primalmommy on tue 14 aug 07
I'm enjoying reading along the various threads, the head-scratching
vocabulary and Phil's quirky humor, heady topics like beauty and meaning
(and ego) dancing between a polite postmistress and the arch of a
Minnesota flat top.
I majored in literature, as an undergrad, not philosophy. Still, we
spent half our lives back then in a Search for Meaning, striving to
define cosmic concepts and wrap our words around the things that amazed
us, frightened us, thrilled us, angered us or just blew our minds. I
don't know if it was the fresh energy of youth, whereby kids think they
are discovering for the first time what will prove to be well trodden
realizations... or if it was the stuff we were smoking... but either
way, these were no causal small-talky conversations around the coffee
table. This was heady stuff; our voices fervent and insistent, late into
the night. We were so sure.
I read words upon words, Hawthorne in his colonial English and Voltaire
in his antique French... I read Dickenson and Blake, and wrote poems and
stories to critique in workshop circles with Nikki Giovanni, Gordon
Grigsby, Bill Knott. Words, words... long daily journal entries
scribbled in spiral bound notebooks, letters to friends... the world
before cell phones and email. I published poems written for The World,
about the Big Ideas.
Grad school in folklore/anthro/fine art was more of the same, only I
began collecting spoken words, documenting stories of "the folk", their
skills, their histories. I taped interviews, indexed tapes, wrote it all
down, rehashing words and pulling out small meanings and patterns to
write about. I still published poetry in my later 20s but it was about
specific things: dreams, the threads of myth and archetype Jung and
Campbell traced, played out in the lives of my "folk". I wrote them for
editors who I knew would understand them, and a handful of other poets
who would read the journals.
Then one day in my early 30s I found myself drowning in words. A
chatterer myself, I was married to a talky guy, and had moved back home
to be near my family of origin -- who all talk at once, loud and fast. I
had given birth to babies who had learned to talk, who were sung to and
read to constantly, whose words rang in my ears all day long with "I
need!" and "why does?" and other requests for comfort and explanation.
And for a living, I talk talk talked to classrooms full of college kids
all day, and graded tall stacks of their earnest writing all night,
trying to use the right words to help them rearrange their words. For
fun I went to writers' conferences, where the best poets could
skillfully eviscerate themselves in verse, offering up beauties and
horrors, twisted childhoods and gut-wrenching, heart-wringing images
both real and imagined.
I left the last conference so emotionally drained, so weary of the
weavings and knottings of words, that I resolved to do something
different next time.
And since the only peaceful, quiet place in my life was my clay studio,
I later decided to sign up for a week long workshop at a place called
Appalachian Center for Craft, a throwing workshop with some guy named
mel and a person named Dannon Rhudy.
As my love affair with my own words moves from high passion to a
familiar, comfortable marriage, I appreciate more the quiet way of
creating. Meaning is messy, and tiring sometimes. Clay, hands, form,
eye, skill, technique, flow through some other part of my imagination
that seems to charge rather than drain my batteries.
So I understand my professor's notion that the pot itself is enough; it
is its own concept, complete and clear in stating itself without
explanation.
But the young thinkers in the rest of the art department are all about
meaning. Art has to be ABOUT something; about politics, about a larger
reality, about art. It has to have point, and a clever or edgy one at
that -- the kind that comes easily to college aged people who are
currently reinventing the world. It has to be explained, defended,
interpreted, discussed at length. I know this is a valid way to work,
and to see... but I just don't want to, anymore. Like I no longer want
to engage in all night, trippy, Carlos Castaneda conversations about
life, the universe and everything.
It now seems like second hand experience to analyze life, instead of
just being present and mindful in my days. I don't want to write about
water, analyze the H2O structure, or attend a lecture about water. I
want to swim.
I still write, sometimes, in a blog instead of a spiral bound notebook.
It's something I do easily, from habit, and without much effort. But
mostly it's about canning peaches, or driving an icy highway home from
school, or the "rightness" of farmer's market produce.
I write poetry about small daily things; the spider who runs a web
across the rim of a just thrown pot. The tiny green fly who bends six
knees to press his mouth to a leatherhard vase and sip from the mud. The
sexual nature of a pomegranate, the warm fertile promise of a warm egg.
I don't bother to publish any more. There's no money in poetry (and no
poetry in money) -- and at my age I am aware that the world doesn't need
any more words and words, telling and telling. The rosy edges of a
slippery, skinned peach halves, layered against the inside all of a
mason jar, are enough by themselves. Like a good pot is, whether or not
it sells, makes it into my MFA show, or gets its picture on the cover of
CM.
I spend more time in the company of quiet folk than I used to. The older
I get, the more I appreciate how much doesn't need saying. And though I
have enjoyed my summer immensely, I will admit to being poorer for the
lack of that silent hour alone in the car, headed to, and then from
school. I am secretly jealous of the non homeschooling moms whose kids
will soon step onto the yellow bus in a few days and leave their houses
quiet for glorious hours a day.
I have found quiet havens in my studio after the family is asleep -- and
here at the computer at 1:00 a.m.... and yes, I will always be what my
brother called a "word-ler"... tapping away at my keyboard making more
words. But I value more than ever the quiet process of clay and wheel,
hand and knife. And while I always seek a verbal explanation of WHY this
spout is better, WHY this pot is weak - after the conversation ends, the
pot persists. Bowl manent, verba volant. Hold it cool against your palm,
raise it to your lips. shhhhh. beauty.
Off to bed. I am finishing a wallpaper project in the bathroom tomorrow,
firing a kiln load and making elderberry jelly.
Yours
Kelly in Ohio
http://www.primalpotter.com
http://www.primalmommy.com/blog.html
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Taylor Hendrix on wed 15 aug 07
Dearest Kelly,
T.C. the gaffer has turned me on to Robert Genn's twice weekly and
while it's more words in my inbox, they are occasionally timely words.
The latest one was titled "Silence is Golden." I printed it right out.
Here is a snip...
"The art of remaining mute is one of
the keys to personal creative evolution. By speaking out and
expressing our plans we often diffuse our need to do. It's as
if some of the energy required to produce the creative product
is already used up by the words themselves."
And he goes on to list a few suggestions. I am very susceptible to
this bleeding of energy myself. Must be the lit major in ME. I have
let vast amounts of work undone but well discussed, petitioned, and
conversed. What is it again that surfaces Hell's Highway? Uh huh.
I'll just leave this thread with one last thing (also from Ginn):
"Shut up and paint."
You'll need to translate that into your own life,
and I still owe you a poem.
Taylor, in Rockport TX
On 8/15/07, primalmommy wrote:
> I'm enjoying reading along the various threads, the head-scratching
> vocabulary and Phil's quirky humor, heady topics like beauty and meaning
> (and ego) dancing between a polite postmistress and the arch of a
> Minnesota flat top.
>
> I majored in literature, as an undergrad, not philosophy. Still, we
> spent half our lives back then in a Search for Meaning,
...
As my love affair with my own words moves from high passion to a
> familiar, comfortable marriage, I appreciate more the quiet way of
> creating. Meaning is messy, and tiring sometimes. Clay, hands, form,
> eye, skill, technique, flow through some other part of my imagination
> that seems to charge rather than drain my batteries.
...
Keba M Hitzeman on wed 15 aug 07
Taylor,
Would you mind posting the link to Robert Genn? I googled him and found
something called "The Painter's Keys", which looked right, but I couldn't
find the article you quoted. It's perfect for my painter husband!
Thanks,
Keba
Keba M. Hitzeman
Spanish Consultant
www.keba.hitzeman.com
kmhitzeman@hitzeman.com
Clay artist - what can I throw for you today?
Need coffee? Fresh roasted, whole bean or ground. Small batches for
quality.
coffee@engima22.com
People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand
ready to do violence on their behalf.
George Orwell
<))><
-----Original Message-----
From: Clayart [mailto:CLAYART@LSV.CERAMICS.ORG] On Behalf Of Taylor Hendrix
Sent: Wednesday, 15 August, 2007 13:14
To: CLAYART@LSV.CERAMICS.ORG
Subject: Re: words about art, art about words
Dearest Kelly,
T.C. the gaffer has turned me on to Robert Genn's twice weekly and
while it's more words in my inbox, they are occasionally timely words.
The latest one was titled "Silence is Golden." I printed it right out.
Here is a snip...
"The art of remaining mute is one of
the keys to personal creative evolution. By speaking out and
expressing our plans we often diffuse our need to do. It's as
if some of the energy required to produce the creative product
is already used up by the words themselves."
And he goes on to list a few suggestions. I am very susceptible to
this bleeding of energy myself. Must be the lit major in ME. I have
let vast amounts of work undone but well discussed, petitioned, and
conversed. What is it again that surfaces Hell's Highway? Uh huh.
I'll just leave this thread with one last thing (also from Ginn):
"Shut up and paint."
You'll need to translate that into your own life,
and I still owe you a poem.
Taylor, in Rockport TX
On 8/15/07, primalmommy wrote:
> I'm enjoying reading along the various threads, the head-scratching
> vocabulary and Phil's quirky humor, heady topics like beauty and meaning
> (and ego) dancing between a polite postmistress and the arch of a
> Minnesota flat top.
>
> I majored in literature, as an undergrad, not philosophy. Still, we
> spent half our lives back then in a Search for Meaning,
...
As my love affair with my own words moves from high passion to a
> familiar, comfortable marriage, I appreciate more the quiet way of
> creating. Meaning is messy, and tiring sometimes. Clay, hands, form,
> eye, skill, technique, flow through some other part of my imagination
> that seems to charge rather than drain my batteries.
...
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Lee Love on wed 15 aug 07
On 8/15/07, Keba M Hitzeman wrote:
> Taylor,
>
> Would you mind posting the link to Robert Genn? I googled him and found
> something called "The Painter's Keys", which looked right, but I couldn't
> find the article you quoted. It's perfect for my painter husband!
Webpage:
http://painterskeys.com/
Subscribe here: http://painterskeys.com/subscribe/
--
Lee in Minneapolis, Minnesota USA
"For a democracy of excellence, the goal is not to reduce things to a
common denominator but to raise things to a shared worth."
--Paolo Soleri
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