Looking at my ceramic pieces, you wouldn’t understand the relationship I have developed with them. For many years, I dreamed of trying this. My daughter has heard me talk about wanting to make pots her whole life.

I am a beginner. I understand this.

It took a week or more before I was able to make anything on the wheel that could stand on its own. I thought it was because I was using too much water. My hands had not become acquainted with clay. This is a slow process with many unsuccessful attempts.

So when I throw a piece, and put it on the shelf to dry, I find joy in it. I go back several times to look at it, and then one more time before I go to bed. I check on it first thing in the morning, and if it’s dry enough, I trim it before I go to work.

I visit them over and over before they go into the kiln for bisque firing. Sometimes they get broken because I handle them too much.

It’s a long process. I have to rely on the kindness of a friend for the use of his wheel and kiln. He supplies me with clay and glaze. I hope to become more self sufficient in time. So it takes weeks or months to complete a piece.

I love to have a drink out of a cup I have made myself. Better yet, to drink coffee brewed from beans that I roasted, from a cup I made. I think I enjoy the cup even more than the coffee.

Right from the start, people asked if they could purchase the pottery. I had so few pieces, and the process was so long that I just wasn’t ready. Now my cupboards are overrun, and I should think of sending some on their way.

Some are crude, but perfect for use around bonfires in my front yard. That was always my intended use for them. Others have flaws, and I would not think of selling them. Still others would be too difficult for me to let go of.

I’m not sentimental like this about my paintings.

What I’m doing in clay is a continuation of what I’ve done in paint, but it doesn’t come so easily. It’s physically and mentally arduous. At the same time, it is centering, rewarding and fun.

Here’s another thing. I can paint over something on canvas. Once a pot goes into the kiln, I might as well relax and accept whatever comes out. It transforms. Clay turns into ceramic in that 1800° heat. It vitrifies. Human bodies are cremated at 1800°. They transform, too. They vaporize.

So the mediums are different, but the voice is the same. It’s like when my friend Cheralee put the guitar aside and started playing the piano. Except I’m still painting, too.