in another life i am a potter. i have multiple aprons caked with clay and stained with glaze. i have a potter’s wheel and a giant old table in a big barn that looks out over a lake and mountains, the sun streaming in during late afternoon happy hour siesta-sans-sleep time. and the pots i throw don’t collapse in on themselves.
there is something so very visceral about throwing pots – sitting on a stool, wheel in front of you, a chunk of clay – prepared – kneaded, wedged, ready. my hands are sensitive and the texture is smooth, not sticky. my foot starts the wheel and i form a circle with my hands. and the sun streams in, a gentle breeze through the barn doors, the soundtrack from the movie ghost playing in the background, patrick swayze moving closer. eh! the dream sequence stops here.
i’ve mentioned my pottery successes before: a couple tealight or small trinket holders and one highly-valued dessert bowl. nothing like this stunning handleless wine cup, but maybe someday. rachel stevens – the potter – is clearly gifted, with a textural approach to applying glazes, transfers … like a collage of pottery elements melded into one piece. her spirit, her intention of the beautiful – both evident.
heidi gave us these vessels for our wedding and we treasure them. their earthiness reminds us to stay grounded and centered; their loveliness is a reminder of all that is art and beauty and goodness.
we don’t use these each time we sip wine. we have lovely stemware as well. but the days we do, i am back in the barn…surrounded by crystal singing bowls and potter’s wheels, old farm tables and swivel stools, the sun and a breeze streaming in, the mountains out there as i glance up. a girl can dream.
“i believe art is utterly important. it is one of the things that could save us.” (mary oliver)
in those moments – so many of them – when all else fails to reassure – beauty reminds us. it keeps us present, in the moment, working to get to the next moment, breathing in deep breaths, slowly, slowly.
the work of an artist, in any medium, is as a pointer, just like the wooden ones with the rubber tip that your fourth grade teacher used as she pulled down the world map on the roll above the blackboard to show your class the track of an expedition or the location of a country. artists pull down the map and point to it, making it accessible to anyone, making it alive, bringing an infinity of beauty, pulling your attention away from the narrative inside, whatever it might be. it is a tool of healing, a balm, a salve. it is freeing. it is free.
we immerse in music, in the ecstasy of dance, in the flow of poetry, in the spectrum of paint on a canvas, the feel of clay pots in our hands. we sometimes forget and are driven into the angst of life’s dimensionality, missing the limitlessness of the simplest. these are the moments we turn to art.
for in the end it is not the accumulation of things or wealth or titles or power. it is simply and utterly the sheer beauty of being here, the absolutely stunning realization that we get to be here in this moment in a continuum of moments we share – albeit tiny within the vast – with the universe. inside the art.
“you can’t take it with you,” my sweet poppo would say as he would refer to money or stuff. in those pondering moments he had, he somehow knew watching the cormorants on the lake out the window, listening to music on their stereo, puttering and creating in his garage workshop, quietly coffee-sitting with my momma – these were the things of value. the day he threw caution to the wind and purchased a large painting at the splurgy karl’s mariners inn restaurant perched on northport harbor; he was answering the call of art – the pointer that drew him in and wrapped him, in this case, in the fjords of norway and endless dreaming. it moved home to home with them and always was a source of calm, a reminder of beauty and peace.
each day i walk downstairs and see this canvas on the easel. each day it reminds me of the trail we often walk, for it is the paused and erased beginning of a painting of the woods of that trail. i pay attention to it because it affords me tiny spaces of river trail within my day. it reminds me, as i scurry about attempting to get things done, to remember. it slows me down and i can hear the rustling of leaves, the birdcalls, the crunch of our feet on dirt, the chatter of squirrels. i can feel the sun atop my head, the breeze in my face, my arm looped through david’s. i can see the color of wildflowers, lush green underbrush, rough grey-brown bark, cloud-dotted blue sky. i can sense a bit of time on my hands, but just a bit. and i am right there, stepped out of the up-close worries, stepped into beauty. i am paying attention. art has done its good work.
to pay attention, this is our endless and proper work. (mary oliver)
reverse threading 