, I’d spend hours hanging out with Jack MacFarland in my tree fort high up in a shaggy old post oak tree. We’d spy on Richard Sutton and Sherry Hayes, snickering as they held hands and made googly eyes at each other under the swaying canopy of Spanish moss.
In elementary school on Fridays, there was square dancing. I’d wear my twirliest skirt– shorts underneath, of course, because you never knew if in the enthusiastic execution of a do-si-do or an allemande left, your skirt might fly, showing London or possibly even France. Standing quietly in the long line of twittering girls, I waited for some senselessly brave boy to pick me for his partner, my heart whirring wildly like the wings of a small bird trapped inside my ribcage.
Imagine my surprise when Shelby Buster looked at me and made an almost imperceptible beckoning motion with his right index finger pointing at the floor by his side.
I looked behind me. I looked to my right. I looked to my left. No one else there. I pointed to myself and shrugged. He nodded solemnly and pointed again to the floor at his side. What else could I do? I walked obediently over to him, stood by his side and waited for the needle to drop on the scratchy record playing “Sagebrush Serenade.” I didn’t even stomp on his feet once.

An Infinite Capacity

Sat, 17 Jul 2010 10:38:34 -0700

I’m getting ready to bisque-fire a new sculpture. I’ve been referring to it as “An Infinite Capacity for Joy and Grief.”
It evolved slowly, changing in unpredictable ways as I worked.
Originally, I intended the piece as a commentary on the role of luck in my life: a two-sided figure facing forward and backward with the wheels of fortune and misfortune. But life interceded, and moved us in a different direction. It was as if I was a writer getting to know her main character as she writes, instead of knowing ahead of time.
My sculpture sat drying for months, mute and expectant under dry-cleaning plastic. I unwrapped her last week and now she’s ready to breath and take on a life of her own. And I’ve learned a thing or two about joy and grief in those months.
Joy and grief are kindred spirits, rooted in gratitude. Joy shows us the beauty and light within everything. Grief shows us what really matters. There’s less than a knife’s edge between them.
I’ve seen joy and grief commingling, teaching each other, merging as one. I’ve learned to recognize their dialogues and their moods. In the midst of great joy, I’ve been struck by those who suffer. And tears have burst into sudden laughter at times of unfathomable sorrow.
A full life, a life well-lived, turns from neither.
Look at it this way. You are writing the book of your life. Some pages will be joyous and full of wonder. Other pages will be touched by grief and immeasurable loss. The thing is to keep writing. Keep writing. Keep playing with clay. Keep painting..
Living is the “medium” of life.

A Teacher's Lessons

Sat, 10 Jul 2010 01:16:33 -0700

My students arrived at 10 AM sharp.
"So have you ever worked with clay?" I asked.
"Um…not really." said Noah.
"None." Rosalie replied.
My neighbor recently hired me to give private clay lessons to her son and daughter-in-law. I'm usually more comfortable as a student than I am as a teacher, but I'd been thinking about giving lessons here at my house. This was a test run.
My game plan was to skip pinch pots in favor of slab construction, figuring that it would be more interesting to the 20-something couple. I intended on introducing them to texture, making functional pieces. I had a reasonable collection of wooden batik and other stamps, in addition to textured surfaces on which they could roll out the slabs. I also had several slump molds for bowls and platters, and cardboard tubes for cups and mugs. I also had cookie cutters, plus all kinds of carving and other tools.
I showed them some examples of my work, and after a brief discussion of technique and how it applied to the lesson, I led them outside, where I had everything set-up.
We rolled out slabs of clay and they began to work.
I did demos on how to attach handles--in Rosalie's case, a guacamole dish--and decoration--in Noah's case, worms on a trivet. I showed them how to drape and press the slab gently around the hump mold to avoid cracking.
I could say it was unfortunate that my students had no experience with clay. I could also say it was fortunate that my students had no experience with clay.
Sure, they asked some technical questions. But mostly, they played with clay and we talked about other things, like, well...Life.
It was a good day.

The Way of Clay II

Sun, 4 Jul 2010 09:10:51 -0700

The Way of Clay II Ceramics Invitational celebrates the functional as well as sculptural aspects of clay as interpreted by over a dozen artists. The show runs from June 28th to July 25th at Topanga Canyon Gallery, 120 North Topanga Canyon Boulevard, in Topanga, California. The opening reception is Sunday, July 11th from 2-5pm.

The first ceramics invitation show, The Way of Clay I, was three years ago. Topanga Canyon Gallery Member Rebecca Catterall approached its membership to do an invitational show during the summer when business was slow.

"We were doing two themed shows each summer and my proposal was to cut down to one themed show with gallery members and have a ceramic invitational. I wanted to have nationally-known artists to anchor the show. We had Bill Shinn and Donald Frith for the first show with about 15 other invited artists. It was a huge success."

Catterall described the selection process. "Melody and I contacted people that bring a unique vision to clay. We did not want a lot of duplication in the works presented. The thought behind "The Way of Clay" is that there are many ways to work with clay. This exhibit highlights different clays, different firing temperatures, and different construction techniques such as hand building, sculpture and wheel-throwing. Some pieces are glazed, some burnished, and some unglazed. There is no wrong way to work with clay, just many ways!"

“The artists chosen for this show have very beautiful work that is also functional. Rebecca Catterall and I felt that in these tough economic times that collectors are looking for items that serve a dual purpose.” said Cooper.

It was show curator Melody Cooper who suggested featuring the work of Frank Massarella of Firehouse Pottery in Ojai, California. "Frank was enthusiastic to do the show," said Catterall.

Frank Massarella discovered his passion for clay in a high school class during the 1960s. "I was a football player and I had to take an art class so I thought I'd take an easy one, and I took pottery," Massarella explained in a recent interview at his Firehouse Pottery and Gallery in Ojai. "That was it. I fell in love with it. The feeling of the clay, what I could do with it, the expression I could give with my hands on the clay. I was fascinated with it."

Massarella described his first experience with the wheel as frustrating. "I had no idea how humbling it could be," he said. "You watch it and think, I can do that, but it's a little different when you try to do it. You struggle and all of a sudden it connects. It's quite satisfying and enriching. Still to this day when I get a pot right it's a very warm feeling. It's something you can never get too good at."

Massarella renovated the landmark firehouse in Ojai for this studio, class space, and gallery. His large, award–winning sculptural vessels and platters are noted for both form and function. His signature swirls are enhanced by layering the glazes until perfection is reached.

Selected artists include Farideh Azad, Rebecca Catterall, Robyn Feeley, Dina Finzi, Joan Gamberg, Bob Harris, Lynette Mathis, Susan Nissman, Megan Rice, Charles Singer, Jacqueline Stanford, Jim Sullivan, and Kimberlina Whettam.

Revisiting the Nest

Sat, 26 Jun 2010 14:32:24 -0700

There's a cobweb-lined nest dangling like a carefully-crafted Easter basket from the light in my entry. It's been there for two weeks, ever since I returned from New Mexico. Some kind of Oriole--if we are to trust my limited birding skills--is scared out of it whenever I open the front door.

The other day I climbed up on a step ladder to see if there were any eggs in the nest. It was awfully quiet up there. When I stepped up on the top rung of the ladder, I touched the ceiling of the entry to steady myself. Three little necks stretched up, eyes closed and beaks gaping. I whisper-screamed for my daughter to come see it.

My beloved daughter is home for the summer after her first year of college. It's a transition. And like all transitions, It's trying at times. For both of us.

Her social calendar is chock-full. She's galavanting off to catch up with friends at different events, as if Facebook isn't enough.

Her academic calendar is chock-full. She's taking Spanish at a local community college so she can take Spanish Literature in the Fall.

She's driving all over town at all hours of the day and night in her father's old SUV. In my opinion, she can't have enough steel around her. But he doesn't own a tank.

When she's not home, I rarely worry about her. Now that she's home. I worry all the time.

I worry when she doesn't call to let me know she arrived safely at her destination.

I worry when she doesn't call to let me know she's returning five hours later than planned.

I worry when her plans to come home and help me clean the house unilaterally morph into spending the day with her friend Mary or Ali or Natasha. Note to all: I love you guys!

We've…uhhh…had our moments. She's been on her own for a year and following house rules has her chomping at the bit.

This is her life to live and no longer mine to manage. Other people–not me–are the center of her universe. The world is her oyster and I've eaten all the oysters I'm willing to eat in my lifetime I am not a big fan of oysters, raw or cooked.. She's feeling her oats, and I eat oatmeal for breakfast, but usually only in the winter.

I’m all for that. While she's been living her life, I've been living mine. I enjoy having the house to myself. Keeping my own schedule. Mostly, I enjoy not worrying.

Our new lives swirl around us while our old lives fade right in front of our eyes, a Polaroid frozen in time. Like going back to your hometown elementary school, everything seems smaller. More inconsequential. Dingy, even. My girl is an Amazon maiden and I am a Lilliputian mother.

When Thomas Wolfe wrote "You can't go home again," I think he meant that you can't go home again as the same person. You are not the same and home is not the same.

You've changed, and in the time you've been gone, everything else has changed without you there as its witness. As difficult as transitions are, they are evidence of our evolving relationships and new points of view.

I went out on the back patio and discovered another nest with three grey chirpers in it. The wind kicked up a few days later and I found the nest on the ground. I sure hope they got out in time.