I'm a self taught hand builder in clay, artist potter whose freedom of style has been encouraged by my friends who are my "teachers". My production work is mainly slabs thrown out on a table like pizza, making plates, bowls, vases or wall sconces, decorated with my carved impressions of flowers, animals or people. They are usable, to serve food on and clean up in the dishwasher like any good plate. One of a kind pieces are coil pots with story illustration surrounding the exterior. Whimsical animals with stories cards to go with them.
Gallery
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SPRING
The Fair! The Fair!
It’s not far off
What will I do?
What will I make? What will I sell? What will I break?
Will people like this ?
Will people like that?
In this lovely spring weather my mind has a hard time deciding
what I’ll have after the summers dividing.
At the fair we bring our craft harvest to sell
will it rain or will it be hot
we don’t know, we just have to go
to the fair
our lives will go on hold
for a quite few days
to show what we’ve done
and how much we’ve grown.
SUMMER of MUD
I’m making things to sell
beautiful vases of clay.
They are made, but not burned.
Will they make it, one, and all,
or will I lose a few?
cracks, warps, or even blown to bits,
Maybe taking another one with it.
Clay is so very humble, and humbling.
We hack it, and grind it, to powder it goes,
soak it with water to mud it arose.
Jim makes a bowl.
I make a fantasy.
Life is good
making something that will survive
way beyond our lives.
To break one is sorrow
You let it go
It hurts
but it is only a piece of mud.
It’ll go back from whence it came.
Someone may find
and cherish the whimsical shard.
To trade it for paper and coin for me is hard.
I know I can only make so many
before this old clay body can’t do any.
Handbuilt
I’ve made vases, sconces and platters
impressed with my whimsies
of flower, birds, horses, and ‘phants.
They made it through the first decant
I paint and paint and more I paint,
till my hand stiffens and joints ache.
Colors that bring them to life
please me.
I want to keep them all
But an artist has to live
selling their work to any who
pay the price of my asking.
Now waxed and dipped in liquid glass for a glimmer
fired again for strength and a shimmer.
I move them from place to place,
my fine ladies of clay and lace.
They weary me
as day after day
I caress their unsmiling faces.
I was crazy to go dancing last night!
I was crazy to go dancing last night!
With my arms a aching,
my joints were creaking,
my feet were throbbing.
I danced all night till the music was stopping.
I was crazy to go dancing last night!
As I fluttered my skirts and tapped my toes
I skipped and swirled and smiled
a do-si-do.
In the morning I stretched
my cramped up muscles
I thought with a grin
I went dancing again.
I danced with my husband.
I danced with my son.
I tried to dance with everyone.
I was crazy to go dancing last night!
As I wax and glaze and load my kiln.
I’m crazy to go again.
4
A HINT OF FALL
The weather has changed as I get ready for the fair.
The humming birds have gone.
Spider webs have
not been rebuilt,
as I walk along a woodland path.
I saw two hawks up in the tree.
The cardinals have come back to feed.
The air feels different, a Mary Poppins wind.
Leaves are starting to fall,
they skitter down the road on tip-toe edges.
Images of the Village inhabit my mind.
My long dresses furl through my thoughts,
as I work the magic of my art.
From mud to fragile thin,
burn to strong,
painted and glazed,
cooled so slow,
out of the kiln
a potters goal.
A Broken Pot
a shattered dream
burst apart
split on seams
cracks run through
as clay screams
a potter cries
nicks, bumps and beams
the clay goes back to what it seems,
a careless hand
a vase to reamed.
5
It collapses
a fallen dream.
A bubble
of mud and water
stiffens in place
as moisture seeps.
Clay is humble
or so it seems
pushed to hard, it blows it’s means
mocking it lays
in shards and pieces.
Sadly it’s swept
back to the earth
that waits to receive it.
INTO THE FAIR
Things are selling,
people are buying.
It is hard but we all are trying,
the hours are hard,
the hours are long,
but this is the time for us to shine.
This pays for what we call our own time.
To stay up late and sleep in bed,
or maybe go on a journey instead.
We talk to people
and smile our ears off,
even when they walk away with a wave.
This is our time to be a star
To show the people who we are!
Show them our craft,
show them our lives.
Let them have a piece of our heart,
And maybe they’ll buy a piece of our art.
Smile and smile,
and talk till you croak,
These are the time of which people wrote,
6
give of yourselves
open your doors,
let your light shine.
This is the time we’ve been waiting for,
working toward, looking forward.
Now is the time to
shine, shine, shine.
I dress in long skirts
and walk through the gardens.
The fall flowers in gold and rose,
nod at my passing.
My hat makes a shadow
as my face it does shade.
My footsteps flow by leaving no trace.
A rippling breeze disturbs the water,
as it pulls on my hem,
and plays with my tresses.
They smile as they see me walk by in my dresses.
The time turns back,
to long-long ago.
Where people made things with their hands.
Don’t you know.
GETTING READY FOR THE FAIR - 2005
THE DEMONSTRATOR FROM HELL
We are all weary.
The noise a continuous clammer.
We’re used to the country,
where birds break the quiet.
Being nice and smiling makes our faces hurt and our feet ache.
