I took several days off from throwing pots, because I was in the process of bisque firing the 70 or so pots that had been accumulating on the shelves in my studio. As soon as they came out of the kiln, I glazed most of them and they went right back in for their final firing. The rest are waiting for their turn. It was a nice break. I painted, and started to get to know the new pots. They transform, you know. You think you know someone…

After work yesterday, I found myself home alone. That’s unusual. So I threw a couple of pieces. A small bottle with a stopper, and a bowl. And so it starts up again. I was up early this morning, inscribing and trimming.

Every time I go through the process, I learn something new. I learn what worked. What I want to do again. There are so many variables, that it never happens quite the same. There is always a surprise.

Pottery has given me a new appreciation for acrylic painting… for the immediacy of it. You can just dip a brush into paint and apply it to a surface. It’s that quick. You don’t have to buy expensive equipment like a wheel or kiln. It’s not a long process. I think the two mediums go hand in hand. They complement each other.

I’ve been staring at this painting (only half of it is pictured here) for many months now. Maybe a year or more. It has gone through a lot of transitions, and every one has left me feeling dissatisfied. That is just fine. It just means we aren’t at the end yet.

The calculating… the projecting and judging part of my brain has to step aside and let the more playful side… play.

Like everything else in life, every brushstroke I make is subject to change. It doesn’t really change unless I catch it while it’s still wet. It gets painted over. Embedded in layers of paint, it is more secure than ever, even if no one sees the colors.

A friend once asked me what the scratching is about. I scratch into the paint with the back end of the paintbrush.

If I put a fresh color over a color that is incorporated into the colors around it, that new color looks like it’s been painted on top, or on the surface, which it has. Scratching through it anchors it visually to the paint that is under and around it.

This painting is a neighborhood, and I’d like for the neighbors to get along. I see a white house. I see a blue house with an attached garage. I see the sushi chef and church choir. I doubt you will see what I see. If you look, you may see things I missed.

It’s not done anyway. It sits on my easel and watches me make pots. It’s in no hurry.

That’s kind of nice.

The bowl shape was inspired by a neolithic bowl. I’m not sure where it was from, but I found it by doing a google search of “ancient Finnish pottery” or something like that. I hope it was from Finland, and I hope it was from near Lappi. In my mind, it was. The cup is a pretty basic cup form. I like seeing the throwing lines under the glaze. My friend Mike made this beautiful glaze, and he calls it Persimmon.

Indian Hills Elementary School, Romeo, Michigan. Grade 4.

Last summer, I made this little cup for my grandson. I decorated it by driving some of his toy trucks on the leather hard clay. After applying the glaze, I wiped much of it away, allowing it to catch in the impressions.

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.

While I was glazing this bowl, it was late. My son had walked to the studio after basketball practice. I accidentally scratched the glaze inside with my fingernail. Raymond noticed it later and thought it was a crack. I said “I celebrate all the little imperfections.” Mike, who was loading the pots into the kiln as I glazed them, said, “That’s pretty much the definition of wabi-sabi.”

The scratch is visible in the fired bowl. I sort of wish I had fixed it, but then I wouldn’t be remembering this story.

We don’t have to fix everything. Everything doesn’t have to be perfect. It won’t be perfect no matter how hard we try. If we can learn to celebrate the scratches and dings, the spills and the stains, we might be a little more relaxed, and have a few more reminders of life’s stories.