dan wilson on mon 5 may 97
"But master." he said "You say the "beautiful pot is not flushable" yet is
there not beauty in the rushing water?" And what is the difference between
the beauty of the vulgar and that of the elite.? Can there exist two kinds
of beauty each with its own structure?
dan wilson on tue 6 may 97
It was at this point that the master gave his apprentice a sharp appraising
glance that encompassed him from head to foot; and turning back to his work
set his jaw in hardened resolve. "It is not for us, the vulgar ones", he
began, "to question the shape and structure of beauty and its multitude of
forms. For our place in the heierarchy is set by tradition and time. To
answer your questions would take a life-time and is fruitless, as there is
much work to be done. I will tell you though that the beauty of the vulgar
is predicated upon need and the beauty of the elite upon the good...The
beauty of the vulgar finds its highest expression in use while the beauty
of the elite finds its expression in experience. They must know that beauty
dissappears while in use and reappears in contemplation.
Dan Wilson
The Shelfords on tue 6 may 97
And what is the difference between
>the beauty of the vulgar and that of the elite.? Can there exist two kinds
>of beauty each with its own structure?
Either beauty is an absolute and we are the "blind men looking at an
elephant", or there are as many kinds of beauty as there are people to see
it. Preferences? I think I opt for the first, myself.
- Veronica
____________________________________________________________________________
Veronica Shelford
e-mail: shelford@island.net
s-mail: P.O. Box 6-15
Thetis Island, BC V0R 2Y0
Tel: (250) 246-1509
____________________________________________________________________________
Leslie Ihde on wed 7 may 97
Dan- given the quality of your prose, you might consider writing fiction.
Barry Targon, a writing professor here at Binghamton University who
dabbled significantly in pottery, wrote some lovely pieces called the
"Clay Wars" which you may have seen some years ago in Ceramics Monthly.
Creative writing related to pottery is especially pleasant to us potters.
Leslie Ihde
Vestal NY
The Shelfords on wed 7 may 97
> They must know that beauty
>dissappears while in use and reappears in contemplation.
Sorry Dan, can't agree with the "master." (Don't suppose you intend us to.)
Surely use and contemplation are not mutually exclusive. Awareness of what
you are doing and using is awareness of life. Separation of aware,
contemplative thought from the present - most common when we are engaged in
the mundane tasks of life - is alienating to the spirit. One reason we are
potters is to call back the wandering attention from always expecting to
find beauty in the things most separated from ordinary life. The bowl that
holds your food can also engage and call forth your deepest sense of beauty,
continuity, gratitude, reality. No object can BE all those things - but it
can serve as a link sometimes, or even a touchstone.
- Veronica
____________________________________________________________________________
Veronica Shelford
e-mail: shelford@island.net
s-mail: P.O. Box 6-15
Thetis Island, BC V0R 2Y0
Tel: (250) 246-1509
____________________________________________________________________________
Hluch - Kevin A. on wed 7 may 97
The apprentice was stunned by the masters's remarks. Why labor from
morning till night if not to pursue and fix with vulgar mud the concept of
beauty that spun in the mind? Had not the master himself created works
that were relished and much sought after by the elite? Did not these
beautiful things enjoy the warmth of the tea,the gentle kiss of the lips,
the soft caress of the user's hand and the careful touch of the servants
as they cleaned them? If this vulgar creature with nothing but mind,
heart, and hand could create such things that were so cherished by those
who know, then didn't this prove that indeed the hand of truth was guiding
the clay as well? And where might I behold and linger with this beauty
of contemplation? Certainly I don't detect it as I watch the master's
sweating buttocks as he loads his works to be sold.
Aiyeeee, the apprentice could once again feel the sharp crack of the
bamboo stick that the master used to break such reveries.
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
On Tue, 6 May 1997, dan wilson wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
>
>
> It was at this point that the master gave his apprentice a sharp appraising
> glance that encompassed him from head to foot; and turning back to his work
> set his jaw in hardened resolve. "It is not for us, the vulgar ones", he
> began, "to question the shape and structure of beauty and its multitude of
> forms. For our place in the heierarchy is set by tradition and time. To
> answer your questions would take a life-time and is fruitless, as there is
> much work to be done. I will tell you though that the beauty of the vulgar
> is predicated upon need and the beauty of the elite upon the good...The
> beauty of the vulgar finds its highest expression in use while the beauty
> of the elite finds its expression in experience. They must know that beauty
> dissappears while in use and reappears in contemplation.
>
> Dan Wilson
>
dan wilson on thu 8 may 97
Yes master, there is much work to be done but one more question if you
please? Cannot there be beauty in the fulfillment of need? Now the master
was becomming impatient and his wedging becomming a pounding... "You are
swimming in muddy waters here and will be swept into the sea if you persist
in useless questions. I will answer this according to what I know rather
than believe and then we will work. The answer to your questions rests upon
the degree to which you are free. Now, set the wheel a turning."
Dan Wilson I'm all talked out now :) You guys are the best!
F. Melville on fri 9 may 97
"The beautiful pot resonates with homologous indeterminancy. Its mediation
of diverging subjective resistance is not flushable."
(Dan Wilson)
O, Great Master! O, king of all Salad Dressings! Such words of
sagacity are thy mellifluous labial outpourings, which flow like golden
mead from an irridescent Olympian ewer. Such grandiose verbosity is verily
meretricious of laudatory acclamation.
Francoise
F. Melville
Indalo Pottery
P.O. Box 95
Port Edward, B.C.
Canada V0V 1G0
Email:fmelvill@mail.kaien.com
http://members.tripod.com/~indalopottery/index.html
Hluch - Kevin A. on sat 10 may 97
"Ohhh...But, master", responded the apprentice after the pain of the
magical wooden wand once again receded. A distinct clarity of thought
followed...as it always did. His question of need and the relationship
to beauty still haunted him.
"Hasn't NEED been the original impetus for all art? Weren't the ancients
compelled by NEED to insure the success of the hunt and thus daubed their
flickering caves with ochre, the same ochre that we now brush on these
pots?" The master was spinning his wheel ever faster and the apprentice
did not notice what seemed a small sqiggling worm alive at his master's
temple. He continued, "And what of those clay female figurines the most
vulgar ancient ones created? Wasn't the NEED to insure the birth of more
and more and more vulgar ones the most important NEED then? And look today
how successful those fecund figures were!" By now the apprentice had
paused in the wedging of the clay and the master's wheel was beginning to
waft tiny whiffs of smoke...
"Freedom, did you say freedom?" asked the apprentice.
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
On Thu, 8 May 1997, dan wilson wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> Yes master, there is much work to be done but one more question if you
> please? Cannot there be beauty in the fulfillment of need? Now the master
> was becomming impatient and his wedging becomming a pounding... "You are
> swimming in muddy waters here and will be swept into the sea if you persist
> in useless questions. I will answer this according to what I know rather
> than believe and then we will work. The answer to your questions rests upon
> the degree to which you are free. Now, set the wheel a turning."
>
> Dan Wilson I'm all talked out now :) You guys are the best!
>
CDANIELLE on sat 10 may 97
F. Melville wrote:
>
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> "The beautiful pot resonates with homologous indeterminancy. Its mediation
> of diverging subjective resistance is not flushable."
> (Dan Wilson)
>
> O, Great Master! O, king of all Salad Dressings! Such words of
> sagacity are thy mellifluous labial outpourings, which flow like golden
> mead from an irridescent Olympian ewer. Such grandiose verbosity is verily
> meretricious of laudatory acclamation.
>
> Francoise
> F. Melville
> Indalo Pottery
> P.O. Box 95
> Port Edward, B.C.
> Canada V0V 1G0
>
> Email:fmelvill@mail.kaien.com
> http://members.tripod.com/~indalopottery/index.html
What? Please break it down.. It would be quicker than trying to decipher
this heaping crock of...uhm...mm.. word salad.
JULIE ATWOOD on mon 12 may 97
> What? Please break it down.. It would be quicker than trying to decipher
> this heaping crock of...uhm...mm.. word salad.
>
I believe that was part of the point. I suggest keeping a dictionary on
hand? It can be very helpful in sorting out the intellectual wordplay if
you don't happen to engage in it yourself.
dan wilson on sat 17 may 97
At the end of the days work the apprentice washed red clay from his head
and feet and drank deeply from the cool water of the stream. It was hot and
the setting sun did not offer promise of relief or a good nights sleep. Off
in the village he could hear children, who's laughter floated on the wind
like birdsong in morning, and the smell of burning things, pungent,
conjured images of family and the evening meal. The happiest time. Freedom?
What exactly did the master know of freedom? He was born the son of slaves;
his father's father's father was driven by the whips of the Macedonians as
they marched southward along the shores of the Wine Dark Sea. What can he
know of freedom? Aren't we all enslaved? Each of us bound to the living
earth and to each other from morining to morning? We cannot be free? We
can only choose; take possession of the shape and form of slavery that
suits us. We do have moments of imagined freedom though... thoughtless
moments, when confronted by the beautiful pot, and even then, its beauty
enslaves us. Tomorrow he would ask the master... "Where shall I leave my
hands if I am free to choose"
Dan Wilson
Hluch - Kevin A. on tue 20 may 97
Even though his father was a slave and his fathers father was a slave and
his fathers fathers father slaved for masters long dead, the master knew
that his freedom now was more meaningful than ever. As he watched
disconsolately the young apprentice recede in the distance, he became
hopeful. For the freedom found on the wheel making beautiful pots
was more valuable than even the freedom of the wealthy who knew not the
work of the hand. Certainly, to escape the mortal toil of life was the
ultimate freedom (and that would come soon enough!) but to emulate the
work of the gods was to BECOME THEM. The young apprentice was naive but
his heart was true. The master pondered the dilemma of how to demonstrate
to this young apprentice that to toil in the service of the Beautiful was
the ultimate Good. To be enslaved by this service was no slavery at all,
but liberation. Suddenly, the old master realized that to teach this
apprentice's spirit to soar, his feet must be entrenched in clay! The
clear sound of the laughing children, so much like the beauty of this
morning's birdsong, only confirmed his thoughts.
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
On Sat, 17 May 1997, dan wilson wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> At the end of the days work the apprentice washed red clay from his head
> and feet and drank deeply from the cool water of the stream. It was hot and
> the setting sun did not offer promise of relief or a good nights sleep. Off
> in the village he could hear children, who's laughter floated on the wind
> like birdsong in morning, and the smell of burning things, pungent,
> conjured images of family and the evening meal. The happiest time. Freedom?
> What exactly did the master know of freedom? He was born the son of slaves;
> his father's father's father was driven by the whips of the Macedonians as
> they marched southward along the shores of the Wine Dark Sea. What can he
> know of freedom? Aren't we all enslaved? Each of us bound to the living
> earth and to each other from morining to morning? We cannot be free? We
> can only choose; take possession of the shape and form of slavery that
> suits us. We do have moments of imagined freedom though... thoughtless
> moments, when confronted by the beautiful pot, and even then, its beauty
> enslaves us. Tomorrow he would ask the master... "Where shall I leave my
> hands if I am free to choose"
>
> Dan Wilson
>
JULIE ATWOOD on fri 23 may 97
In the dusty light of the new morning, the apprentice was once again
preparing for the grueling day ahead. He felt the gaze of the master on
his back, and looked for a quick moment before dropping his eyes and
picking up the broom. He had resolved to reduce the amount of
daydreaming he did during the workday...just to reduce the amount of
welts he recieved from the bamboo whip.
He felt the gaze again and turned slowly around, stopping his work for a
moment to look curiously into the master's eyes. He quickly went back to
his work, but wondered to himself what sort of change could have occured
that gave the master such a light in his eyes. This occupied the
apprentice for many hours as he worked, and every so often, he would
watch the master for a few brief moments, wondering to himself if
possibly the master had found the answer to the questions he had asked.
Freedom? In what?
Soon the curiosity overcame the apprentice, and when the workday was
nearly over, he approached the master to ask the question he had thought
about the night before...
On Tue, 20 May 1997, Hluch - Kevin A. wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> Even though his father was a slave and his fathers father was a slave and
> his fathers fathers father slaved for masters long dead, the master knew
> that his freedom now was more meaningful than ever. As he watched
> disconsolately the young apprentice recede in the distance, he became
> hopeful. For the freedom found on the wheel making beautiful pots
> was more valuable than even the freedom of the wealthy who knew not the
> work of the hand. Certainly, to escape the mortal toil of life was the
> ultimate freedom (and that would come soon enough!) but to emulate the
> work of the gods was to BECOME THEM. The young apprentice was naive but
> his heart was true. The master pondered the dilemma of how to demonstrate
> to this young apprentice that to toil in the service of the Beautiful was
> the ultimate Good. To be enslaved by this service was no slavery at all,
> but liberation. Suddenly, the old master realized that to teach this
> apprentice's spirit to soar, his feet must be entrenched in clay! The
> clear sound of the laughing children, so much like the beauty of this
> morning's birdsong, only confirmed his thoughts.
>
> Kevin A. Hluch
> 102 E. 8th St.
> Frederick, MD 21701
> USA
>
> e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
>
> On Sat, 17 May 1997, dan wilson wrote:
>
> > ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> > At the end of the days work the apprentice washed red clay from his head
> > and feet and drank deeply from the cool water of the stream. It was hot and
> > the setting sun did not offer promise of relief or a good nights sleep. Off
> > in the village he could hear children, who's laughter floated on the wind
> > like birdsong in morning, and the smell of burning things, pungent,
> > conjured images of family and the evening meal. The happiest time. Freedom?
> > What exactly did the master know of freedom? He was born the son of slaves;
> > his father's father's father was driven by the whips of the Macedonians as
> > they marched southward along the shores of the Wine Dark Sea. What can he
> > know of freedom? Aren't we all enslaved? Each of us bound to the living
> > earth and to each other from morining to morning? We cannot be free? We
> > can only choose; take possession of the shape and form of slavery that
> > suits us. We do have moments of imagined freedom though... thoughtless
> > moments, when confronted by the beautiful pot, and even then, its beauty
> > enslaves us. Tomorrow he would ask the master... "Where shall I leave my
> > hands if I am free to choose"
> >
> > Dan Wilson
> >
>
Hluch - Kevin A. on mon 26 may 97
The master was not surprised by the question of the apprentice. " Where
shall I leave my hands if I am free to choose?" Glancing at the
apprentice the master was tempted to resist this new intrusion into the
work of the day. Wasn't it simply enough to teach by squeezing beauty
from the resistant ironous earth? Why the interminable words, words,
words, words! Would those squiggly sounds that evaporate in the thinness
of air and drift away like dust on the wind ever make a beautiful pot?
Those vulgar, useless unreliable words were an apt invention of the most
vulgar ancient ones, the master thought. The master grunted, "You are a
free man, yet you wallow in this mud like a pig. Leave your hands on that
clay over there and throw three-hundred bowls by sunset or the olive
switch will answer your question for you!"
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
On Fri, 23 May 1997, JULIE ATWOOD wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> In the dusty light of the new morning, the apprentice was once again
> preparing for the grueling day ahead. He felt the gaze of the master on
> his back, and looked for a quick moment before dropping his eyes and
> picking up the broom. He had resolved to reduce the amount of
> daydreaming he did during the workday...just to reduce the amount of
> welts he recieved from the bamboo whip.
> He felt the gaze again and turned slowly around, stopping his work for a
> moment to look curiously into the master's eyes. He quickly went back to
> his work, but wondered to himself what sort of change could have occured
> that gave the master such a light in his eyes. This occupied the
> apprentice for many hours as he worked, and every so often, he would
> watch the master for a few brief moments, wondering to himself if
> possibly the master had found the answer to the questions he had asked.
> Freedom? In what?
> Soon the curiosity overcame the apprentice, and when the workday was
> nearly over, he approached the master to ask the question he had thought
> about the night before...
>
> On Tue, 20 May 1997, Hluch - Kevin A. wrote:
>
> > ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> > Even though his father was a slave and his fathers father was a slave and
> > his fathers fathers father slaved for masters long dead, the master knew
> > that his freedom now was more meaningful than ever. As he watched
> > disconsolately the young apprentice recede in the distance, he became
> > hopeful. For the freedom found on the wheel making beautiful pots
> > was more valuable than even the freedom of the wealthy who knew not the
> > work of the hand. Certainly, to escape the mortal toil of life was the
> > ultimate freedom (and that would come soon enough!) but to emulate the
> > work of the gods was to BECOME THEM. The young apprentice was naive but
> > his heart was true. The master pondered the dilemma of how to demonstrate
> > to this young apprentice that to toil in the service of the Beautiful was
> > the ultimate Good. To be enslaved by this service was no slavery at all,
> > but liberation. Suddenly, the old master realized that to teach this
> > apprentice's spirit to soar, his feet must be entrenched in clay! The
> > clear sound of the laughing children, so much like the beauty of this
> > morning's birdsong, only confirmed his thoughts.
> >
> > Kevin A. Hluch
> > 102 E. 8th St.
> > Frederick, MD 21701
> > USA
> >
> > e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
> >
> > On Sat, 17 May 1997, dan wilson wrote:
> >
> > > ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> > > At the end of the days work the apprentice washed red clay from his head
> > > and feet and drank deeply from the cool water of the stream. It was hot an
> > > the setting sun did not offer promise of relief or a good nights sleep. Of
> > > in the village he could hear children, who's laughter floated on the wind
> > > like birdsong in morning, and the smell of burning things, pungent,
> > > conjured images of family and the evening meal. The happiest time. Freedom
> > > What exactly did the master know of freedom? He was born the son of slaves
> > > his father's father's father was driven by the whips of the Macedonians as
> > > they marched southward along the shores of the Wine Dark Sea. What can he
> > > know of freedom? Aren't we all enslaved? Each of us bound to the living
> > > earth and to each other from morining to morning? We cannot be free? We
> > > can only choose; take possession of the shape and form of slavery that
> > > suits us. We do have moments of imagined freedom though... thoughtless
> > > moments, when confronted by the beautiful pot, and even then, its beauty
> > > enslaves us. Tomorrow he would ask the master... "Where shall I leave my
> > > hands if I am free to choose"
> > >
> > > Dan Wilson
> > >
> >
>
JULIE ATWOOD on tue 27 may 97
The apprentice sulked off to the wheel and began the chore. As he
mindlessly threw pot after pot in the last few hours of the day, he
thought to himself, "I am no more a free man than he if I spend my time
like this, is there no better way? This is but a chore to me, there is
no beauty in this existence. There is no beauty in these silly pots, how
could there be? I care nothing for them, I care nothing for this
anymore, I don't care any longer for anything." The apprentice stopped,
looked at the clay, glanced over at the olive switch sitting in a corner,
and went back to his despondent throwing. After a full day's work, his
hopeful inquiry and optimistic interpretation of the master was a long
forgotten point of light. Only fifty more bowls...Only forty-nine... The
apprentice sighed and counted down as the sun did the same...
On Mon, 26 May 1997, Hluch - Kevin A. wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
>
> The master was not surprised by the question of the apprentice. " Where
> shall I leave my hands if I am free to choose?" Glancing at the
> apprentice the master was tempted to resist this new intrusion into the
> work of the day. Wasn't it simply enough to teach by squeezing beauty
> from the resistant ironous earth? Why the interminable words, words,
> words, words! Would those squiggly sounds that evaporate in the thinness
> of air and drift away like dust on the wind ever make a beautiful pot?
> Those vulgar, useless unreliable words were an apt invention of the most
> vulgar ancient ones, the master thought. The master grunted, "You are a
> free man, yet you wallow in this mud like a pig. Leave your hands on that
> clay over there and throw three-hundred bowls by sunset or the olive
> switch will answer your question for you!"
>
dan wilson on wed 28 may 97
And then, begins the dreaming...as darkness falls and the silence of time,
illuminated by the crescent moon, swallows the pain of his own choosing.
The dreaming. Accompanied by the bodys memory of countless revolutions of
the clay un-centered as it spirals toward the edge of the world of shadows
and into the realm of the good and the beautiful and the free. And he heard
his masters voice softly chanting. "So, my greatest of great grandfathers,
one of the original ones who left the caves and lived to tell the story,
had many words at his disposal. Names. Words that made transparent to his
tribe the wonder and the order of nature. Especially the meaning of the
rising of the sun which he called, in his own words, "morning". It was his
fathers great grandfather who first tamed what we now call fire. He also
claimed he could fly. The legned, as it was passed along, is that he
arrived one day at our entrance, soon after the sky had darkened and the
water had fallen upon the great outside. He arrived at the entrance bright
eyed, with his hands smoldering and the flesh of his fingers melting before
our eyes. His joy was his unbearable pain as he dropped his offering at our
feet and named it. We all scattered as he ran gesturing wildly into the
deepest recesses to bury his hands in the soft earthen we've come to know
as clay the body of our mother. And we, suspended in the light, watched as
our spirits danced upon the walls. Now I don't know if it is true but I've
heard you can still see his hands there; along with the Bison and the Bear
and the other nameless beasts of those forgotten times. So, I've decided
that it is here, beneath the willows who's fingers reach out... to touch
the waters that level mountains. That it is there in the shade upon the
shore, I will leave my hands in the clay. The apprentice listened as the
masters voice weakened to less than a whisper in the distance and resumed
his dreaming...
>----------------------------Original message----------------------------
>The apprentice sulked off to the wheel and began the chore. As he
>mindlessly threw pot after pot in the last few hours of the day, he
>thought to himself, "I am no more a free man than he if I spend my time
>like this, is there no better way? This is but a chore to me, there is
>no beauty in this existence. There is no beauty in these silly pots, how
>could there be? I care nothing for them, I care nothing for this
>anymore, I don't care any longer for anything." The apprentice stopped,
>looked at the clay, glanced over at the olive switch sitting in a corner,
>and went back to his despondent throwing. After a full day's work, his
>hopeful inquiry and optimistic interpretation of the master was a long
>forgotten point of light. Only fifty more bowls...Only forty-nine... The
>apprentice sighed and counted down as the sun did the same...
>
>
>
Hluch - Kevin A. on thu 29 may 97
As the master prepared to leave the shop for the day, the apprentice was
still lackadaisically throwing the bowls as required. The master, for the
first time, was worried. This apprentice, who seemed so full of promise
at the beginning, now appeared bored with this recent assignment. The
master thought to himself, "How can this apprentice expect to be the
slave of beauty if he could not work joyously with the clay day after day.
Did he not realize that the passion that flows from his soul is the life
blood of this work? Did he not realize that to acquire the skills
necessary for the transparent expression of the feelings of his soul he
must 'make love' to each and every seemingly insignificant bowl?. The
master shot a disparaging glance at this fledgling before leaving. With
that lightning look he instantly decided that if this self-indulgent lad
did not exhibit some PASSION for working the clay he would fire him
within the week. Of this he was certain.
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
On Tue, 27 May 1997, JULIE ATWOOD wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> The apprentice sulked off to the wheel and began the chore. As he
> mindlessly threw pot after pot in the last few hours of the day, he
> thought to himself, "I am no more a free man than he if I spend my time
> like this, is there no better way? This is but a chore to me, there is
> no beauty in this existence. There is no beauty in these silly pots, how
> could there be? I care nothing for them, I care nothing for this
> anymore, I don't care any longer for anything." The apprentice stopped,
> looked at the clay, glanced over at the olive switch sitting in a corner,
> and went back to his despondent throwing. After a full day's work, his
> hopeful inquiry and optimistic interpretation of the master was a long
> forgotten point of light. Only fifty more bowls...Only forty-nine... The
> apprentice sighed and counted down as the sun did the same...
>
>
>
> On Mon, 26 May 1997, Hluch - Kevin A. wrote:
>
> > ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> >
> > The master was not surprised by the question of the apprentice. " Where
> > shall I leave my hands if I am free to choose?" Glancing at the
> > apprentice the master was tempted to resist this new intrusion into the
> > work of the day. Wasn't it simply enough to teach by squeezing beauty
> > from the resistant ironous earth? Why the interminable words, words,
> > words, words! Would those squiggly sounds that evaporate in the thinness
> > of air and drift away like dust on the wind ever make a beautiful pot?
> > Those vulgar, useless unreliable words were an apt invention of the most
> > vulgar ancient ones, the master thought. The master grunted, "You are a
> > free man, yet you wallow in this mud like a pig. Leave your hands on that
> > clay over there and throw three-hundred bowls by sunset or the olive
> > switch will answer your question for you!"
> >
>
dan wilson on fri 30 may 97
This was a fearful vision to the apprentice as his masters voice became a
shapeless memory. How can he "love" the clay if it is accompanied by the
masters cane? Should he enslave himself to the masters "vision" of beauty?
Does his masters vision of beauty coincide with the truth? For in his mind
the beautiful is just one thing and all other things are not true? And what
about this passion of the soul? Is it right and good to enslave it in the
frozen face of an iron bearing clay? To what end? To feed the insatiable
and self indulgent desires of the wealthy and the ones with educated
tastes? To fill the world of the poor in pocket and spirit who care not for
beauty but more for utility? Where is the beauty in the shaping of the
bowl? Is it not the symbol of our slavery; the mirror of our needs and our
desires? The shadow of our earthly passions? We cannot know more than what
the bowl may give us in the way of the good the beautiful and the free?
Like the sappling that grows in the shadows of the tree, the apprentice in
his passion grows toward the light according to his nature. The master must
know this and refrain from the whip since the broken spirit is the broken
bowl.
>----------------------------Original message----------------------------
>As the master prepared to leave the shop for the day, the apprentice was
>still lackadaisically throwing the bowls as required. The master, for the
>first time, was worried. This apprentice, who seemed so full of promise
>at the beginning, now appeared bored with this recent assignment. The
>master thought to himself, "How can this apprentice expect to be the
>slave of beauty if he could not work joyously with the clay day after day.
>Did he not realize that the passion that flows from his soul is the life
>blood of this work? Did he not realize that to acquire the skills
>necessary for the transparent expression of the feelings of his soul he
>must 'make love' to each and every seemingly insignificant bowl?. The
>master shot a disparaging glance at this fledgling before leaving. With
>that lightning look he instantly decided that if this self-indulgent lad
>did not exhibit some PASSION for working the clay he would fire him
>within the week. Of this he was certain.
>
>Kevin A. Hluch
>102 E. 8th St.
>Frederick, MD 21701
>USA
>
>e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
>
>On Tue, 27 May 1997, JULIE ATWOOD wrote:
Dan Wilson on sat 7 jun 97
We can speak of the beautiful pot but not about the beautiful. For beauty
rests in the metaphysical world of ideas (ideas as objects) and it reveals
itself through subjective interpretation. We can say a thing is beautiful
but we cannot say why without resorting to words like soul, passion, spirit
ect. Beauty can never be fully understood or quantified or measured or
described or ordered in the Aristotlean sense and therefore, especially in
our times, it is not and should not be included in an aesthetic discussion.
Further, beauty should not be considered as the project or goal of the
contemporary artist. Our culture is driven by corporate intrests that
demand precise measurement, effective communication and productivity based
on measurable proofs provided by emperical data and systemic constructs.
This notion is incompatible with the beautiful. Contemporary artists, in
light of the above, are obliged to produce works that cater to ruling
corporate interests who's agenda is not the beautiful but the complete
integration of world cultures into one; who's sole purpose is to serve the
common good which will be defined on the basis of productivity. This
process will effectively subdue the spiritual and therefore the beautiful
until the next Renaissance. It is the true Avant-Guarde potter that
recognizes this inevitable evolutionary process and resists it by inverting
a bowl in protest on every third Friday of each month of the year. To rise
against the master who, even now through mass media, is embedding its
agenda on the subconcious of the masses is the goal of the Avant- Garde
potter. Let us chant in the name of the Most Holy Nagger. Beauty, Beauty,
Beauty...
Extract from the archives of the Avant-Garde Potters Guild; Co-op # 35.
Hluch - Kevin A. on sun 8 jun 97
The master found the paper tract of the the Avant-Garde Potters Guild
lying on the table. "Ah-hah!", he thought, "So this is where the
apprentice had been deceived!" These vulgar ones had evolved in such a
clever way. From the Egyptians they had produced the papyrus to store
their facts and figures and now they were attempting to use this phantasm
to sway the will of my new apprentice. The master could hardly believe
what his eyes conveyed to him. "Beauty should not be considered as the
goal of the contempory artist". What stupidity! What pray tell, might
be the goal of an artist whether they might work in wood, stone, metal,
fiber or any other material that suits the artists temperment? Should the
artists' goal be logic, or math, or astronomy, or botany, or alchemy, or
history, or geography, or religion, or politics, or love, or sense, or
nonsense? How foolish this so-called "avante-garde" guild is! Any subject
can be utilized by the artist as long as it is held in the soft, tender
fold of the Beautiful! The master paused to look at the clay. He
thought," Why am I wasting my time reading this garbage when I could be
working on the wheel?"
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
On Sat, 7 Jun 1997, Dan Wilson wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
>
> We can speak of the beautiful pot but not about the beautiful. For beauty
> rests in the metaphysical world of ideas (ideas as objects) and it reveals
> itself through subjective interpretation. We can say a thing is beautiful
> but we cannot say why without resorting to words like soul, passion, spirit
> ect. Beauty can never be fully understood or quantified or measured or
> described or ordered in the Aristotlean sense and therefore, especially in
> our times, it is not and should not be included in an aesthetic discussion.
> Further, beauty should not be considered as the project or goal of the
> contemporary artist. Our culture is driven by corporate intrests that
> demand precise measurement, effective communication and productivity based
> on measurable proofs provided by emperical data and systemic constructs.
> This notion is incompatible with the beautiful. Contemporary artists, in
> light of the above, are obliged to produce works that cater to ruling
> corporate interests who's agenda is not the beautiful but the complete
> integration of world cultures into one; who's sole purpose is to serve the
> common good which will be defined on the basis of productivity. This
> process will effectively subdue the spiritual and therefore the beautiful
> until the next Renaissance. It is the true Avant-Guarde potter that
> recognizes this inevitable evolutionary process and resists it by inverting
> a bowl in protest on every third Friday of each month of the year. To rise
> against the master who, even now through mass media, is embedding its
> agenda on the subconcious of the masses is the goal of the Avant- Garde
> potter. Let us chant in the name of the Most Holy Nagger. Beauty, Beauty,
> Beauty...
>
> Extract from the archives of the Avant-Garde Potters Guild; Co-op # 35.
>
The Shelfords on mon 9 jun 97
>----------------------------Original message----------------------------
>
>We can speak of the beautiful pot but not about the beautiful. ...
Beauty can never be fully understood or quantified ... >Further,
beauty should not be considered as the project or goal of the contemporary
artist. ... This process will effectively subdue the spiritual and
therefore the beautiful until the next Renaissance.
> It is the true Avant-Guarde potter that recognizes this inevitable
evolutionary process and resists it by inverting
>a bowl in protest on every third Friday of each month of the year. To rise
against the master who, even now through mass media, is embedding its agenda
on the subconcious of the masses is the goal of the Avant- Garde
>potter. Let us chant in the name of the Most Holy Nagger. Beauty,
Beauty,Beauty...
>
>Extract from the archives of the Avant-Garde Potters Guild; Co-op # 35.
>
Dan - Like many other such underground movements, the Avant-Garde Potters
Guild seems to have been caught in the toils of the very menace it wanted to
counter. Apparently the chant (with or without the name of MHN) has been
inadequate, as very little of what is currently termed "avant-garde" work
claims any relationship to that "beauty" which the mad dogs of corporatism
(hmmm, echoes, echoes) would eliminate from our lives. (That which cannot
be quantified, cannot be priced. That which cannot be identified, cannot be
sold.) Indeed, although there is much about artistic integration and
expression of cultural presence and/or disintegration in the work of the
AGPG, about beauty there is only embarrassment. If the next renaissance is
to occur, it will probably take more than the traditional (and highly
regarded) "inverting a bowl in protest on every third Friday of each month
of the year." I hate to say this, dear friends, but those of you truly
dedicated to the cause will have to increase your efforts, or see your past
work wasted. Dare I suggest - EVERY friday??????
- Veronica
____________________________________________________________________________
Veronica Shelford
e-mail: shelford@island.net
s-mail: P.O. Box 6-15
Thetis Island, BC V0R 2Y0
Tel: (250) 246-1509
____________________________________________________________________________
Dan Wilson on fri 20 jun 97
The implication that the Avant-Garde offers nothing of value to the arts
or pottery seems a bit misguided. Is this because we believe they
didn't/don't share our values? How does the Avant-Garde differ from the
rest of us? Is it that they represent/reflect our most current cultural
attitudes while the rest of us are still languishing in the past?
Struggling to preserve values and traditions well established? Is it that
the Avant-Garde attitude is based on progress? The idea that we should
embrace past and present and move positively into the future? Re-invent
ourselves on the basis of the newly discovered? The Avant-Garde has given
us the inverted bowl to remind us of our age, the times we live in. It has
created the leading edge. Something the world of ceramics especially
pottery if not reminded now and then would in my opinion happily ignore.
Take a look around and you will agree that the proto typical potter works
in a closed aesthetic environment which is defined by traditions laid out
for them by ancient masterworks whose value is based on technical
achievment and spiritual values that at best are only vaguely understood.
Well, thankfully, someone came along and said "There's more to it than
that. There's the spirit of our times." Thank goodness for the AVPG!
As for the beautiful pot becoming an embarrasment-just let me say this is
the way of all beautiful pots as they rise out what ever it is they rise
from. From the seed of an idea their growth must be nurtured and carefully
sustained by perserverence and faith in the idea and the goal. If you think
it just happens you're not thinking about it. Beautiful pots are so because
they achieve a unity of their parts which are sometimes divergent but held
in tenuous ballance during the process of realization through the will of
the artist and the grace of the creator. Beauty, Beauty, Beauty.
Dan Wilson on fri 20 jun 97
So the master, thinking that today he would chase the apprentice off with
his well worn switch, began drawing circles in the dirt around the wheel
and the kiln in the fashion of his predesessors as protection against those
demons who disquise themselves as light in the darkness. And the fifty pots
the apprentice left resting on the shelf above the wheel? They became the
objects of his fear which had become his anger again and he began to
perform the ritual of Greenbergian Reduction. To return them to the potters
field from which they came. The shapeless and the formless - before the
idea turns to stone. It was in this mood the master, with the hardened
resolve of experience, greeted the apprentice on that final day. "Good
morning master. What a fine day! Do you not agree? The master only smiled
and turned to his wedging. "On the wheel you will find the truth of the
matter. Take it and walk the path eastward as you turn the pages." The
apprentice, filled with separation anxiety, turned to the wheel upon which
lay an ancient and dusty book with broken spine and tattered pages yellowed
with age and smeared with unfired clay. The Danc of th Avant-Gar Cogni
Processes and t search for Beau y "Take it and go." Said the master.
Dan Wilson on sat 21 jun 97
There two kinds beauty- The beauty we feel and the beauty we remember. The
first can also be named unconcious or intuitive beauty. It flows from
being. The second form of beauty flows from memory and can be considered
constructive.
Dan Wilson
http://www.nas.com/~dwilson/untitled.html
Dan Wilson on sun 22 jun 97
Unconcious beauty might be considered as the primary condition of beauty.
It is unified and unstructured. Remembered beauty is the secondary
condition of beauty and is a reflection of the primary condition. It was
Aristotle, I guess, who theorized (in opposition to Plato) that beauty is
measurable, sensible, and manifests itself in relationships of form and
that a person, after being taught the fundamentals of those relationships
can produce beautiful objects. It is the relationship of forms, based on
ratios, that beauty is manifested. The Aristotlean notion of beauty if
taken as truth implies that beauty is structured and resides in memory. For
example, we construct pots by certain "rules of thumb" (design
fundamentals) that establish porportional relationships of form to achieve
beauty. These relationships, remembered through practice, become
reflective or memetic imitations based on memory. But what of unconcious
beauty? Beauty that flows from being - unnattached to memory? Some would
say that this beauty is best expressed in the works of the far east;
especially the works of the practitioners of Tao and Zen philosophy.
Western art, since the turn of the century, has been moving toward the
east, so to speak, and the result of this movement has been, at times,
chaotic as the two forms of beauty meet.
Dan Wilson See you in July.
http://www.nas.com/~dwilson/untitled.html
Hluch - Kevin A. on mon 23 jun 97
(Please note that I made a few corrections in the previous post and I
forgot to mention that I will soon have a web page "out there". Just
thought I would keep you "posted" (Groans in unison?)
Dripping with sweat from the frightful reoccurring dreams that alternated
locales between Japan and Greece, the youg apprentice could not believe
how lucky he was. Ensconced in the studios of the State-funded Avant-
Guarde Potters Guild, unlike the apprentice in his nightmares, he could
make what he damned well pleased. "Gawd, it's great working here!" he
thought. He was free to make pots that wouldn't pour and lids that didn't
fit. Free to make glazes that were crazed and emerged from the kiln
pin-holed and cratered. Free to use garish colors that made people wince
and cringe. Free even to use child pornography in his expressions if he
so desired. No one minded if his pots were just plain old butt-ugly.
THAT was the POINT!. HE ws pushing the boundaries of ART! Just like
everbody else. To bad his dream apprentice couldn't read our Manifesto.
"Perfect Freedom Resides in the Standardless Culture". He loved that one!
His new works were sure to piss off those petty bourgeoisie types!
Imagine a huge pot made of big rusted bolts and bones cast from a real
skeleton! (Not telling whose...Trade secret!) The best thing was that
even though it fell apart after firing he just EPOXIED the damn thing
into an even more bizarre shape. Who could tell and, better yet, who
cares? Best of all, this place encouraged, no THRIVED, on philosophical
discussions. Plenty of them. He sometimes wondered if he would ever find
time to work. Fondly, he tried to recall the heated discussion (that
never seemed to end) about why Aristotle mused that since beauty was only
memory then it might also be easily forgotten. "Man, what was that
Aristotle cat thinking?" He repeated to himself, "Gaaawwwd, I love
working here!"
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
On Sun, 22 Jun 1997, Dan Wilson wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> Unconcious beauty might be considered as the primary condition of beauty.
> It is unified and unstructured. Remembered beauty is the secondary
> condition of beauty and is a reflection of the primary condition. It was
> Aristotle, I guess, who theorized (in opposition to Plato) that beauty is
> measurable, sensible, and manifests itself in relationships of form and
> that a person, after being taught the fundamentals of those relationships
> can produce beautiful objects. It is the relationship of forms, based on
> ratios, that beauty is manifested. The Aristotlean notion of beauty if
> taken as truth implies that beauty is structured and resides in memory. For
> example, we construct pots by certain "rules of thumb" (design
> fundamentals) that establish porportional relationships of form to achieve
> beauty. These relationships, remembered through practice, become
> reflective or memetic imitations based on memory. But what of unconcious
> beauty? Beauty that flows from being - unnattached to memory? Some would
> say that this beauty is best expressed in the works of the far east;
> especially the works of the practitioners of Tao and Zen philosophy.
> Western art, since the turn of the century, has been moving toward the
> east, so to speak, and the result of this movement has been, at times,
> chaotic as the two forms of beauty meet.
>
> Dan Wilson See you in July.
>
> http://www.nas.com/~dwilson/untitled.html
>
Hluch - Kevin A. on mon 23 jun 97
Dripping with sweat from the frightful reoccurring dreams that alternated
locales from Japan to the Greece the young apprentice could not believe
how lucky he was. Ensconced in the studios of the State funded Avant
Guard Potters Guild he, unlike the apprentice in his nightmares, could
make what he damned pleased. "Gawd, its great working here!", he thought.
He was free to make pots that couldn't pour and lids that didn't fit .
Free to make glazes that were crazed and came out of the kiln pin-holed
and cratered.. Free to use garish colors that made people wince and
cringe. Free even to use child pornography in his expressions if he liked.
Nobody minded if his pots were considered plain old butt-ugly. That was
the POINT. HE was pushing the boundaries of ART! Just like everybody
else. Too bad the dream apprentice couldn't read our manifesto. "Perfect
Freedom Resides in the Standardless Culture". He loved that one!
His new works were sure to piss off those petty bourgeoisie types!
Imagine a huge pot made of big rusted bolts and bones taken from cast from
a real skeleton (Not telling whose... trade secret!). The best thing was
that even though it fell apart after the firing he could just EPOXY the
damn thing into an even more bizarre shape. Who could tell and, better
yet, who cares? Best of all, this place encouraged philosophical
discussions, plenty of them. He sometimes wondered if he would ever find
time to work. Fondly, he tried to recall the heated discussion (that
never seem to end) about why Aristotle mused that since beauty was only
memory then it might easily be forgotten. "Man, what was that Aristotle
cat thinking?" He repeated to himself again, "Gaawwwd, it's great working
here!"
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
On Sun, 22 Jun 1997, Dan Wilson wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> Unconcious beauty might be considered as the primary condition of beauty.
> It is unified and unstructured. Remembered beauty is the secondary
> condition of beauty and is a reflection of the primary condition. It was
> Aristotle, I guess, who theorized (in opposition to Plato) that beauty is
> measurable, sensible, and manifests itself in relationships of form and
> that a person, after being taught the fundamentals of those relationships
> can produce beautiful objects. It is the relationship of forms, based on
> ratios, that beauty is manifested. The Aristotlean notion of beauty if
> taken as truth implies that beauty is structured and resides in memory. For
> example, we construct pots by certain "rules of thumb" (design
> fundamentals) that establish porportional relationships of form to achieve
> beauty. These relationships, remembered through practice, become
> reflective or memetic imitations based on memory. But what of unconcious
> beauty? Beauty that flows from being - unnattached to memory? Some would
> say that this beauty is best expressed in the works of the far east;
> especially the works of the practitioners of Tao and Zen philosophy.
> Western art, since the turn of the century, has been moving toward the
> east, so to speak, and the result of this movement has been, at times,
> chaotic as the two forms of beauty meet.
>
> Dan Wilson See you in July.
>
> http://www.nas.com/~dwilson/untitled.html
>
Cathie Feild on tue 24 jun 97
Surrounded by his fellow artists at the AGPG, the apprentice continued to
explore the limitless possibilities of his creative freedom. What a life --
the government paid him to create, to think, and to discuss. Occasionally an
enlightened patron would purchase one of his creations and place it where it
could be admired and challenge the thinking of all who came in contact with
it. He felt a sense of power and responsibility to expand the horizons of
his fellow man.
Meanwhile, outside the walls of the AGPG, seeds of revolt began to grow among
the masses. Most people were tired of feeling that their tastes were
supposedly inferior to the aesthetic of an elite group of artists. Who were
these artists anyway and why did they always seem so angry? Weren't their
tax dollars paying for their little creative experiment at the AGPG? People
started wondering why they were putting up with this and demanded that their
elected representatives create a system that better reflected their artistic
and cultural values or just shut down the AGPG altogether!
Of course, comfortable inside the womb of the AGPG, the apprentice didn't
notice this unrest in the masses. He had more important matters of
self-expression to attend to. He did notice however, on his daily walk home
from the studio that a new store had opened. One day he went inside and
found shelves of ceramic plates, cups, bowls, and pitchers. In the back was
a rather simple-looking middle-aged woman sitting at a potter's wheel
trimming a bowl. He asked her what kind of statement she was trying to make
with her stuff, but she simply smiled in an oddly serene way and offered him
a cup of coffee. He was in a hurry to get home and change to meet his
friends at a gallery opening so he declined and left her to her monotonous
work. When he left, she reached for her warm mug of coffee. Her fingers
slipped familiarly through the generous handle and her other hand
unconsciously rose to cup the other side of the mug. She took a moment to
inhale the aroma of the brew, then took a satisfying swallow. She gazed at
the mug as she set it down and a gentle smile came to her face as she
returned to the clay on the wheel.
The young apprentice (who was not so young anymore, but his years at the AGPG
had helped him maintain his carefree, youthful ways) arrived at his
appartment to find two police officers waiting for him. He was baffled when
they told him he was under arrest for sending pornographic pictures through
the US mail. What were they talking about?! He tried to think. Could it
possibly be the slides of his work that he had submitted to the exhibition of
avante garde art? "Anyone can see that is ART NOT pornography," he yelled
as the policemen took him to their squad car. As they drove him to the
county jail, they passed the new shop on the corner. For some reason, he
noticed that a couple was walking out with a package in their hands.
At the jail he sat glumly in his cell staring at the walls while he waited
for his friends to come bail him out. This was all an absurd
misunderstanding. He would get a good lawyer who understood the importance
of creative freedom. "I mean, it's a Constituional right, isn't it," he
fumed to himself. His eyes wandered the walls of the cell. Some pretty
creative stuff was on these walls. He started to get an idea for his next
piece of art. Then his eyes rested on a phrase written boldly on the wall:
"Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose." He wondered briefly
what that meant before turning his thoughts to the gallery opening he was
missing. . . .
Installment by Cathie Feild
a lowly ceramics student
(sorry for the length. . .I got carried away)
Dan Wilson on tue 24 jun 97
Standards
Some lament the apparent loss of standards in the post-modern era. They
even go so far as to place blame for this on the very institutions that
support and nurture the legitimate evolution of aesthetic reasearch.
Longing for the good old days when beauty was the primary motivation for
creating works of art. Citing examples of contemporary art which are
motivated by intensity of experience. The Aesthetic object lost its voice
as the avant-garde denied beauty and extremes of expression for its own
sake, become the standard to surpass. The object has been usurped by the
subject - the mind. These are confusing times. Once ago, "force" was the
standard. It reigned above the craft the configuration and the expression
for its own sake. Cannot this still be true today?
"And the great sculptor cried crocodile tears as his "goddess" refused to
breath, to bleed under the cut of his chisel."
Dan wilson
>-------------------------------original--------------------------------------
>Kevin writes:
>
>>Dripping with sweat from the frightful reoccurring dreams that alternated
>>locales >between Japan and Greece, the youg apprentice could not believe
>>how lucky he was. >Ensconced in the studios of the State-funded Avant-
>>Guarde Potters Guild, unlike the >apprentice in his nightmares, he could
>>make what he damned well pleased. "Gawd, it's >great working here!" he
>>thought. He was free to make pots that wouldn't pour and lids >that
>>didn't fit. Free to make glazes that were crazed and emerged from the
>>kiln >pin-holed and cratered. Free to use garish colors that made people
>>wince and cringe. >Free even to use child pornography in his expressions
>>if he so desired. No one minded >if his pots were just plain old
>>butt-ugly. THAT was the POINT!. HE ws pushing the >boundaries of ART!
>>Just like everbody else. To bad his dream apprentice couldn't read >our
>>Manifesto. "Perfect Freedom Resides in the Standardless Culture".
Hluch - Kevin A. on fri 27 jun 97
Speeding through a driving rainstorm with the windshield wipers marking
time, the president of the AGPG could not help but wonder why this most
promising apprentice had been arrested. Didn't the federal authorities
sanction the founding of the AGPG in the first place? Weren't they the
major contributors to its overall funding scheme? How could they promote
the expressions of artists who MUST pursue the evolution of art into new,
more controversial and revolutionary issues and forms yet simultaneously act
like the Art Gestapo? As one of the first players to help organize the
National Art Progress Administration he suddenly realized the defect that he
had built into the system: the lay person who knew nothing about art! He
instantly decided to crank up his lobbying machine. He thought,
"Boy-oh-boy, those fax machines are going to hum!"
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
On Tue, 24 Jun 1997, Cathie Feild wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> Surrounded by his fellow artists at the AGPG, the apprentice continued to
> explore the limitless possibilities of his creative freedom. What a life --
> the government paid him to create, to think, and to discuss. Occasionally an
> enlightened patron would purchase one of his creations and place it where it
> could be admired and challenge the thinking of all who came in contact with
> it. He felt a sense of power and responsibility to expand the horizons of
> his fellow man.
>
> Meanwhile, outside the walls of the AGPG, seeds of revolt began to grow among
> the masses. Most people were tired of feeling that their tastes were
> supposedly inferior to the aesthetic of an elite group of artists. Who were
> these artists anyway and why did they always seem so angry? Weren't their
> tax dollars paying for their little creative experiment at the AGPG? People
> started wondering why they were putting up with this and demanded that their
> elected representatives create a system that better reflected their artistic
> and cultural values or just shut down the AGPG altogether!
>
> Of course, comfortable inside the womb of the AGPG, the apprentice didn't
> notice this unrest in the masses. He had more important matters of
> self-expression to attend to. He did notice however, on his daily walk home
> from the studio that a new store had opened. One day he went inside and
> found shelves of ceramic plates, cups, bowls, and pitchers. In the back was
> a rather simple-looking middle-aged woman sitting at a potter's wheel
> trimming a bowl. He asked her what kind of statement she was trying to make
> with her stuff, but she simply smiled in an oddly serene way and offered him
> a cup of coffee. He was in a hurry to get home and change to meet his
> friends at a gallery opening so he declined and left her to her monotonous
> work. When he left, she reached for her warm mug of coffee. Her fingers
> slipped familiarly through the generous handle and her other hand
> unconsciously rose to cup the other side of the mug. She took a moment to
> inhale the aroma of the brew, then took a satisfying swallow. She gazed at
> the mug as she set it down and a gentle smile came to her face as she
> returned to the clay on the wheel.
>
> The young apprentice (who was not so young anymore, but his years at the AGPG
> had helped him maintain his carefree, youthful ways) arrived at his
> appartment to find two police officers waiting for him. He was baffled when
> they told him he was under arrest for sending pornographic pictures through
> the US mail. What were they talking about?! He tried to think. Could it
> possibly be the slides of his work that he had submitted to the exhibition of
> avante garde art? "Anyone can see that is ART NOT pornography," he yelled
> as the policemen took him to their squad car. As they drove him to the
> county jail, they passed the new shop on the corner. For some reason, he
> noticed that a couple was walking out with a package in their hands.
>
> At the jail he sat glumly in his cell staring at the walls while he waited
> for his friends to come bail him out. This was all an absurd
> misunderstanding. He would get a good lawyer who understood the importance
> of creative freedom. "I mean, it's a Constituional right, isn't it," he
> fumed to himself. His eyes wandered the walls of the cell. Some pretty
> creative stuff was on these walls. He started to get an idea for his next
> piece of art. Then his eyes rested on a phrase written boldly on the wall:
> "Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose." He wondered briefly
> what that meant before turning his thoughts to the gallery opening he was
> missing. . . .
>
> Installment by Cathie Feild
> a lowly ceramics student
> (sorry for the length. . .I got carried away)
>
Dan Wilson on sat 28 jun 97
And they did hum, night and day, as the avant garde cried "Remove the
barrier between art and life" and the critics and aestheticians cried "Give
us a common language" and the people cried "We don't need an education to
know what art is." And "Liberty Leading the Masses" was transformed into a
bad idea. An the object became the word. And this confused everybody. So
they all stopped for a minute and drank a "cup o joe" from hand made mugs.
And the rain made Thomas think of the "Lost and Found". How once when he
was a kid he lost his jacket on the playground at school and found it later
at "The Lost and Found". And he thought of the apprentice in the same
way...and he heard Jannis on the radio and thought about how her vision had
killed her in the end. He decided you couldn't it take too seriously, you
gotta be able to change your mind now and then. When he arrived at the
station he was greeted by an officer of the law who informed him that his
apprentice had been arrested for writing confusing words on the sides of
government buildings...
Dan Wilson
----------------------------Original message----------------------------
>Speeding through a driving rainstorm with the windshield wipers marking
time, the >president of the AGPG could not help but wonder...
Hluch - Kevin A. on tue 1 jul 97
Sitting in his jail cell, the AGPG apprentice began reading the copy of
the fax that Thomas was flashing to the politicos... Inexplicably, he started
to experience a strange sort of reverie. Slowly, surely, and unable to
resist, he was transported back in time when there existed no avant
guarde. A time when galleries did not exist, when museums where unbuilt and
never imagined, when everyday life was filled with what other people had
made, when things were right and good, when bad things could not
even be sold to an idiot, when craft/art was intertwined with the process
of life, both mundane and profound. He also could sense in this blinding
vision the idea that since this work was so totally integrated into the
fabric of life that the users required it even in the AFTERLIFE. And that
it was so integrated into their lives that it was as if art/craft
seemingly didn't exist...like air. How important it must have been, yet
how common! He also revelled that all superfluous elements had been
eliminated so as to accommodate use and all reflected the seductive
materials of creation. His mind began to bear a vision too clear when he
understood ALL utensils, tools, and products for life were ALL made by
the practiced and expert hand. As a result of all these things, this
art/craft had a naturalness and ease that made it instantly understood,
appreciated and welcomed as part of the unique on-going human experience.
In a flash, his vision ended as abruptly as it began....He thought
to himself, "Oh-my-Gawd! I'm on the WRONG side in the revolution!"
(Very near Web Site Completion....stay tuned.)
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
On Sat, 28 Jun 1997, Dan Wilson wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
>
>
> And they did hum, night and day, as the avant garde cried "Remove the
> barrier between art and life" and the critics and aestheticians cried "Give
> us a common language" and the people cried "We don't need an education to
> know what art is." And "Liberty Leading the Masses" was transformed into a
> bad idea. An the object became the word. And this confused everybody. So
> they all stopped for a minute and drank a "cup o joe" from hand made mugs.
> And the rain made Thomas think of the "Lost and Found". How once when he
> was a kid he lost his jacket on the playground at school and found it later
> at "The Lost and Found". And he thought of the apprentice in the same
> way...and he heard Jannis on the radio and thought about how her vision had
> killed her in the end. He decided you couldn't it take too seriously, you
> gotta be able to change your mind now and then. When he arrived at the
> station he was greeted by an officer of the law who informed him that his
> apprentice had been arrested for writing confusing words on the sides of
> government buildings...
>
> Dan Wilson
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> >Speeding through a driving rainstorm with the windshield wipers marking
> time, the >president of the AGPG could not help but wonder...
>
Hluch - Kevin A. on wed 2 jul 97
Art Expressions International Corporation , a multi-media conglomerate
that was hugely successful, was a truly exciting place to work. The young
hireling was eagerly anticipating his first assignment. A client had submitted
the request for a turquoise faux-ceramic sculpture that would match the decor
of his pre-manufactured house. Size, subject matter, material, texture,
color, pattern, and proportion criteria set, he knew just what to do. He
inputed the parameters of the clients choices into the machine,
accomplished a few clicks and tweaks of the final three-dimensional image and
soon it was baking in the insta-ovens that his company had recently patented.
Even though human hands had not touched the object it still had the tool
marks that had been programmed into the application. Yeow! And what great
tool marks...they were direct facsimiles of the sculptor named Vulkous or
Valkos (or something like that) from the distant past that he had pulled up
from the "mallet" file. The young hireling never thought that art could
be so easy....and so lucrative! He was sure his Robotron Boss would be
pleased with his efforts since this new "creation" fit precisely the daily
ART STANDARDS criteria that was posted daily. E x h i l a r a t i o n
was the only word to describe his feeling at the moment.
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
On Tue, 24 Jun 1997, Dan Wilson wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> Standards
>
> Some lament the apparent loss of standards in the post-modern era. They
> even go so far as to place blame for this on the very institutions that
> support and nurture the legitimate evolution of aesthetic reasearch.
> Longing for the good old days when beauty was the primary motivation for
> creating works of art. Citing examples of contemporary art which are
> motivated by intensity of experience. The Aesthetic object lost its voice
> as the avant-garde denied beauty and extremes of expression for its own
> sake, become the standard to surpass. The object has been usurped by the
> subject - the mind. These are confusing times. Once ago, "force" was the
> standard. It reigned above the craft the configuration and the expression
> for its own sake. Cannot this still be true today?
>
> "And the great sculptor cried crocodile tears as his "goddess" refused to
> breath, to bleed under the cut of his chisel."
>
> Dan wilson
>
> >-------------------------------original--------------------------------------
> >Kevin writes:
> >
> >>Dripping with sweat from the frightful reoccurring dreams that alternated
> >>locales >between Japan and Greece, the youg apprentice could not believe
> >>how lucky he was. >Ensconced in the studios of the State-funded Avant-
> >>Guarde Potters Guild, unlike the >apprentice in his nightmares, he could
> >>make what he damned well pleased. "Gawd, it's >great working here!" he
> >>thought. He was free to make pots that wouldn't pour and lids >that
> >>didn't fit. Free to make glazes that were crazed and emerged from the
> >>kiln >pin-holed and cratered. Free to use garish colors that made people
> >>wince and cringe. >Free even to use child pornography in his expressions
> >>if he so desired. No one minded >if his pots were just plain old
> >>butt-ugly. THAT was the POINT!. HE ws pushing the >boundaries of ART!
> >>Just like everbody else. To bad his dream apprentice couldn't read >our
> >>Manifesto. "Perfect Freedom Resides in the Standardless Culture".
>
Cathie Feild on fri 4 jul 97
Next installment following:
Feild<< As they drove him to the
county jail, they passed the new shop on the corner. For some reason, he
noticed that a couple was walking out with a package in their hands. >>
Hluch<<. . .the lay person who knew nothing about art! He
instantly decided to crank up his lobbying machine.
Wilson<<. . .and the people cried "We don't need an education to
know what art is."
-----------------------------------------------REPLY--------------------------
----------------------
The couple arrived home and unwrapped their newly purchesed soup bowls. They
admired again their shape, size, and color as they put them on the shelf next
to their other handmade ceramic dinner ware. They had long been patrons of
American craft artists and were happy to support the new pottery shop that
had opened in their neighborhood. Over dinner that night they discussed
their recent visit to the Renwick Gallery in Washington, DC. It was supposed
to be the national gallery of American craft, but they were disappointed by
the collection. They didn't believe it was very representative of American
craft. They decided to write a letter to the curator of the gallery and
copied their Senators and congresswoman:
"Dear Sir/Madam: As citizens, taxpayers, and admirers of craft, we would
like to know what the selection criteria are for the work included in the
Renwick Gallery. Also, how much money is spent per year acquiring and
housing the collection? Thank you very much. We look forward to your
reply."
Installment by Cathie Feild
cfeild@aol.com
Dan Wilson on wed 9 jul 97
The intent or purpose of the work and the elements of art ect. and the use
of materials are all based in and flow from the conceptual. The creation of
objects is a process of sublimation from the conceptual to the physical.
The conceptual can be defined as an encapsulation of diverse perceptual
stimuli, as memory unencumbered by spatial limitations. Encapsulation
occurs as meaning is resolved through the process of ordering. Order
results from the temporal separation of stimuli. Primary order, of course,
is on - off. See the flashing insertion point? (Place insertion point here
) This is an example of primary order. Now the beautiful pot is a
manifestation of primary order since it has been said many times that a
thing is either beautiful or it is not. There are no degrees of beauty. A
thing cannot be partly beautiful. To more fully understand the nature of
the process of sublimation from the conceptual to the physical, please
print this document.
Dan Wilson
Hluch - Kevin A. on sat 12 jul 97
Sitting in the jail cell, the apprentice from the Avant Guarde Potters
Guild reflected upon his insight. With all of the ugliness around him, he
was only contributing to the growing mound of grotesque artifacts that
already filled peoples lives. He realized that all of the ugly things
promoted by the AGPG through the craft magazine "Craft and Beyond" were
conceptualizations of some abjectly bad ideas. In fact, many of the ideas
that found their way into the gallery were simply stupid! The vision of
how this group mimicked the consumer culture with its constant promotion
of products that were poorly designed and defectively manufactured made
him cringe. To this mounting heap of aesthetic catastrophes he must add
his own, he finally realized. Was there no escape from ugliness? Where
could he go to learn of beauty. He did not want to create pretty or
lovely things. Cute, likewise, was not his cup of tea. Nor did he want
any connection with kitsch objects. The ugly we have plenty of and the
grotesque was simply too easy. He traveled the distinctions of beauty
and understood that the grotesque and the beautiful resided on a
continuum. It was the degree of separation that determined how each word
was defined. "Beauty", he thought, "That which pleases the senses and
exalts the mind... Now that is a goal worth working toward!" But where
could he go to learn of such things? Is there such an art school or
institute in the whole of the land where people know and speak of such a
ideas? Or had the Arts Progress Administration been successful in
supplanting those who knew with those who didn't? This brief
incarceration had had a distinctly sobering effect upon his intellect.
He pondered this connection between his emotions and his thoughts.
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
On Wed, 9 Jul 1997, Dan Wilson wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> The intent or purpose of the work and the elements of art ect. and the use
> of materials are all based in and flow from the conceptual. The creation of
> objects is a process of sublimation from the conceptual to the physical.
> The conceptual can be defined as an encapsulation of diverse perceptual
> stimuli, as memory unencumbered by spatial limitations. Encapsulation
> occurs as meaning is resolved through the process of ordering. Order
> results from the temporal separation of stimuli. Primary order, of course,
> is on - off. See the flashing insertion point? (Place insertion point here
> ) This is an example of primary order. Now the beautiful pot is a
> manifestation of primary order since it has been said many times that a
> thing is either beautiful or it is not. There are no degrees of beauty. A
> thing cannot be partly beautiful. To more fully understand the nature of
> the process of sublimation from the conceptual to the physical, please
> print this document.
>
> Dan Wilson
>
Orion Ceramic Studios on tue 15 jul 97
Masters? Apprentices? Narcissus, mayhaps.
Remember the tale...
Narcissus was so obsesed by his own image -- so taken by his own beautiful
reflection(s) -- that he just couldnt' seem to leave the pool... That's
where, and how, Narcissus met his fate.
The moral of the story? "Beware" to those tempted by beauty for its own
sake.
Such a good, old story! (Why not trot out 'Bullfinch's Mythology," or for
a better read try the real thing -- 'Metamorphoses' by Ovid). It's truly
worthy of reflection (pun, pun).
Echo.
bakerwa@telcomplus.com
PS - Beauty is self-evident or it's not, yes? Enough!
Cathie Feild on wed 16 jul 97
In a message dated 97-07-15 08:48:17 EDT, Echo wrote:
<< The moral of the story? "Beware" to those tempted by beauty for its own
sake. >>
I thought the moral of the story was, "Beware of vanity," as in the following
definition of vanity from Webster's unabridged. "3. the quality or fact of
being vain, or excessively proud of oneself or one's qualities or posessions;
self-satisfaction." I think this is quite different from being tempted by
beauty for its own sake.
Cathie
cfeild@aol.com
Dan Wilson on wed 16 jul 97
"All things in heaven and earth were mysteriously linked with the divine
powers, but beautiful things most of all. Often an especially exquisite
flower...the narssisus...Zeus called it into being when he wanted to carry
away the maiden he had fallen in love with, Demeter's daughter,
Persephone.... The broad sky above and the whole earth laughed to see it,
and the salt wave of the sea." (Edith Hamilton's "Mythology")
Dan Wilson
>----------------------------Original message----------------------------
>Masters? Apprentices? Narcissus, mayhaps.
>
>Remember the tale...
>
>Narcissus was so obsesed by his own image -- so taken by his own beautiful
>reflection(s) -- that he just couldnt' seem to leave the pool... That's
>where, and how, Narcissus met his fate.
>
>The moral of the story? "Beware" to those tempted by beauty for its own
>sake.
>
>Such a good, old story! (Why not trot out 'Bullfinch's Mythology," or for
>a better read try the real thing -- 'Metamorphoses' by Ovid). It's truly
>worthy of reflection (pun, pun).
>
>Echo.
>bakerwa@telcomplus.com
>
>PS - Beauty is self-evident or it's not, yes? Enough!
Dannon Rhudy on wed 16 jul 97
Cathie,
I thought the moral of the story was, "Beware of vanity," as in
the following
definition of vanity from Webster's unabridged. "3. the quality
or fact of
being vain, or excessively proud of oneself or one's qualities or
posessions;
self-satisfaction." I think this is quite different from being
tempted by
beauty for its own sake.
Cathie
cfeild@aol.com
Hluch - Kevin A. on thu 31 jul 97
The apprentice could barely detect the slightly acrid fumes emanating
from the Insta-Ovens. The GAPAS (Government Anti- Pollution Patrol
Agents) were always poking around to determine if they could stymie the
productive, creative, artistic efforts of just hard working folks. The
melting of the Antarctic ice shelves and Northern Arctic Ice Cap starting
ninety years ago resulted in the inundation of thousands of miles of
popular coastline. This made these agents "mission proud". He could
hardly blame them. God knows he was tired of the ring city of coast
refugees that surrounded the new town of Binaca in the mountains of
western Brazil. But this was incidental to what was really on his mind.
Who was this person that kept sending cryptic messages about Narcissus to
his terminal? Didn't this person realize that Narcissus was the
procreator of Art? Didnt he realize that without the realization of
beauty at the Dawn of Time the human species would have no Art at all?
Or for that matter, there could be no human beings as we know them?
Didn't this nut-case see that the Greek culture was based in the truths
found in their ancient myths and that One World Culture was based upon
the Greeks? Didn't this mysterious skeptic understand that the concept
of beauty was a distinctly human trait and that this uniquely human
peculiarity was responsible for one of the largest and most powerful
mercantile forces on earth? The International Fashion Council would not
be amused by the rantings of another nativist iconoclast from a bizarre
underground movement that had no stake in the capitalist workers paradise!
Bundai, the apprentice, knew that Beauty was the measure by which the
client saw THEMSELVES in his work. This is what made his corporation
successful and this is what he earnestly believed. After all, his
IndoctroMastor said so. "Why else would they spend that kind of kwacha
on these things and, furthermore, if it weren't for Beauty, what would be
the sense in making all of this stuff in the first place?
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
On Wed, 16 Jul 1997, Dan Wilson wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> "All things in heaven and earth were mysteriously linked with the divine
> powers, but beautiful things most of all. Often an especially exquisite
> flower...the narssisus...Zeus called it into being when he wanted to carry
> away the maiden he had fallen in love with, Demeter's daughter,
> Persephone.... The broad sky above and the whole earth laughed to see it,
> and the salt wave of the sea." (Edith Hamilton's "Mythology")
>
>
>
> Dan Wilson
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> >----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> >Masters? Apprentices? Narcissus, mayhaps.
> >
> >Remember the tale...
> >
> >Narcissus was so obsesed by his own image -- so taken by his own beautiful
> >reflection(s) -- that he just couldnt' seem to leave the pool... That's
> >where, and how, Narcissus met his fate.
> >
> >The moral of the story? "Beware" to those tempted by beauty for its own
> >sake.
> >
> >Such a good, old story! (Why not trot out 'Bullfinch's Mythology," or for
> >a better read try the real thing -- 'Metamorphoses' by Ovid). It's truly
> >worthy of reflection (pun, pun).
> >
> >Echo.
> >bakerwa@telcomplus.com
> >
> >PS - Beauty is self-evident or it's not, yes? Enough!
>
Dan Wilson on wed 10 sep 97
Thomas didn't like the idea of having to bail out another apprentice. He
shuddered at the thought of spending another fifty dollars in the name of
the Avant Garde Potters Guild. What did they think? Money grows on trees?
Well it didn't and this Guilds funds were running on empty. "The next one
would have to do the time, by God". Thomas pulled into the parking space,
set the brake and reached into the back seat for his umbrella; a
fathersday gift from his daughter. When folded out, the head of Daffy Duck
sprang to life and a little duck voice announced "A friend in need is a
friend indeed." It almost made him look forward to the rain at times. "F.
le Saussuer likened the subject and the signifier to "opposite sides of a
piece of paper that cannot be separated". This example, I think, can be
used to describe the relationship of the object to the subject. The link
between the two is the language written upon the paper. It is the language
of the subject and the object; or more correctly, the discursive space
created by the formal language of the object and the internal language of
the subject- it is this space in which all of the questions of reality are
resolved as the two languages negotiate meaningful relationships - cultural
and historical. It could be said with confidence that all works of art,
even pots, are subjective constructs resulting in discursive spaces within
which the dialectic of reality is explored and resolved, or not. The
apprentice, light headed from the lofty weight of these words scrawled on
the wall of his cell, re-read the note and replaced "all works of art" with
"beautiful pots". He wondered why someone would take the time to write
something like this down... Why, Mr. V himself once said he did a thing
just because he thought it was a "good idea". The implication being that a
good idea just might be all there was to it. That an aesthetic object
didn't have to have a lofty theory to explain it. Of course he was pretty
safe by the time he made that statement. Pretty well established among his
peers. Artistic statements of this kind were in vogue at that time and
generations of artists followed in the same footsteps. But things were
different now. There were thinkers out there who were questioning the value
of the anti-intelectual approach. Formalists and others who thought that
portraits of the artist were fine and good but there were other things to
consider...Cultural demands and other things of a higher order. The sound
of footsteps interrupted his reverie as Thomas arrived at the door,
clearly, bent out of shape.
"Are you fearless? Can you compete without getting personal? Maybe you can
go into business too."
http://www.nas.com/~dwilson/
Hluch - Kevin A. on sun 14 sep 97
"Paper, glass, stone can all be media that might be useful for
analogy," said Alice, the attractive new friend Gavin had recently met.
"For example, why does the subject/ object /discursive space need to
have paper as its basis? Wouldn't another material be a more appropriate
structure in which to build this metaphor?" she implored.
"But that's not the media that F. le Saussuer used," Gavin complained
while looking down at his expresso and trying not to linger on the
ample proportions of his new found friend.
Alice responded," Obviously, a philosopher will use the media he
knows best, and scribbly, wriggly, amorphous and imprecise words on
paper are it. My point is that other media might be a more appropriate
material for the analogy of what art is all about, especially for art that
works. And I'm not talking about the kind of art that hangs on the wall
like so much laundry on the clothesline."
The sudden gurgling of the expresso machine behind the counter was
now starting to irritate Gavin and, likewise, Alice was beginning to
annoy. He had thought that the object/subject/discursive argument was
pretty nicely wrapped package of philosophical pie. Kind of like Alice.
"But how else can philosophers relate their ideas to common folk, or
even derive understanding with their peers if they dont use the highly
honed skills that they have practiced over and over? And for
philosophers those tools and skills must be words and paper," Gavin
explained mustering his most earnest look.
But now Alice's own brow was beginning to furrow.
"Look, what if you use the media of glass as the structure for the
idea. Wouldn't it make more sense? What is fused in the glass is plain
for all to see, even from both sides and all around. The 'action' is not
the writing but the making of the glass! And that's an artist's job not a
philosopher's. Besides, this glass would not even need a translator for
people of other cultures or, for that matter, for people of the future.
Words written on paper have been baffling people for centuries. Have you
read the 'Egyptian Book of the Dead recently'?" she asked.
Gavin was becoming exasperated and with just a tad too much
aggression in his voice he blurted out, "I thought this discussion was
about beautiful pots, not dead Pharaohs!"
"So why the hell are you are talking about object/subject and all
that discursive bullshit?" she said dropping her tall latte to the table
in such a pique that it slopped out over the edge of the cup and onto the
table.
A familiar ominous feeling swept over Gavin. With anger
reddening an already florid tinged face and with Alice ready to instantly
vacate Starr Bucks he concluded to himself, "For sure I'm not going to
get laid tonight."
-
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
http://www.erols.com/mhluch/mudslinger.html
On Wed, 10 Sep 1997, Dan Wilson wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> Thomas didn't like the idea of having to bail out another apprentice. He
> shuddered at the thought of spending another fifty dollars in the name of
> the Avant Garde Potters Guild. What did they think? Money grows on trees?
> Well it didn't and this Guilds funds were running on empty. "The next one
> would have to do the time, by God". Thomas pulled into the parking space,
> set the brake and reached into the back seat for his umbrella; a
> fathersday gift from his daughter. When folded out, the head of Daffy Duck
> sprang to life and a little duck voice announced "A friend in need is a
> friend indeed." It almost made him look forward to the rain at times. "F.
> le Saussuer likened the subject and the signifier to "opposite sides of a
> piece of paper that cannot be separated". This example, I think, can be
> used to describe the relationship of the object to the subject. The link
> between the two is the language written upon the paper. It is the language
> of the subject and the object; or more correctly, the discursive space
> created by the formal language of the object and the internal language of
> the subject- it is this space in which all of the questions of reality are
> resolved as the two languages negotiate meaningful relationships - cultural
> and historical. It could be said with confidence that all works of art,
> even pots, are subjective constructs resulting in discursive spaces within
> which the dialectic of reality is explored and resolved, or not. The
> apprentice, light headed from the lofty weight of these words scrawled on
> the wall of his cell, re-read the note and replaced "all works of art" with
> "beautiful pots". He wondered why someone would take the time to write
> something like this down... Why, Mr. V himself once said he did a thing
> just because he thought it was a "good idea". The implication being that a
> good idea just might be all there was to it. That an aesthetic object
> didn't have to have a lofty theory to explain it. Of course he was pretty
> safe by the time he made that statement. Pretty well established among his
> peers. Artistic statements of this kind were in vogue at that time and
> generations of artists followed in the same footsteps. But things were
> different now. There were thinkers out there who were questioning the value
> of the anti-intelectual approach. Formalists and others who thought that
> portraits of the artist were fine and good but there were other things to
> consider...Cultural demands and other things of a higher order. The sound
> of footsteps interrupted his reverie as Thomas arrived at the door,
> clearly, bent out of shape.
>
> "Are you fearless? Can you compete without getting personal? Maybe you can
> go into business too."
>
> http://www.nas.com/~dwilson/
>
Dan Wilson on thu 25 sep 97
Gavin sniggered as he watched the object of his delight disappear behind
the plate glass window. "So much for discursive spaces." he thought. Yet
the image of the glass did fascinate him momentarily... "Beautiful pots
are a mirror and a window."...
"If the objective and subjective data when reduced to numeric values
fully supports or confirms the hypothosis from which the representative
beautiful pot was made; then the remaining task is to re-create the
representation according to the data. This data is ultimately expressed
in terms of monetary units accrued from the commodification of the
object. To resist commodification is to perpetuate a myth and a sham
grounded in an outmoded notion that "Art for Arts sake" is the highest
art. The savy artist understands that commodification is a necessary
condition within which the object is produced. It is in this
understanding that freedom is grounded. The artist who produces works
that resist or deny commodification creates an irresolvable dialectic
which in Hegelian terms would deny the evolution of history. People began
to understand this and cried "Art is dead. Art is dead. Its all been done
before. Art is dead"." As Thomas turned the corner he glanced toward
Gavin. The apprentice was curled up in the corner of the seat. Apparently
sleeping. "They all do that in the beginning." He said.
Hluch - Kevin A. on fri 26 sep 97
Groggily, Gavin asked, "Do what?"
Waking up after Thomas's abrupt nudge Gavin was not sure if he had
dreamt the philosophical resolution of the Beautiful Pot or not. If all
objective/subjective data can be reduced to a numerical matrix that
describes what a beautiful pot is and if this numera-data is further
expressed as a monetary equation in the market place then how is the art
object any different from the design, manufacture and marketing of any other
consumer product? What makes a beautiful pot unlike a toilet for example?
Gavin's ruminations foundered on the petard of a urinal hoisted decades ago.
He also felt a dull ache emanating from his shoulder to his
fingertips. This newly acquired shoulder pain and arm numbness was what
neurologists called "Saturday Night Syndrome". Dionysus, the ancient
Greek god of wine, had had at him again.
"Never sleep on a surface that doesn't have 'bed' written all over
it", he remarked to Thomas. "And make sure it's sleep and not just
alcohol induced unconsciousness... that does not do a body good", he
added.
"But working in the studio producing our newest line of avant garde
pottery will pay the bills and do MY body good. So why don't you get off
your sleep deprived butt and get to work?" Thomas demanded of his
slightly addled apprentice.
But Gavin could not understand why he was making pots that could not
be used. The garish colors and bizarre proportions currently in fashion and
the brutalized clay surfaces did not portray any beauty that he could fathom.
Yet he still was compelled to produce.
Perhaps this preeminent head of the AGPG had the answer.
"Just out of curiosity", Gavin ventured, "Why are we making all of
this ugly pottery with such grotesque characteristics when it would seem
a better thing to create something beautiful and useful instead?"
Thomas, peering intently at his quarry with a slightly raised
eyebrow, was prepared for this question. After working with so many mental
midgets the reply slithered from his lips. Thomas hissed, "Art is dead,
art is dead, art is dead, art is dead. It's all been done before. Art is
dead, you insipid little fool! We're not making art here, were making
MONEY!"
Never quite used to Thomas's frequent invective, Gavin again felt
like a paltry lump of slaked-down clay in a half a bucket of water.
He morosely languished in the feeling that he may never understand Beauty
- nor be able to create it.
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
http://www.erols.com/mhluch/mudslinger.html
On Thu, 25 Sep 1997, Dan Wilson wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
>
>
> Gavin sniggered as he watched the object of his delight disappear behind
> the plate glass window. "So much for discursive spaces." he thought. Yet
> the image of the glass did fascinate him momentarily... "Beautiful pots
> are a mirror and a window."...
>
> "If the objective and subjective data when reduced to numeric values
> fully supports or confirms the hypothosis from which the representative
> beautiful pot was made; then the remaining task is to re-create the
> representation according to the data. This data is ultimately expressed
> in terms of monetary units accrued from the commodification of the
> object. To resist commodification is to perpetuate a myth and a sham
> grounded in an outmoded notion that "Art for Arts sake" is the highest
> art. The savy artist understands that commodification is a necessary
> condition within which the object is produced. It is in this
> understanding that freedom is grounded. The artist who produces works
> that resist or deny commodification creates an irresolvable dialectic
> which in Hegelian terms would deny the evolution of history. People began
> to understand this and cried "Art is dead. Art is dead. Its all been done
> before. Art is dead"." As Thomas turned the corner he glanced toward
> Gavin. The apprentice was curled up in the corner of the seat. Apparently
> sleeping. "They all do that in the beginning." He said.
>
List Moderator on thu 6 nov 97
"It would seem it is our tradition that would have us inside our selves
lookin outward for the beautiful pot. We can, at times, look out at this
landscape or that thing and see with our eyes and ears an impressive
beauty. But to loose ones self in the moment, so to speak. Like, the out
of us and the in of us are lost... unattached, unself-conscious and
un-subjective. "This is the beautiful pot." Undoing us..." Gavin watched
as the old man swept his arm from left to right above the horizon. He
then bent to wash his crooked hands in a summer creek that trickled below
the overpass. Yellow ochre clinging - to his nails. "Some great man once
said "You can't enter a river at the same place twice." and maybe its
true; but I would add that one can and does remember...until one can't.
I'm not a real person you know."
Gavin didn't know but he figured someone did...
dan Wilson on fri 21 nov 97
When the various elements of the Beautiful Pot are extended or dispersed
in time and space to such an extent that they become subjectively
indescernable as aesthetic objects or parts thereof; the aesthetic
experience becomes one of cumulative moments resulting in temporary periods
of understanding as the subject arrives at an aesthetic realization brought
about, not by concentrated stimulation by objects immediately sensible, but
by the accumulation of aesthetic stimulus perceived and recalled from
memory in-toto over time and space. Drink from the cup of life.
dan Wilson on wed 24 dec 97
The beautiful pot contains knowlege which is transmitted to culture in the
course of a transaction. It transmits a once clearly-rationaly stated idea;
the idea of beauty, which over time has atrophied to a state of intuition.
Hluch - Kevin A. on tue 13 jan 98
"My God, where am I?" Gavin wondered aloud. All of the people he
could see were gathered around something or someone in a room that
glittered reflected light and color. Off to the right, he noticed banks
of what appeared to be various television sets that blinkered what might
have been advertising messages. He could make out hand lotion, and images
of vehicles of a type he could not recognize. They did not even appear to
have wheels.
"Where AM I?" he said even louder this time. Someone from the
clustered group hushed him with fierce eyes and anger that rushed between
mechanical, whitish lips. What was THAT all about? Some type of weird
lipstick. He had seen some young people with weird make-up lately in the
studio but this was VERY extreme. His right eye seemed strange too. It
was if it were out of focus or focused independently of the other eye.
His clothes were also bizarre. It reminded him of a style he dimly
related to a David Byrne video he had seen years ago.
Slowly, Gavin began to notice the entire group of very similar
individuals had their attention fixed on what must have been a seated
person in the middle of the room. Unfortunately, all of the people in
the audience were considerably taller than he was. He could not make out
what the commotion was about, but whatever it was, it held the rapt
attention of every member of the group.
It seemed he had stumbled onto a group of tall tribesmen who
were in the midst of some kind of ceremony. Their height, clothes, and
facial features seemed so similar, so regimented - yet so different. And
those eyes, what was with those EYES?
While noticing the details of their clothes and features he
decided to try to get a closer look and see what was so riveting to the
group. He silently crept closer and closer. But he still could not see
what was at the vortex of all this very focused attention.
Suddenly, there was a slap and a whirr and all but one of these
creatures gasped and dropped to the floor on their knees. One figure stood
alone. Taller than the rest with even BIGGER clothes, this one looked at
Gavin squarely as if to compell him to his knees as well. Unfortunately,
the standing one was also in a position that still blocked his view.
But above him he noticed something startling. It was an electronic sign
that had the message....'The Twenty Thirde Century Welcolmes the New
Messiah'.
With a thundering voice the single standing tall one cried out,
ALL KNEEL TO THE ALMIGHTY ONE WHO CAN CREATE FORMS OF CLAY WITH ONLY HIS
HANDS! BEHOLD THE MIRACLE! NOW COMMENCE OUR PRAY TO HIM, YOUR GOD!
A new squeal of noise reverberated around the room with the light
and colors. To his ears, it seemed an unearthly din. As the noise slowly
trailed away the tall one also knelt.
Finally, he could see the focus of their attention: A fair haired
boy of perhaps sixteen of seventeen with a beatific smile on his face was
sitting at a potters wheel spinning clay clenched tightly between his
hands.
Instantly, Gavin bolted upright, his entire body drenched in
sweat. Gavin pushed back his heavy sodden covers. The red numerals of
his clock radio in his pitch black bedroom read 3:17.
"Christ, what a nightmare!", he muttered. Gavin squeezed
his eyes tight. It was as if by this action alone he could also squeeze
the nightmare from his brain. He fell back hard on his pillow and tried,
again, to sleep.
With that slump, Alice also shifted and murmured something
incomprehensible.
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
http://www.erols.com/mhluch/mudslinger.html
On Wed, 24 Dec 1997, dan Wilson wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> The beautiful pot contains knowlege which is transmitted to culture in the
> course of a transaction. It transmits a once clearly-rationaly stated idea;
> the idea of beauty, which over time has atrophied to a state of intuition.
>
Dan Wilson on sat 31 jan 98
"To perceive is not to understand. The pot that merely pleases or
stimulates the senses is not beautiful but is rather, decoration. The
beautiful pot must inform in addition to pleasing or stimulating the
senses. This is the foundation of the cultural transaction between artist
and patron."
Proudly announcing: "I do ceramic sculpture" and lookin off into that
space where life takes shape- And havin that potter say "Oh yea? So what
do you do for a living?" "Living? I'm an artist. I'm not supposed to think
about making a living. There's plenty of time for that later. I'm into the
beautiful you know?" And that potter just smiled. Well, it made him so damn
uncomfortable he picked up a bowl for a quick evaluation and announced in
an authoritative, academic tone: "This is pretty good. You should do more
of these. Reminds me of those... Well- explore- you know what I mean?" And
that potter saying "Nope - they don't sell. If they don't sell they're not
beautiful. Decisions about the beautiful aren't mine to make you see. All I
can do is get em in the ballpark. If they're not there at the end of the
day and my pockets are full of cash, they must have been beautiful. " Gavin
returned to his car shaking his head as his eyes began to focus on the
things that take shape at the periphery of his vision during the perceptual
moment.
Hluch - Kevin A. on sun 8 feb 98
Alice, throwing off the covers of their still damp bodies, was
curious about Gavin's nightmare. She asked, "What was that horrible dream
you had last night, honey?"
"Well, to tell you the truth," Gavin responded with frustration,
"I really can't remember. It was something about the future and the end
of it all and art had something to do with it, but I just can't remember
the exact point of it all, let alone understand it completely."
"I know what you mean," Alice quickly replied. "Sometimes I dream
and it's like a surrealistic painting by Miro or Picasso or Matta. Just
shapes and colors and textures and people talking and then this happens
and then that. I have no idea what it means but it really makes an impact.
Sometimes I wake up screaming too or even crying. But it doesn't really
make sense. I mean it has meaning but the emotional content is more
important than the conceptual sometimes. Come to think about it, that's
one of the weird things about art," Alice said.
Gavin couldn't help but notice Alice's soft, smooth thigh against
his and he momentarily lost his concentration. "Sorry, what did you say?"
"I'm saying that to perceive and understand is not always
possible. I'm not sure that we understand anything at all. I mean, I love
surrealist art but I don't know what the hell they are trying to say.
For that matter, looking at the ancient Cretan Snake Goddess sculpture
doesn't tell me anything about what those snakes mean or why her breasts
are hanging out of her dress. Those snakes are pretty phallic and she's
got great nipples but WHAT DOES IT MEAN?" Alice said with her voice
rising.
Gavin's ears definitely were pricked by Alice's last comment.
"Alice, my little sweetie poo, you have to understand that the
people of ancient Crete knew what the Snake Goddess meant. I mean, after
all, it was THEIR culture. If they didn't know what it meant, why would
they make the damn thing? Gavin said, will slowly rubbing his thigh
against hers.
"Gavin, are you saying? That art is supposed to be understood by
anybody who looks at it?" Alice asked with indignation in her voice.
"Well, I suppose it should," Gavin tentatively said.
"Then why the hell do you belong to the Avant Guard Potters Guild
where they make such horrid and meaningless ceramics?" she asked
with a sudden stiffening of her body.
With a sudden stiffening of his own, and with a hand that
meandered to her taut smooth stomach, Gavin replied, "Alice, why don't
we wait to discuss this in our class with Dr. Wilson? I'm sure hell have
all the answers."
As Alice felt Gavin's hand drift lower, she said with uncertain
confidence, "Well, that may be the best idea yet."
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
http://www.erols.com/mhluch/mudslinger.html
On Sat, 31 Jan 1998, Dan Wilson wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
>
>
> "To perceive is not to understand. The pot that merely pleases or
> stimulates the senses is not beautiful but is rather, decoration. The
> beautiful pot must inform in addition to pleasing or stimulating the
> senses. This is the foundation of the cultural transaction between artist
> and patron."
>
> Proudly announcing: "I do ceramic sculpture" and lookin off into that
> space where life takes shape- And havin that potter say "Oh yea? So what
> do you do for a living?" "Living? I'm an artist. I'm not supposed to think
> about making a living. There's plenty of time for that later. I'm into the
> beautiful you know?" And that potter just smiled. Well, it made him so damn
> uncomfortable he picked up a bowl for a quick evaluation and announced in
> an authoritative, academic tone: "This is pretty good. You should do more
> of these. Reminds me of those... Well- explore- you know what I mean?" And
> that potter saying "Nope - they don't sell. If they don't sell they're not
> beautiful. Decisions about the beautiful aren't mine to make you see. All I
> can do is get em in the ballpark. If they're not there at the end of the
> day and my pockets are full of cash, they must have been beautiful. " Gavin
> returned to his car shaking his head as his eyes began to focus on the
> things that take shape at the periphery of his vision during the perceptual
> moment.
>
George Mackie on mon 9 feb 98
Kevin - a good story, but whats the message? Sex takes precedence over
serious discussions of esthetic issues? I knew this when I was 14. George
At 10:36 PM 2/8/98 EST, Hluch - Kevin A. wrote:
>----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> Alice, throwing off the covers of their still damp bodies, was
>curious about Gavin's nightmare. She asked, "What was that horrible dream
>you had last night, honey?"
> "Well, to tell you the truth," Gavin responded with frustration,
>"I really can't remember. It was something about the future and the end
>of it all and art had something to do with it, but I just can't remember
>the exact point of it all, let alone understand it completely."
> "I know what you mean," Alice quickly replied. "Sometimes I dream
>and it's like a surrealistic painting by Miro or Picasso or Matta. Just
>shapes and colors and textures and people talking and then this happens
>and then that. I have no idea what it means but it really makes an impact.
>Sometimes I wake up screaming too or even crying. But it doesn't really
>make sense. I mean it has meaning but the emotional content is more
>important than the conceptual sometimes. Come to think about it, that's
>one of the weird things about art," Alice said.
> Gavin couldn't help but notice Alice's soft, smooth thigh against
>his and he momentarily lost his concentration. "Sorry, what did you say?"
> "I'm saying that to perceive and understand is not always
>possible. I'm not sure that we understand anything at all. I mean, I love
>surrealist art but I don't know what the hell they are trying to say.
>For that matter, looking at the ancient Cretan Snake Goddess sculpture
>doesn't tell me anything about what those snakes mean or why her breasts
>are hanging out of her dress. Those snakes are pretty phallic and she's
>got great nipples but WHAT DOES IT MEAN?" Alice said with her voice
>rising.
> Gavin's ears definitely were pricked by Alice's last comment.
> "Alice, my little sweetie poo, you have to understand that the
>people of ancient Crete knew what the Snake Goddess meant. I mean, after
>all, it was THEIR culture. If they didn't know what it meant, why would
>they make the damn thing? Gavin said, will slowly rubbing his thigh
>against hers.
> "Gavin, are you saying? That art is supposed to be understood by
>anybody who looks at it?" Alice asked with indignation in her voice.
> "Well, I suppose it should," Gavin tentatively said.
> "Then why the hell do you belong to the Avant Guard Potters Guild
>where they make such horrid and meaningless ceramics?" she asked
>with a sudden stiffening of her body.
> With a sudden stiffening of his own, and with a hand that
>meandered to her taut smooth stomach, Gavin replied, "Alice, why don't
>we wait to discuss this in our class with Dr. Wilson? I'm sure hell have
>all the answers."
> As Alice felt Gavin's hand drift lower, she said with uncertain
>confidence, "Well, that may be the best idea yet."
>
>
>
>
>Kevin A. Hluch
>102 E. 8th St.
>Frederick, MD 21701
>USA
>
>e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
>http://www.erols.com/mhluch/mudslinger.html
>
>On Sat, 31 Jan 1998, Dan Wilson wrote:
>
>> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
>>
>>
>> "To perceive is not to understand. The pot that merely pleases or
>> stimulates the senses is not beautiful but is rather, decoration. The
>> beautiful pot must inform in addition to pleasing or stimulating the
>> senses. This is the foundation of the cultural transaction between artist
>> and patron."
>>
>> Proudly announcing: "I do ceramic sculpture" and lookin off into that
>> space where life takes shape- And havin that potter say "Oh yea? So what
>> do you do for a living?" "Living? I'm an artist. I'm not supposed to think
>> about making a living. There's plenty of time for that later. I'm into the
>> beautiful you know?" And that potter just smiled. Well, it made him so damn
>> uncomfortable he picked up a bowl for a quick evaluation and announced in
>> an authoritative, academic tone: "This is pretty good. You should do more
>> of these. Reminds me of those... Well- explore- you know what I mean?" And
>> that potter saying "Nope - they don't sell. If they don't sell they're not
>> beautiful. Decisions about the beautiful aren't mine to make you see. All I
>> can do is get em in the ballpark. If they're not there at the end of the
>> day and my pockets are full of cash, they must have been beautiful. " Gavin
>> returned to his car shaking his head as his eyes began to focus on the
>> things that take shape at the periphery of his vision during the perceptual
>> moment.
>>
>
>
Lili Krakowski on thu 12 feb 98
In the Victorian house her grandfather had built under the influence
of William Morris, Dr Wilson was getting ready for the day. She set out
the dishes for her cats: all cherished little pots by cherished
potters--both dishes and potters somewhat the worse for wear after all
these years. And as she spooned out the cat food, and set it on the
counter--for it was much easier to have the cats jump on the counter than
for an old woman to stoop and put the dishes on the floor--she examined
each pot for what it, or the potter had bestowed on her life. Here was
a rough little 50 year old pot made by a Spanish peasant, who had had the
most amazingly glorious smile; that was High's dish. His twin brother
Falutin' had a small dish in a quiet oatmeal made by A Great but Not
Famous potter. A lovely porcelain given to her by a Great and Famous one
went to Frederick--named for Elder Frederick of the Shakers who had made
such astute remarks about The Beautiful. There was a Wildenhain bowl for
Lucie, and a Rie one for Frans, and a Hamada one for Gama. And when she
finished and her furry
companions were purring and munching away, she poured some coffee
into a Karnes mug and fixed some oatmeal for herself in a Cowles bowl.
She breakfasted slowly, looking out the window at the desperate winter
rain.
"Oh dear," she thought. "' The young in one another's arms' are leaping
out of bed right now to bring their eager young faces to class--where they
stare at me, and ask searching questions. ' What is perception?' What is
Art?' What is understanding?' Why not ask 'What is Life?', What is Love?'
How can I tell these dear young people that the journey has no fixed goal,
that there are no answers, any more than the same wave can hit the beach
twice? That beautiful boy Gavin, and that adorable Alice will be sitting
there, holding hands, patting each other whenever they think I cannot see
them, and I have to keep a straight and serious face., while inside I
laugh and want to scream to them, to all of them: "Go out, live, love,
work, follow your own destiny! All art history and art appreciation,
all criticism,comes AFTER not before the Creation."
In a few days there would be one of spectacular weather, the first real
day of Spring. And that morning she would slip her letter of resignation
under the College President's door, and she would dismiss all her classes
with these well-rehearsed words:
The answers to all your questions are within you. To find them you must
be willing to search, and it will be painful. You will have many
moments of doubt, and many moments of fear. But also joy. The anwers
are there. And how can you tell the beautiful from the rest? The same
as you pick the one you give your heart to for life out of the crowd!
The beautiful rips you open, breaks your heart, changes you forever,
never lets you rest. When you stand in a museum weeping over
a tiny square plate with a few white slip brush strokes under
a brooding celadon...those tears are an answer coming out of you."
She stacked her dishes in the sink, made sure the coffeemaker was off,
shrugged into her worn old tweed coat that in lovingly remembered times
had made a cosy blanket on a Greek hillside...smiled at her memories,
grabbed her briefcase and umbrella and headed out. To the students
she met she was this grumpy old woman on whom Important Grades leading to
Very Important Careers depended. She smiled to herself at the thought,
at the contrast of what is perceived and what is understood. And she
laughed aloud at the thought. Laughed harder because she knew the
President was watching, as every morning, surveying his domain out
of his window.
At that window the President turnedto the Provost, at his side:
"I don't know about Edith Wilson, I reallydon't know. Should
we do something about her?"
Edith Wilson went on laughing and, quite deliberately, stomped into a
puddle.
Lili Krakowski
Gavin Stairs on fri 13 feb 98
Dear Lili, even after they have been told that the answers lie within,
they will seek them elsewhere. It is this game we play, of growing through
youth to maturity, to old age. Sheakespeare had it as the seven ages. The
Hindus give it four. In any case, those "young in one another's arms" are
going to be taught. Far better that they be taught by one who knows that
what they need is to learn how to learn, than by one who thinks that all
the answers lie within ... her. Let Edith Wilson go on laughing and
stomping in the puddles, and teaching her students the unimportance of the
unfelt, and let her President and Provost worry themselves about What to Do
about Edith. Few of them, students or presidents, will cry over small
square plates, more's the pity. The students because they have not yet
found the still, empty place within, and the presidents because they have
papered it over long ago. We must find our own peace and contentment in
our own times, and be content to let others do the same in theirs.
Students are to be taught, even though what they learn is not on the
curriculum. And teachers are to teach, even though what they teach is not
what they are paid to do, nor even what they know, more often than not.
Gavin Stairs
Toronto, Canada
Dan Wilson on fri 13 feb 98
... "It was here that classical art came to an end and the post modern art
began. Post modern artists, understanding that the classical line of
inquiry had run its course declared that "Art is Dead" and began to take
what was left by the modernists: Line, shape and color and attempt a
reconstruction based on their explorations in meaning as it is developed on
a visual and linguistic level. The acceptence of the notion of a
subjective, non-rational, interpretation as co-existing along with but not
necessarily connected to objective reality led to a line of inquiry that
can be thought of as subjective space. This space occupied as it is with
with the phonemes of meaning, if you will, proved to be fertile ground for
artists as a number questions regarding how perception, cognition, memory,
emotional states and environmental/cultural contexts among other things can
affect the reception and understanding of works of art in the post modern
era. The upshot of this developement was that the artist eventually became
inextricably bound to scientific method. Thus fulfilling the promise and
marking the end of the enlightment. So, just where does the beautiful
pot fit in? And what is the role of the AGPG regarding aesthetic inquiry as
it relates to pottery? ... What is it Alice?" Alice set herself firmly and
asked the question without hesitation. "Why does the AGPG produce such
meaningless and ugly pots?" Gavin slid down in his seat so that it appeared
that the space next to Alice was empty. He really liked Alice but didn't
wan't Dr. Wilson to see him associated with anyone who would ask such a
foolish and embarassing question. Well Alice; I gather from the thrust of
your inquiry that you are a craftsperson and as such well grounded, so to
speak, in the sciences of daily life and usefulness. But- consider for a
moment how difficult it is for members of the AGPG who, like curious cats,
who upon reaching the bottom of the feeding bowls, turn toward their loving
owners and ask in their own way : "Meooow? Just what is the meaning of
this?" And consider for a moment your own endeavours and those of your kind
and how many failures exist, both functional and aesthetic, among the
multitude of objects produced. And how truely rare is the beautiful pot
when placed among them. And ask: "What is the meaning of this?" Should it
be any different for members of the AGPG? And further, should we not
encourage those of little experience or lesser abilities to continue their
quest even in the face of certain failure? If meaning must be had then let
it be had in the ancient Egyptain notion that the void was filled with
just enough space to accomodate us. And by extension, our objects. We must
respect the mechanism of creation. I think you would agree. Now on
thursday, Dr. Wilson spoke to the group in general, we'll discuss the
origins of the Avant Garde and its changing role in contemporary culture.
P.S.
"What do you get when you cross a post-modernist with a car salesman? You
get an offer you can't understand." A joke of unknown origin.
Hluch - Kevin A. on sun 1 mar 98
Seetha, the twenty third century artitron designed for maximum art
producing efficiency was feeling deeply distressed by his neural network
inputs. Having been designed by Art Expressions International his
capabilities were, indeed, wonderfully enhanced. As one of thousands of
artitron dupes he was exactly like his others. His ilk were created
from purified human genetic code. And those latent human capabilities,
rarely seen in strictly human historical antecedents, were further
amplified by miniature bio/electronic implants.
Curiously, the disturbing infobits he (if Seetha could be called
such a thing) was sensing were sourced in his own class... his own band.
The artitron neural network was putting out data of a strange
disturbance at sub-level 35. Those soft, supple sense impressions
emanating from his implanted receiver were so disturbing that he was
having trouble concentrating on his production schedule.
Working alone in his perceptually shielded work cubicle he became
more and more distracted by these random, reckless inputs. Unable to
contain himself further Seetha exclaimed aloud, "How can I do my work and
experience my moment of Un-time if I'm constantly being distracted by such
data?" He forced himself to train his right ocular receiver on
the ViewCom screen and tried to continue his work.
From another cubicle located in top-level 17, Rosin, the
Controller of the artitrons in his section had picked up Seetha's
distress. "Shit," she thought, "another one's picked it up." She looked
at her own ViewCom screen and zoomed to Seethas small pulsating
image. Slowly she moved her finger over the varied colors on her screen
until it hovered over a red, jagged icon.
Instantly, Seetha sensed it. He began to feel that sharp, painful
tingle that slowly grew in amplification until he could no longer focus
either his ocular receiver nor his gestate eye. "Yes, artwork, artwork,
artwork...more artwork, more commissions, more satisfied customers," he
repeated to himself as he often did when he became oscillated. His mantra
was working. Slowly, the pain subsided as quickly as it began. Gaining
control of himself he briefly mustered the flickered thought, "It can't be
true. Clay CAN NOT be made into art."
At top level 17 cubicle 38, Rosin was pleased as she viewed
Seetha's minuscule image on her ViewCom screen. "Damned straight," she
thought to herself, "If that freak don't hustle, I don't get paid."
Gently, she allowed her finger to drift gradually from the jagged red
icon.
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
http://www.erols.com/mhluch/mudslinger.html
On Sun, 8 Feb 1998, Hluch - Kevin A. wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> "Gavin, are you saying? That art is supposed to be understood by
> anybody who looks at it?" Alice asked with indignation in her voice.
> "Well, I suppose it should," Gavin tentatively said.
> "Then why the hell do you belong to the Avant Guard Potters Guild
> where they make such horrid and meaningless ceramics?" she asked
> with a sudden stiffening of her body.
> With a sudden stiffening of his own, and with a hand that
> meandered to her taut smooth stomach, Gavin replied, "Alice, why don't
> we wait to discuss this in our class with Dr. Wilson? I'm sure hell have
> all the answers."
> As Alice felt Gavin's hand drift lower, she said with uncertain
> confidence, "Well, that may be the best idea yet."
>
>
>
>
> Kevin A. Hluch
> 102 E. 8th St.
> Frederick, MD 21701
> USA
>
> e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
> http://www.erols.com/mhluch/mudslinger.html
>
> On Sat, 31 Jan 1998, Dan Wilson wrote:
>
> > ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> >
> >
> > "To perceive is not to understand. The pot that merely pleases or
> > stimulates the senses is not beautiful but is rather, decoration. The
> > beautiful pot must inform in addition to pleasing or stimulating the
> > senses. This is the foundation of the cultural transaction between artist
> > and patron."
> >
> > Proudly announcing: "I do ceramic sculpture" and lookin off into that
> > space where life takes shape- And havin that potter say "Oh yea? So what
> > do you do for a living?" "Living? I'm an artist. I'm not supposed to think
> > about making a living. There's plenty of time for that later. I'm into the
> > beautiful you know?" And that potter just smiled. Well, it made him so damn
> > uncomfortable he picked up a bowl for a quick evaluation and announced in
> > an authoritative, academic tone: "This is pretty good. You should do more
> > of these. Reminds me of those... Well- explore- you know what I mean?" And
> > that potter saying "Nope - they don't sell. If they don't sell they're not
> > beautiful. Decisions about the beautiful aren't mine to make you see. All I
> > can do is get em in the ballpark. If they're not there at the end of the
> > day and my pockets are full of cash, they must have been beautiful. " Gavin
> > returned to his car shaking his head as his eyes began to focus on the
> > things that take shape at the periphery of his vision during the perceptual
> > moment.
> >
>
Hluch - Kevin A. on mon 30 mar 98
Rosin detected a sudden, huge disturbance on Sub-Level 5. "Damn
it! The artitrons were at it again!" she had hissed, but she could not
contain the emotions that this cluster of artitrons was emanating.
"Surely, they're not allowed to have this kind of assembly at that
level!" she thought. She considered calling her Discipline Leader but it
was too late. While she had heard of this kind of thing, and had even
trained for it, she had never experienced it.
"Christ, look at the amplitude of that disturbance!" she exclaimed
while watching the colors of the detectors flicker into the cerulean blue
range. "What the fuck is happening down there?" she said as she swiftly
punched in the emergency input code.
Down at Sub-Level 5 the gathering of artitrons was a picture of
obedience. After all, they shared the same gnomes, shared the same
electro-technical implants that magnified their aesthetic capabilities
a hundred fold and were also bonded by the same extensive and intensive
binary training in art. All this benefited the Owner class exclusively.
For all intents and purposes, the artitrons were multiples of one and an
almost perfect one they were. And all were identically transfixed by the
scene before them.
Seetha seemed almost to pulsate with excitement. He had never
before abandoned his perceptually shielded neurowork station for such a
peril. With cunning and stealth that had surprised himself, he had
joined the secret assembly. His instincts had compelled him
to conntect with his brethren. And his instincts could not be denied.
Trained, designed, and bred to imagine all that could be
imagined, to create all that could be created and to summon into being
that which was aesthetically reluctant and reticent he was held in thrall
by what was before him. To be among his own like this was both reckless
and exhilarating. Even HE could not have imagined this!
The crystal meeting room was askew with images from the multiple
ComScreens that lined the top of each facet. Ignoring these images,
Seetha strained first with his gestate eye and then with his more
sensitive and powerful right ocular receiver for a closer, better look
at the activity taking place in the center of the room.
"Ugh!" Seetha grunted softly aloud. The loud simultaneous
shrieks of his fellow artitrons had startled him. This was the first
time he had been in such a throng and his defensive emotional reactions
had the better of him. After all, he WAS an artitron! The cacophony of
information was almost too much for the shy, sensitive creature to bear.
But it was the unbearable curiosity of the event that lead him here and it
would be this strength that would guide him to the revealing of the
knowledge that he intuitively felt must be discovered in their midst.
Suddenly, he heard a slap and a whir and all his fellow artitrons
dropped to the floor, save one, and a yelp of noise pierced the air.
Bending to his instincts, he too fell to his knees. Now he could see
nothing but the folded fabric of the artitron directly in front of him.
Shuddering with a fear that sprang from the dim recesses of what might be
called his soul he was afraid to look at what had entranced the rest. He
could only glance between his peers to an open space to his right. To his
horror, from the corner of his gestate eye, he caught sight of the many
uniforms of the Controllers gathered in the far, dim doorway.
Now, with both his amazing eyes frozen on the Controllers, he
slowly, surely, began to feel the steely, hard,cold, sharp twinge of
regret that was both real AND imagined.
"Oh why did I doubt thee, oh Master?" Seetha offered to the only
god he knew.
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
http://www.erols.com/mhluch/mudslinger.html
On Sun, 1 Mar 1998, Hluch - Kevin A. wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> artwork...more artwork, more commissions, more satisfied customers," he
> repeated to himself as he often did when he became oscillated. His mantra
> was working. Slowly, the pain subsided as quickly as it began. Gaining
> control of himself he briefly mustered the flickered thought, "It can't be
> true. Clay CAN NOT be made into art."
> At top level 17 cubicle 38, Rosin was pleased as she viewed
> Seetha's minuscule image on her ViewCom screen. "Damned straight," she
> thought to herself, "If that freak don't hustle, I don't get paid."
> Gently, she allowed her finger to drift gradually from the jagged red
> icon.
>
>
> Kevin A. Hluch
> 102 E. 8th St.
> Frederick, MD 21701
> USA
>
> e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
> http://www.erols.com/mhluch/mudslinger.html
>
> On Sun, 8 Feb 1998, Hluch - Kevin A. wrote:
>
> > ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> > "Gavin, are you saying? That art is supposed to be understood by
> > anybody who looks at it?" Alice asked with indignation in her voice.
> > "Well, I suppose it should," Gavin tentatively said.
> > "Then why the hell do you belong to the Avant Guard Potters Guild
> > where they make such horrid and meaningless ceramics?" she asked
> > with a sudden stiffening of her body.
> > With a sudden stiffening of his own, and with a hand that
> > meandered to her taut smooth stomach, Gavin replied, "Alice, why don't
> > we wait to discuss this in our class with Dr. Wilson? I'm sure hell have
> > all the answers."
> > As Alice felt Gavin's hand drift lower, she said with uncertain
> > confidence, "Well, that may be the best idea yet."
> >
> >
> >
> >
> > Kevin A. Hluch
> > 102 E. 8th St.
> > Frederick, MD 21701
> > USA
> >
> > e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
> > http://www.erols.com/mhluch/mudslinger.html
> >
> > On Sat, 31 Jan 1998, Dan Wilson wrote:
> >
> > > ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> > >
> > >
> > > "To perceive is not to understand. The pot that merely pleases or
> > > stimulates the senses is not beautiful but is rather, decoration. The
> > > beautiful pot must inform in addition to pleasing or stimulating the
> > > senses. This is the foundation of the cultural transaction between artist
> > > and patron."
> > >
> > > Proudly announcing: "I do ceramic sculpture" and lookin off into that
> > > space where life takes shape- And havin that potter say "Oh yea? So what
> > > do you do for a living?" "Living? I'm an artist. I'm not supposed to thin
> > > about making a living. There's plenty of time for that later. I'm into the
> > > beautiful you know?" And that potter just smiled. Well, it made him so dam
> > > uncomfortable he picked up a bowl for a quick evaluation and announced in
> > > an authoritative, academic tone: "This is pretty good. You should do more
> > > of these. Reminds me of those... Well- explore- you know what I mean?" An
> > > that potter saying "Nope - they don't sell. If they don't sell they're not
> > > beautiful. Decisions about the beautiful aren't mine to make you see. All
> > > can do is get em in the ballpark. If they're not there at the end of the
> > > day and my pockets are full of cash, they must have been beautiful. " Gavi
> > > returned to his car shaking his head as his eyes began to focus on the
> > > things that take shape at the periphery of his vision during the perceptua
> > > moment.
> > >
> >
>
Hluch - Kevin A. on mon 20 apr 98
In his pop culture class, Dr. Wilson, the visiting British
lecturer was extolling the virtues of the free market place as it related
to the change of stylistic forms found within the minor genre of pottery.
Alice and Gavin couldn't help but exchange wondering glances.
".... this being a natural evolution of the currently stagnant and
anachronistic form that previously provided the utensils for practically
every human being who had the fortune to traipse the earth. The
incredible industry and innovation of primitive peoples from every corner
of the globe was responsible for the generation of a monumental number of
works that were both useful and served each cultures socioeconomic,
practical, and aesthetic needs. But primarily, they made cookpots.
What you now see on the screen are relatively insignificant
examples, considering the broad scope of other more important cultural
artifacts created in other media, but nonetheless they will serve our
purposes here.
To your right, my left .... a piece from the Mayan culture, prior
to their destruction by the Spanish Conquistadors in the 16th Century and
the other screen, your right, my left... is the other example of a
somewhat interesting work executed by some African tribe from the central
part of the continent directly prior to its lengthy occupation by the very
brave and adventurous explorers from the north. (Wink, Nod!) The
very fact that these two cultures and their expressions have failed to
survive may be construed as their having an inherent weak link in a
broader, cultural sense. Extinction, of course, was the destiny
of many ancient peoples in the sense that their technological"savoir
faire" was not nearly developed enough to make a go of it when faced
with REAL competitive market forces. As a result, they now come to us in
the form of HISTORICITY.
Without dynamic, market-driven technological and industrial excess
capacities at their disposal these ancient mud-burners were consigned to
produce literally tons of pottery that, excuse the pun, now litter the
landscape from Katmandu to Kansas. Forthwith, we shall see in this brief
presentation and...frankly, time does not allow me to pursue with any
thoroughness this minor burp in cultural sycophancy since we have yet
to cover the ascension of film over theater and the triumph of performance
art over the plastic arts, we will note, however, the fabulous effect that
contemporary market forces have had on this now fading erstwhile corner of
cultural expression.
Of course, we have yet to discuss the affect of television day
time drama, sometimes derivisely labeled "soaps" on the the movement of
social values that are a manifestation of authentic contemporary cultural
expression.
However, we may say this: the significant evolutionary
progress that is currently being expressed in this ceramic cultural
sub-set is best exemplified by the slides you now see on the screen.
Here, your left, my right.....we have a recent work of Bennet Pean who now
makes pottery that commands prices that, literally, reach the highest
altitude of financial privilege. This particular work is valued in the
$40,000 range is, of course, worth every penny because the "invisible
hand" of the marketplace has worked its precious little magic on it.
That, I personally believe, is why it is called the "invisible hand".
It's so magical what happens in the market place!
Allow me to proceed. On your right, my left ....is a work by
Michael Lucre and this work of course reaches right into the very price
range that that we have been discussing...The range of respectability, of
value, of worth, of significance, of QUALITY. See how the spirit soars
when one views these magnificent works that simultaneously inspire and
educate!
Now we have seen in these four slides the transition of the genre
form a relatively lackluster past and one that is quite small and
circumscribed cross-culturally but one that has great promise if, indeed,
the leaders of this sub-category of expression can grab the reins of the
marketplace and promote this work in the fashion that will lead them from
the back waters of expression to the forefront of respectability in the
the fine art world. And this alone....."
Alice turning to Gavin whispered, "And this alone will ruin
the field and turn it into a cesspool of wannabees and posers."
Gavin, mocking Dr. Wilsons English accent said in a seeming nasal
tone, "Oh, quite right...Quite right my deah."
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
http://www.erols.com/mhluch/mudslinger.html
On Sun, 8 Feb 1998, Hluch - Kevin A. wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> With a sudden stiffening of his own, and with a hand that
> meandered to her taut smooth stomach, Gavin replied, "Alice, why don't
> we wait to discuss this in our class with Dr. Wilson? I'm sure hell have
> all the answers."
> As Alice felt Gavin's hand drift lower, she said with uncertain
> confidence, "Well, that may be the best idea yet."
>
>
>
>
> Kevin A. Hluch
> 102 E. 8th St.
> Frederick, MD 21701
> USA
>
> e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
> http://www.erols.com/mhluch/mudslinger.html
>
> On Sat, 31 Jan 1998, Dan Wilson wrote:
>
> > ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> >
> >
> > "To perceive is not to understand. The pot that merely pleases or
> > stimulates the senses is not beautiful but is rather, decoration. The
> > beautiful pot must inform in addition to pleasing or stimulating the
> > senses. This is the foundation of the cultural transaction between artist
> > and patron."
> >
> > Proudly announcing: "I do ceramic sculpture" and lookin off into that
> > space where life takes shape- And havin that potter say "Oh yea? So what
> > do you do for a living?" "Living? I'm an artist. I'm not supposed to think
> > about making a living. There's plenty of time for that later. I'm into the
> > beautiful you know?" And that potter just smiled. Well, it made him so damn
> > uncomfortable he picked up a bowl for a quick evaluation and announced in
> > an authoritative, academic tone: "This is pretty good. You should do more
> > of these. Reminds me of those... Well- explore- you know what I mean?" And
> > that potter saying "Nope - they don't sell. If they don't sell they're not
> > beautiful. Decisions about the beautiful aren't mine to make you see. All I
> > can do is get em in the ballpark. If they're not there at the end of the
> > day and my pockets are full of cash, they must have been beautiful. " Gavin
> > returned to his car shaking his head as his eyes began to focus on the
> > things that take shape at the periphery of his vision during the perceptual
> > moment.
> >
>
Hluch - Kevin A. on wed 3 jun 98
Finally, Dr. Wilson concluded his lecture. And it was just in
the nick of time since Alice had noticed Gavin's eyes slowly crossing and
his eyelids drooping. As they arrived at the studio both Alice and Gavin
could again breath deep the stale, musty, dust-sweetened odor of the
ceramics studio.
"Now this is more like it, none of that sodden aesthetic crap that
Wilson is so full of," Gavin blurted as his eyes studied Alice's lovely
derriere as she bent over to pick up a bag of clay.
"Why do you say that? I thought YOU were the one who enjoyed
talking about art," Alice responded.
"Well, you know, I've concluded there really isn't much you can do
with that type of information. All those big, highfalutin words really
don't mean a damn thing to me. Does all that talk make my ceramic work any
better? Is it going to get me a job after I get my BFA? Are those words
going to get me gallery representation?
HELL NO, that's the answer. What's the use if I can drop five
dollar words by the dozen? What the hell does the "circumscribed,
sub-category of aesthetic expression" or whatever, mean anyway? Will
that get me in any shows? The vacuous lecture format keeps Wilson in the
teaching business and that's about it. Notice that he got a hell of a
nice exchange grant to spew this crap at us," whined Gavin with his eyes
still glued to Alice's delicious butt as she leaned into the clay at the
wedging table.
"What, pray tell do you want, anyway?" asked Alice. "After all, we
ARE in school and were SUPPOSED to be learning about these things," she
reminded him as tiny beads of perspiration blossomed from that
lovely space between her upper lip and her nose.
Dimly aware that he should be beginning his work at the wheel
instead of being mesmerized by the rocking motions of Alice's body Gavin
said, "I want news I can use! You know, like the stuff that the Avant
Garde Potters Guild puts out."
Alice stopped her wedging ,wheeled in her tracks and with her
ample chest heaving slightly shot back, "Do you mean you still listen to
those idiots?"
"Listen," Gavin said. "Do YOU mean to say that Lana Filchson is
not right on the money when she says... and I quote:'Look at art books and
rampantly steal ideas but change the size relationship of the parts,
combine uniquely different elements that inspire you, or make up a steal
and change exercise for yourself'? Now THAT'S information I can really
exploit."
"Not only do I think that's dumb but it's also plagiarism, you
idiot. If you can't get a way with that in English class how do you
figure you can get away with it in ART class?" Alice asked.
"Listen, if you'd been dwelling in valley of aesthetic death as
long as me, you'd do anything to crawl out of that hole too. It's really
black down there baby," Gavin disclosed. "Oh, by the way sweetie-poo, I
kinda like the way you used that figure on that slab. Would you mind if
I just down-sized that a bit and used it in my own work?"
Alice, with small,damp rings of sweat beginning to darken her
sleeveless blouse,drilled him with her cool grey-blue eyes and retorted
hotly, "You're a shithead Gavin...go steal your ideas from somebody else!"
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
http://www.erols.com/mhluch/mudslinger.html
On Mon, 20 Apr 1998, Hluch - Kevin A. wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> Now we have seen in these four slides the transition of the genre
> form a relatively lackluster past and one that is quite small and
> circumscribed cross-culturally but one that has great promise if, indeed,
> the leaders of this sub-category of expression can grab the reins of the
> marketplace and promote this work in the fashion that will lead them from
> the back waters of expression to the forefront of respectability in the
> the fine art world. And this alone....."
> Alice turning to Gavin whispered, "And this alone will ruin
> the field and turn it into a cesspool of wannabees and posers."
> Gavin, mocking Dr. Wilsons English accent said in a seeming nasal
> tone, "Oh, quite right...Quite right my deah."
>
>
> On Sun, 8 Feb 1998, Hluch - Kevin A. wrote:
>
> > ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> > With a sudden stiffening of his own, and with a hand that
> > meandered to her taut smooth stomach, Gavin replied, "Alice, why don't
> > we wait to discuss this in our class with Dr. Wilson? I'm sure hell have
> > all the answers."
> > As Alice felt Gavin's hand drift lower, she said with uncertain
> > confidence, "Well, that may be the best idea yet."
> >
> >
> >
> >
> > Kevin A. Hluch
> > 102 E. 8th St.
> > Frederick, MD 21701
> > USA
> >
> > e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
> > http://www.erols.com/mhluch/mudslinger.html
> >
> > On Sat, 31 Jan 1998, Dan Wilson wrote:
> >
> > > ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> > >
> > >
> > > "To perceive is not to understand. The pot that merely pleases or
> > > stimulates the senses is not beautiful but is rather, decoration. The
> > > beautiful pot must inform in addition to pleasing or stimulating the
> > > senses. This is the foundation of the cultural transaction between artist
> > > and patron."
> > >
> > > Proudly announcing: "I do ceramic sculpture" and lookin off into that
> > > space where life takes shape- And havin that potter say "Oh yea? So what
> > > do you do for a living?" "Living? I'm an artist. I'm not supposed to thin
> > > about making a living. There's plenty of time for that later. I'm into the
> > > beautiful you know?" And that potter just smiled. Well, it made him so dam
> > > uncomfortable he picked up a bowl for a quick evaluation and announced in
> > > an authoritative, academic tone: "This is pretty good. You should do more
> > > of these. Reminds me of those... Well- explore- you know what I mean?" An
> > > that potter saying "Nope - they don't sell. If they don't sell they're not
> > > beautiful. Decisions about the beautiful aren't mine to make you see. All
> > > can do is get em in the ballpark. If they're not there at the end of the
> > > day and my pockets are full of cash, they must have been beautiful. " Gavi
> > > returned to his car shaking his head as his eyes began to focus on the
> > > things that take shape at the periphery of his vision during the perceptua
> > > moment.
> > >
> >
>
Hluch - Kevin A. on tue 16 jun 98
Ironically, Seetha was a non-gendered, non progenitor of a species
full of loose, unbridled and often times uncontrollable passions. This
aspect of Seetha's character was what was responsible for the most recent
mess.
He,she, it was not designed for procreation in a narrow genetic
sense, for Seetha had no genitals, but his design was for creation in the
broadest aesthetic sense. By the twenty third century the problems of
genetic production of the human species had been resolved. All of the
keys of the designed human life had been had been patented and
institutionalized by the Owners.
The secrets of the Knowledge were sealed in the vaults of the Geknown
Memorial in the Temple of Technocronics. Millions made the pilgrimage
yearly to the site which had been recently erected on the Mall in the
Free City of New Jerusalem.
It was those liberated passions, disconnected from the base human
compulsion for copulation which had driven mankind for millennia that
were embodied in the wonderful, pure tool known as Seetha. The Owners had
finally patented the artist and his persona. This discovery and the
ensuing blueprint produced a tireless, productive and passionate being
whose soul was of questionable provenance but whose work ethic was not.
Perhaps this creature possessed no soul at all. But for this
class of deus ex machina, art work was the be all and end all. Art was
everything Seetha knew and all he could imagine. To create art with the
passion of an artitron was something the world had not seen before. The
ceramics that sprung from the Insta-Ovens direct from his ViewCom screen
were a sight to behold. And many paid dearly for those wonderful
creations.
Seetha's class truly represented a step forward and upward in the
evolution of artistic expression for human kind. Art Expressions
International Corporation was very proud, and rightfully so, of its
magnificent breakthrough. The latent creative potential residing in the
human species was now unleashed by Corporate for the benefit of Ownerkind.
And they used every tool available to protect their prize.
At Sub-Level 5 Seetha knew that the lure of his private neural
network had beckoned him to an extremely dangerous setting. He was
illegally outside his unit and far beyond his perceptually shielded
workstation. He had not resisted the temptation of the Beckoning and was
now in a hive of artitrons without authorization. The hive was topped
out on the prescribed limits of the emote scale and he had no
understanding of what was happening or why. The only whiff of
understanding he had was that the swarm of Controllers who were gathering
in the far, dim doorway to his right had taken on a more menacing air.
He could now see the ready lights blinking on their weapons.
With another slap, whir and almost simultaneous shriek from his
gathered artitron brethren he felt he might explode from fear and dread
at making such an awful mistake. Instead, in a pathetic high pitched
voice he murmured aloud in the ensuing quiet, "Oh, WHY did I doubt thee
Master?"
From the circle of the congregation in the center described by an
ancient wheel came a strong, sweet, innocent voice that resonded, "What
did you say my son?"
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
http://www.erols.com/mhluch/mudslinger.html
On Mon, 30 Mar 1998, Hluch - Kevin A. wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> Suddenly, he heard a slap and a whir and all his fellow artitrons
> dropped to the floor, save one, and a yelp of noise pierced the air.
> Bending to his instincts, he too fell to his knees. Now he could see
> nothing but the folded fabric of the artitron directly in front of him.
> Shuddering with a fear that sprang from the dim recesses of what might be
> called his soul he was afraid to look at what had entranced the rest. He
> could only glance between his peers to an open space to his right. To his
> horror, from the corner of his gestate eye, he caught sight of the many
> uniforms of the Controllers gathered in the far, dim doorway.
> Now, with both his amazing eyes frozen on the Controllers, he
> slowly, surely, began to feel the steely, hard,cold, sharp twinge of
> regret that was both real AND imagined.
> "Oh why did I doubt thee, oh Master?" Seetha offered to the only
> god he knew.
>
>
> On Sun, 1 Mar 1998, Hluch - Kevin A. wrote:
>
> > ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> > artwork...more artwork, more commissions, more satisfied customers," he
> > repeated to himself as he often did when he became oscillated. His mantra
> > was working. Slowly, the pain subsided as quickly as it began. Gaining
> > control of himself he briefly mustered the flickered thought, "It can't be
> > true. Clay CAN NOT be made into art."
> > At top level 17 cubicle 38, Rosin was pleased as she viewed
> > Seetha's minuscule image on her ViewCom screen. "Damned straight," she
> > thought to herself, "If that freak don't hustle, I don't get paid."
> > Gently, she allowed her finger to drift gradually from the jagged red
> > icon.
> >
> >
> > On Sun, 8 Feb 1998, Hluch - Kevin A. wrote:
> >
> > > ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> > > "Gavin, are you saying? That art is supposed to be understood by
> > > anybody who looks at it?" Alice asked with indignation in her voice.
> > > "Well, I suppose it should," Gavin tentatively said.
> > > "Then why the hell do you belong to the Avant Guard Potters Guild
> > > where they make such horrid and meaningless ceramics?" she asked
> > > with a sudden stiffening of her body.
> > > With a sudden stiffening of his own, and with a hand that
> > > meandered to her taut smooth stomach, Gavin replied, "Alice, why don't
> > > we wait to discuss this in our class with Dr. Wilson? I'm sure hell have
> > > all the answers."
> > > As Alice felt Gavin's hand drift lower, she said with uncertain
> > > confidence, "Well, that may be the best idea yet."
> > >
> > >
Alison Hamilton on thu 18 jun 98
I was wondering how long it would take Seetha et al. to be lured back to
Clayart by this art vs. craft discussion. Welcome back!
Alison Hamilton
now back in Dorset, ON on a little tiny lake in Muskoka where Emma, the
one legged duck and her consort have also returned for another summer.
Kevin A. Hluch wrote:
>
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> Ironically, Seetha was a non-gendered, non progenitor of a species
> full of loose, unbridled and often times uncontrollable passions. This
> aspect of Seetha's character was what was responsible for the most recent
> mess.
> He,she, it was not designed for procreation in a narrow genetic
> sense, for Seetha had no genitals, but his design was for creation in the
> broadest aesthetic sense. By the twenty third century the problems of
> genetic production of the human species had been resolved. All of the
> keys of the designed human life had been had been patented and
> institutionalized by the Owners.
> The secrets of the Knowledge were sealed in the vaults of the Geknown
> Memorial in the Temple of Technocronics. Millions made the pilgrimage
> yearly to the site which had been recently erected on the Mall in the
> Free City of New Jerusalem.
> It was those liberated passions, disconnected from the base human
> compulsion for copulation which had driven mankind for millennia that
> were embodied in the wonderful, pure tool known as Seetha. The Owners had
> finally patented the artist and his persona. This discovery and the
> ensuing blueprint produced a tireless, productive and passionate being
> whose soul was of questionable provenance but whose work ethic was not.
> Perhaps this creature possessed no soul at all. But for this
> class of deus ex machina, art work was the be all and end all. Art was
> everything Seetha knew and all he could imagine. To create art with the
> passion of an artitron was something the world had not seen before. The
> ceramics that sprung from the Insta-Ovens direct from his ViewCom screen
> were a sight to behold. And many paid dearly for those wonderful
> creations.
> Seetha's class truly represented a step forward and upward in the
> evolution of artistic expression for human kind. Art Expressions
> International Corporation was very proud, and rightfully so, of its
> magnificent breakthrough. The latent creative potential residing in the
> human species was now unleashed by Corporate for the benefit of Ownerkind.
> And they used every tool available to protect their prize.
> At Sub-Level 5 Seetha knew that the lure of his private neural
> network had beckoned him to an extremely dangerous setting. He was
> illegally outside his unit and far beyond his perceptually shielded
> workstation. He had not resisted the temptation of the Beckoning and was
> now in a hive of artitrons without authorization. The hive was topped
> out on the prescribed limits of the emote scale and he had no
> understanding of what was happening or why. The only whiff of
> understanding he had was that the swarm of Controllers who were gathering
> in the far, dim doorway to his right had taken on a more menacing air.
> He could now see the ready lights blinking on their weapons.
> With another slap, whir and almost simultaneous shriek from his
> gathered artitron brethren he felt he might explode from fear and dread
> at making such an awful mistake. Instead, in a pathetic high pitched
> voice he murmured aloud in the ensuing quiet, "Oh, WHY did I doubt thee
> Master?"
> From the circle of the congregation in the center described by an
> ancient wheel came a strong, sweet, innocent voice that resonded, "What
> did you say my son?"
>
> Kevin A. Hluch
> 102 E. 8th St.
> Frederick, MD 21701
> USA
>
> e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
> http://www.erols.com/mhluch/mudslinger.html
>
> On Mon, 30 Mar 1998, Hluch - Kevin A. wrote:
>
> > ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> > Suddenly, he heard a slap and a whir and all his fellow artitrons
> > dropped to the floor, save one, and a yelp of noise pierced the air.
> > Bending to his instincts, he too fell to his knees. Now he could see
> > nothing but the folded fabric of the artitron directly in front of him.
> > Shuddering with a fear that sprang from the dim recesses of what might be
> > called his soul he was afraid to look at what had entranced the rest. He
> > could only glance between his peers to an open space to his right. To his
> > horror, from the corner of his gestate eye, he caught sight of the many
> > uniforms of the Controllers gathered in the far, dim doorway.
> > Now, with both his amazing eyes frozen on the Controllers, he
> > slowly, surely, began to feel the steely, hard,cold, sharp twinge of
> > regret that was both real AND imagined.
> > "Oh why did I doubt thee, oh Master?" Seetha offered to the only
> > god he knew.
> >
> >
> > On Sun, 1 Mar 1998, Hluch - Kevin A. wrote:
> >
> > > ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> > > artwork...more artwork, more commissions, more satisfied customers," he
> > > repeated to himself as he often did when he became oscillated. His mantra
> > > was working. Slowly, the pain subsided as quickly as it began. Gaining
> > > control of himself he briefly mustered the flickered thought, "It can't be
> > > true. Clay CAN NOT be made into art."
> > > At top level 17 cubicle 38, Rosin was pleased as she viewed
> > > Seetha's minuscule image on her ViewCom screen. "Damned straight," she
> > > thought to herself, "If that freak don't hustle, I don't get paid."
> > > Gently, she allowed her finger to drift gradually from the jagged red
> > > icon.
> > >
> > >
> > > On Sun, 8 Feb 1998, Hluch - Kevin A. wrote:
> > >
> > > > ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> > > > "Gavin, are you saying? That art is supposed to be understood by
> > > > anybody who looks at it?" Alice asked with indignation in her voice.
> > > > "Well, I suppose it should," Gavin tentatively said.
> > > > "Then why the hell do you belong to the Avant Guard Potters Guil
> > > > where they make such horrid and meaningless ceramics?" she asked
> > > > with a sudden stiffening of her body.
> > > > With a sudden stiffening of his own, and with a hand that
> > > > meandered to her taut smooth stomach, Gavin replied, "Alice, why don
> > > > we wait to discuss this in our class with Dr. Wilson? I'm sure hell hav
> > > > all the answers."
> > > > As Alice felt Gavin's hand drift lower, she said with uncertain
> > > > confidence, "Well, that may be the best idea yet."
> > > >
> > > >
Hluch - Kevin A. on tue 23 jun 98
"Listen Alice," Gavin shot back, "I'm only trying to get at the
truth here. And the only way you get at the truth is to get people to sit
up and take notice. For example, it may be wonderful that the Vikings
discovered America a thousand years before Columbus but did anyone KNOW
about that particular truth? The answer is a big fat NO. Therefore,
that particular truth was worthless. And in the fine art culture real
truth is WORTHLESS until you get the word out. And that's true even if
your work looks like thrown dog turds. As a matter of fact, its better if
art work DOES look like thrown dog turds because then everybody sits up
and they DO take notice. It's called MARKETING Alice.
And, by the way, I'm not trying to please ANDYBODY with my work, just
myself. For that matter, my work doesnt even HAVE to please ME. As far as
my art is concerned it was best said ages ago: "I am the way, the truth
and the light.' Every great artist is truly a prophet and I intend to
fill those shoes too."
"You know Gavin, sometimes I don't know if you're a megalomaniac
or simply an idiot," Alice responded. "Are you trying to tell me that
the work of Pean, Lucre, Milkous, Woodenman, Berguson, Kushing, Zoldner
and Ritz are all revealing the TRUTH? Or is it just little parts of the
Truth that they are favoring us with? Or is it the whole, by god, Truth
and nothing but the Truth? And if the Truth can be subdivided, can it be
subdivided even further? Isn't a Sung dynasty bowl also part of the
Truth? How many times do you subdivide the Truth until you get to the
point when there's no Truth left at all?
With 6 billion people in the world maybe we all have a little
piece of it. It seems to me that if the Truth is out there then as the
centuries pass maybe were getting further and further away from it!
Technically, I think you're confusing things that are novel and
superficially unique with the Truth. And, by the way, I must say you're
a slave to that Patronage, Promotion, Publicity, Chutzpah game too," she
fiercely responded.
"That's just such a load of crap! And you know it!" Gavin reacted
with the first hint of real anger flaring in his eyes.
Darkly, Gavin thought, "Her knockers are great but this
know-it-all bitch is not going to last.
Kevin A. Hluch
102 E. 8th St.
Frederick, MD 21701
USA
e-mail: kahluch@umd5.umd.edu
http://www.erols.com/mhluch/mudslinger.html
On Wed, 3 Jun 1998, Hluch - Kevin A. wrote:
> ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> "Listen, if you'd been dwelling in valley of aesthetic death as
> long as me, you'd do anything to crawl out of that hole too. It's really
> black down there baby," Gavin disclosed. "Oh, by the way sweetie-poo, I
> kinda like the way you used that figure on that slab. Would you mind if
> I just down-sized that a bit and used it in my own work?"
> Alice, with small,damp rings of sweat beginning to darken her
> sleeveless blouse,drilled him with her cool grey-blue eyes and retorted
> hotly, "You're a shithead Gavin...go steal your ideas from somebody else!"
>
> On Mon, 20 Apr 1998, Hluch - Kevin A. wrote:
>
> > ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> > Now we have seen in these four slides the transition of the genre
> > form a relatively lackluster past and one that is quite small and
> > circumscribed cross-culturally but one that has great promise if, indeed,
> > the leaders of this sub-category of expression can grab the reins of the
> > marketplace and promote this work in the fashion that will lead them from
> > the back waters of expression to the forefront of respectability in the
> > the fine art world. And this alone....."
> > Alice turning to Gavin whispered, "And this alone will ruin
> > the field and turn it into a cesspool of wannabees and posers."
> > Gavin, mocking Dr. Wilsons English accent said in a seeming nasal
> > tone, "Oh, quite right...Quite right my deah."
> >
> >
> > On Sun, 8 Feb 1998, Hluch - Kevin A. wrote:
> >
> > > ----------------------------Original message----------------------------
> > > With a sudden stiffening of his own, and with a hand that
> > > meandered to her taut smooth stomach, Gavin replied, "Alice, why don't
> > > we wait to discuss this in our class with Dr. Wilson? I'm sure hell have
> > > all the answers."
> > > As Alice felt Gavin's hand drift lower, she said with uncertain
> > > confidence, "Well, that may be the best idea yet."
> > >
Dan Wilson on mon 29 jun 98
I was out mowin the back yard yesterday. I try to do that once a
week or so, depending on the conditions. Sometimes it all gets mowed.
Sometimes little places get left untended. Now I had decided yesterday that
I'd make a Raku kiln out of a piece of sewer -pipe I'd drug home a few
years ago and used in various ways and named various things. Like "Planter"
when it was inside the house and "Doorstop" and even tried to call it a
"Sculpture" once but that didn't realy work cause no matter how I arranged
it it still looked like a sewer-pipe. That collar that flares out on one
end kind of froze its identity. It didn't matter how it was oriented. It
was a sewer-pipe and that all it was. Until this spring.
This spring it became an experiment in "Greenbergian Reduction" (I
don't really know what that means but thats what it was just the same).
This was the only time it became something other than a sewer-pipe in my
mind. I set it on end intending to remove the flare by chipping away at it
with a set of stone carving tools I'd picked up back in the early eighties
when I was carving signs and symbols in large stones out on the banks of
the river. Anyway this theory I was exploring involved the relationship of
the figure to the ground and how if the object is reduced to its essences
it becomes the ground indistinguishable. I chipped away at that pipe for
four days and the journey, as you might guess, led me down many potentialy
usefull intellectual pathways. After four days the collar disappeared and
reappeard as a pile of rubble. (In most peoples eyes. But not to mine.)
I must admit that sewer-pipe did start to look more like a
sculpture now that its collar was gone but my memory of it as a sewer-pipe
persisted so I put it away before I started to do something else to it like
paint it or add something to it. I couldn't stand the thought of reversing
the process and dealing with composition, I guess.
Now I got off track here. I'm meant to tell you about how I was mowin the
lawn and had uncovered my self portrait. It's a bunch of bricks lined up in
a double row just like you'd see in a kiln building book describing how to
lay that first course of bricks. My wife walked up just as I was sweeping
the last of the dirt and grass off the surface and said "Whats that." I was
at a loss for words at just that moment so I said: "Oh, I just uncovered my
self portrait." "Hmm." she said as she walked over to her little garden.
Her sunflowers are two feet tall now.
I know you were expecting something clever or maybe profound or
meaningful here so... The beautiful pot to my way of thinking is sometimes
indistinguishable from the ground and may at times go un-noticed as we tend
to the garden or mow the lawn.
Dan Wilson
Dan Wilson on tue 30 jun 98
If the modern era can be thought of as "progressive" then doing the "most
good for the greatest number of people" is the best way to ensure progress.
When we, in our artistic lives, forget the true purpose of our work (That
is to enrich the lives of others) and simply please ourselves we have
fallen short of the spirit of the modern. The beautiful pot is thouroughly
modern in spirit. It is dedicated to progress and enriches the lives of the
greatest number of people. Its configuration is superfluous if it fulfills
this function.
Dan Wilson
Gary Huddleston on mon 27 jul 98
Sorry Dan, Disagree. The artist surely is one who must work outside
the vacuum of cultural narrowmindedness, but with all of the billions =
and billions of bits of information available to learn, at some point, =
there becomes a necessity to focus on a specific. I can think of many
many examples where focus and specialization are inherintly and absolutl=
ely
necessary. Would you want a general medical practitioner perform
a heart transplant on you?
Maybe I missed your point???
----------
> Dan Wilson
>
Dan Wilson on mon 27 jul 98
Focus
Focus was a valuable tool at one time but no longer a necessity. The age of
specialization is past. What is required now is a multidisciplinary,
continuously evolving and subjective world view which accounts for cultural
diversity and accomodates rapid change. In this way we evolve from the
specific to the general. Toward a unified world culture.
Dan Wilson
Dan Wilson on tue 28 jul 98
Gary,
>Sorry Dan, Disagree. The artist surely is one who must work outside
> the vacuum of cultural....
Quite all right to disagree. Lets see, let me rephrase my original post...
If the artists role is to "describe things" then the demand of focus is
only necessary to the degree that the description requires. Specialization,
in terms of being in possesion of body of unique emperical knowlege, is not
a requirement. On the otherhand, if the artists role is not to describe
things but to make things, then focus on that specific body of knowledge
pertaining to the objects manufacture is necessary to fulfill the
requirements of the manufacturing aesthetic.
and further...
World history can be characterized (rightly or wrongly) as the
evolution of human culture, when taken as an organic whole, from the
specific to the general. As cultures with divergent characters co-mingle,
the ethos of each flowing toward the other, a form of negotiation takes
place resulting in a transaction in which the fundamental character of each
changes to accomodate the other. This transaction is mediated by the
beautiful pot (and other art forms) and is reflected in its form and
content.
We are currently undergoing this process of negotiation (to varying
degrees) on a world wide basis as technology has enabled us to compress the
time and distance between between cultural transactions. The result is that
art forms are becomming increasingly less cultural-centric and non-specific
as simultaneous access to the complete range of currently existing cultures
and their expressions is becomming possible. The artist who describes
things and accepts the notion that art is a reflection of the culture in
which they live and that a unified world culture is an historical
inevitability, strives at this point in history, to unfocus in order to
draw on the complete range of cultural resources available to them. The
goal is transcendence, a condition in which origin cannot be determined and
existence is autonomous.
There. Thats much better.. :-)
Dan Wilson, If this was easy I wouldn't do it.
Sandy Sater on wed 29 jul 98
----------------------------Original message----------------------------
To dan wilson fairly word y you should work for an art magazine. When
do you have time to work a fond aloha in english . I just have a problem
with verbosity in place of action.
Dan Wilson on thu 30 jul 98
Hi Sandy,
Having problems is o.k. This problem you have though... is it
debilitating? I mean how does it affect you? Does it make you want to jump
up and shout "hallelujah!" at odd times?
Now, you should know that the beautiful pot is a complex, living, organic
system that includes, among other things, a simultaneous existence in two
worlds. Why, I was just going to explain this in terms of form and content
using ideas developed by the Gestalt psychologists back in the 40's. They
had quite an effect on artists of that time from what I gather. You must
admit that tackling a subject that complex requires more that a few words
to clarify. You must also admit that some potters have active minds and
though you may not be one of them, they just don't go away because you
don't like the ideas or the form their pots may take.
Dan Wilson, wishing you a speedy recovery.
>----------------------------Original message----------------------------
>To dan wilson fairly word y you should work for an art magazine. When
>do you have time to work a fond aloha in english . I just have a problem
>with verbosity in place of action.
(Kathe Umemoto) on thu 30 jul 98
In a message dated 7/29/98 6:50:22 AM Mountain Daylight Time, dwilson@NAS.COM
writes:
<< On the otherhand, if the artists role is not to describe
things but to make things >>
Hi Dan,
I've got to take issue with what you're saying, though I am not exactly sure
why. I guess there are a couple of premises that I question:
- that there is a dicotomy between "making things" and describing things". It
seems to me that each is the flip side of the other - that in making
something, you are describing something ie. about being human, specifically
[the personal, often called "style"] or generally [we have to drink...] and in
describing, you are shaping [making] the "world".
draw on the complete range of cultural resources available to them. The
goal is transcendence, a condition in which origin cannot be determined and
existence is autonomous.>
- I'm not sure about this idea of transcendence - it bothers me. Something
about it brings K-Mart to mind. If origin cannot be determined and existence
is autonomous, then...what have we got?
And there is this little voice in me that agitatedly whispers -' there is all
this stuff out there...define!...focus! '
as simultaneous access to the complete range of currently existing cultures
and their expressions is becomming possible>
It seems to me that the idea is to not have the net so big that the fish gets
away...
I have enjoyed thinking about the ideas you brought up and I thank you. I seem
to want to end with this quote:
"The exciting movement in nature is not progress, advance, but expansion and
contraction, the opening and shutting of the eye, the hand, the heart, the
mind...We throw our arms wide in a gesture of religion to the universe, we
close them around a person. We explore and adventure for a while and then draw
in to consolidate our gains." - Robert Frost
Kathe, who looks back over all these words and wants to apologise for going on
so...
Dan Wilson on thu 30 jul 98
You probably know that the Gestalt psychologists had quite an
influence on some fine artists and probably some potters too. The main idea
of Gestalt theory concerned form. They decided that form exists in both
nature and perceiver. That as one perceives an object it takes a
psychological form that is isomorphic (identical to the perceived object)
and that it persists independently of the stimulating object, becoming a
property of the perceiver. Doesn't this remind you of Plato or Aristotle?
(I always laugh when my 12 year old daughter raises her delicate little
hands, striking that meditative pose, palms up and says: "Become the object
daddy.") Now in addition to this idea that an object exists in nature and
perceiver simultaneously, they proposed that an objects existence within
the perceiver, so to speak, is always whole. That some mechanism works to
transcend the relationships of a perceived objects parts, to unify them.
The term "The whole is greater than the sum of its parts." expresses this
idea. It may even be related to the theory of Organic Unity. In my search
for beauty and what constitutes the beautiful pot I've done a little
research along these lines just to satisfy myself that the notion of beauty
has at its foundation, unity. If you're interested, surf on over to my web
page (http://www.nas.com/~dwilson/three.html) where I've posted for a few
days a photo of a piece I did last year sometime that explores this and
other issues.
Dan Wilson
Dan Wilson on fri 31 jul 98
Kathe,
Thankyou for a wonderful response to what I must admit was for me a stretch
of imagination. To adress some of the issues you raise:
>that in making something, you are describing something...snip.
I like this idea but it doesn't account for descriptions that are not true.
For example: The potter makes a bowl. It has a verifiable existence in that
it can be measured. The potters apprentice, on the otherhand, is charged
with its decoration. A spray ofchrysanthemum on a neutral ground. The
potter choses this particular apprentice for this task since she is the
most skilled at rendering them in glaze, even though they sometimes do not
look like real chrysanthemum.
>- I'm not sure about this idea of transcendence ...snip.
The notion of transcendence, as far as I can tell, is based on the idea
that if personal style and cultural identity are stripped away the
resulting object achieves an autonomous existence. "What you see there is
there." (I forget who said that) so that the object's form and content do
not refer to something outside of itself. In this way it transcends the
cultural and the personal. What is left, perhaps, is beauty in its unified
state. The strategy of unfocusing may help to achieve this condition.
> end with this quote:
"The exciting movement in nature is not progress, advance, but expansion and
contraction, the opening and shutting of the eye, the hand, the heart, the
mind...We throw our arms wide in a gesture of religion to the universe, we
close them around a person. We explore and adventure for a while and then draw
in to consolidate our gains." - Robert Frost
Yes. We unfocus and focus. Unfocus and focus ...
Thanks again, I hope some of this made sense.
Dan Wilson
..
Dan Wilson on fri 31 jul 98
My thanks to all of you who took the time to visit my web page and offered
suggestions and support. Now that thats out of the way, I'd like to discuss
"Configuration" and address the issue of theory. I'm sure some of you are
saying "Daann. What does this have to do with pottery?" Well, aside from
the more esoteric application of a theory like this to how we might create
and control an aesthetic experience of our own making. It has practical
value as well.
The Gestaltists theorized that unity or wholeness depends upon
configuration. The arrangemant of the parts of a unified experience. This
also includes the relations between the parts. In order to experience
wholeness each individual part must bear a consistent relationship to the
others. At a very basic level (for example: the spatial and temporal.)
proximity relationships are fundamental. The time interval and spatial
distance between the parts play a significant role in experiencing
wholeness. On a more practical level we can see this played out in the
studio as the process of potting tends toward division. It is segmented
into, generaly, three distinct areas. Forming, decorating and firing. Each
separated by time and space. A common complaint among those just getting
started is that the finished product doesn't turn out they way they
initially envisioned it. This is because the initial conception is a whole
or unified experience but the process of its realization (making it real),
disintegrated as it is by spatial and temporal intervals, allows for the
deteriorization of memory. The solution of course, is to insert objects of
similar kind into those areas that tend to disintegrate the initial
experience. This results in increased productivity, consistency from
conception to realization and a unified body of work.
carrie jacobson on fri 31 jul 98
Having come to pottery not as a youth but as an adult, I have in the past
year, taken the time and and found the drive to consider this art, this
act, this creation.
It feels like the forms I make reflect a part of my soul that no art or
activity has ever touched. Perhaps this is the real-life translation of
what Dan Wilson was saying (?), I don't know.
I do know that my life outside the pottery is loud and full and
complicated. But the things I make are quiet and calm. They come from that
space in me, and in my life, and they reflect that space, they describe it.
I imagine that one of my pieces in someone else's life would bring that
same feeling of calm, of gentle design, of quiet.
Simplistic? Perhaps. But I do believe that art speaks to us, and the deeper
the ear it finds, the more attractive it is.
Carrie
Carrie Jacobson
Pawcatuck, CT
mailto:jacobson@brainiac.com
Lorca Beebe on sat 1 aug 98
Somehow the idea or rather the fact of "universality" does something to my gut
instinct, if it were universality based on humanity maybe I would not
hesitate, todays universality seems based on the globalization of a free
market economy, the focus of the conglomerates are the benjamins, as consumers
we are all leveled out, anyone can by a coke (focus of manufacture) and a
smile (focus of transcendence). As a species we have not learned how to
appreciate and deal with difference, this discussion list certainly exhibits
the symptoms of the times, many people on this list object to heated
discussions and or anything different from the "norm" that has been set for
exchange of information, there is a dangerous assumption that we are all the
same as clay artists and as human beings... We are equal, but not the
same...For instance, It seems to me that clay art attracts a particular
demographic within clay, and it is assumed by the group that we represent all
claywork, more than once I have been categorized as a potter, when I can
barely throw, this is another component of marginalization that I deal with on
a daily basis, I used to complain about the experience of marginalization,
until a notorious Puerto Rican artist told me it has an essential component
for focus in creating art, my focus is not unique, at the end of the 20th
century, artists seem to be focused on the experience that results from being
part of a free market global economy, the bginning of a Brave New World.
Lorca
Maid O'Mud on fri 14 oct 05
I'm sharing w/this list a note I sent
to a good friend of mine this morning.
For me, it was a transformative
moment. My deep thanks to
Keith Campbell who's workshop
helped start this transition.
"Good morning
Bruce unloaded a kiln full of my new
pots. One in particular caught my eye
and my hands begged to touch it.
I picked it up and marvelled at the
way the glazes had worked together
w/the form. Only then did I notice
that the glaze had crawled at the rim.
I realized this pot would be rejected
at any forum I tried to put it up for sale.
I adopted the piece and brought it
upstairs. I thought of hiding it so others
would not point out the obvious flaws.
Then I thought "Laura would only see
the beauty in this pot. Laura sees beauty
in trees".
I'm selfishly keeping this pot. I will=20
marvel at it's beauty daily. And I will
also daily remember the friend who
taught me to see past flaws into beauty.
take care"
Sam Cuttell
Maid O'Mud Pottery
RR 1
Melbourne, Ontario
N0L 1T0 =20
CANADA
=20
"First, the clay told me what to do.
Then, I told the clay what to do.
Now, we co-operate."
sam 1994
=20
http://www.ody.ca/~scuttell/
scuttell@ody.ca
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