I keep saying I don’t ask my clay pots to be perfect. That’s not (just) an excuse for producing imperfect pieces. I don’t want my work to be sterile or prissy. I want it to have a unique identity. I want it to have a personality of its own, which, I guess, is the personality of the maker.

I’ve been looking at 15th, 16th, 17th century red ware from New England. These pieces are humble and beautiful, clearly designed for use. The colors are rich and aged looking, and even the chips and wear make them more attractive. The jug forms are voluptuous. The glaze patterns are often haphazard. The drips are believable. The forms are not ornate, and the art is primitive. They don’t look fussed over. They look like they could hold a nice serving of gruel or stew, and keep it hot.

Some of these pieces now sell for hundreds of thousands of dollars.

What would the potters who made them think of that.

After hundreds of years, they will now be displayed carefully behind glass, maybe handled with white gloves.

They’ve endured, and I can see them and be inspired.

I never know what is going to inspire me. I go about my life doing all the things people do, and I do various creative things, as I have always done. I don’t need to try to be inspired. It’s counter productive for me to look for the next big idea. That turns the wonder of discovery into work, and tends to result in something that feels contrived.

So like I said, I go about my life, and notice things that connect me to something deep inside me already. One thing leads to another. One significant observation or realization opens the door to something connected to it.

When my mother died, I became interested in my ancestry. I looked at old photos of my bygone relatives and I wanted to know more. I wanted to know them.

The generation before mine leads me to their parents, and they take me back to their parents. At each level, I unlock new stories about them, and about me.

With each level I unlock, the crowd doubles, and I begin to see, as never before, how we are all related.

I’m interested in pottery from early New England and paintings from mid 20th century Finland. My ancestors find their way into my writing, my pottery, into my drawings and my brother’s drawings. Rather than try to copy 18th century red ware jugs and pitchers, I admire them and add them to my visual lexicon. The things I care about are bound to influence what comes out of me. I love simple pottery forms. Nothing too ornate or perfect.

I don’t really feel like I choose anything. I don’t remember choosing acrylic paint, except that it dries faster than oils, doesn’t require so many ingredients, and is easier to clean up. As some point, I switched from charcoal and pencil to oil pastel and watercolor, but I don’t remember the choice. I dabble in all of them. For now, I’m working mostly in acrylic paint and clay.

Creative work comes pretty easily, because I try to avoid expectations and focus on enjoying the process. I think a lot while I’m painting, but not about the technical aspects of painting. I’m thinking of the story, like I do with my ancestors, who bubble up from deep in my DNA.

It’s a wonderful feeling to let my mind and my body be active. It’s a private land of dreams. No one is looking over my shoulder telling me what I should be doing rather than doing what I love.

When my life is over, I want to be remembered for being authentic. I don’t want to be like anyone else.

I want to follow the rules that make sense to me artistically, even if it means I use the medium differently than anyone else.

My own views about my art are somewhat influenced by other people. I don’t always like everything I produce. I question the work, and I question myself. When someone with no expectation of the piece sees it, they may love it. Or I’ll post images online and be surprised by the comments. I’m not objective about what I do. I am influenced by what it looked like in my head.

When I do a photo shoot, I don’t like to look at the pictures right away. The experience is too fresh in my mind to see the images for what they are.

My dad called me the other day and asked if he could use an old drawing of mine on a holiday greeting. He described it to me, and told me that he really loved the picture.

His comment meant a lot to me. My dad really loved my drawing.

Sometimes I’m influenced by negative comments. I try not to listen to those. Not all criticism is negative. It can be constructive. It gives me a different perspective, and that is valuable. What I do with it is up to me.

The culture in my town definitely influences my creativity. The community is supportive and generous, and makes it possible for me to be an artist.

So many life events contribute to my art. I never really know which ones are significant. I think they are all significant. We tend to label certain ones as our life story and reject or minimize others. We edit our experience in order to make it manageable, I guess. That doesn’t change anything. All of the information is still in us. It has influenced us, and could come to the surface at any time.

In the same way, we can’t pick and choose our ancestors.

Their DNA is in us, and without any one of them, we wouldn’t be who we are.

We each have 512 7th great grandparents. 256 great great great great great great great grandfathers. One of my 7th great grandfathers is famous for the Salem witch trials. His name was Rev. Samuel Parrish, and I wouldn’t have chosen him to be in my lineage.

This is not something I get to choose, and it doesn’t change anything. What I do with it is up to me.