Geoff Walker on tue 13 apr 99
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G'day Claymates,
At last my =22holiday=22 is due, and I head off for San Francisco (and
later, Portland) on Thursday. Yippee=21 I expect to share happy moments
with Jane Woodside helping dole out (consume?) the champagne at her Open
House, 17th and 18th, then spending a couple of delightful days with
Barbara Brown in San Jose. Looking forward to both of these experiences.
These contacts are all thanks to this list=21
As a parting gesture from these shores downunder, and as a result of
encouragement from respected subscribers to this wonderful forum I might
be allowed to indulge in a little story telling. I hope you enjoy it.
The whole story is true=21
Through the seventies, whilst based at Weswal, a Pottery and crafts
centre I had set up with my partner, Frances West, I often ran weekend
schools. These could be in throwing, hand-building, kiln workshops,
glaze workshops or whatever.
At the time, there were many country craft guilds in small towns or
based on large properties in the North West of New South Wales and
indeed, all over the country. Because of my training as a teacher,
combined with the fact that I had been potting full-time for a number of
years, it was not difficult for one of these groups to obtain me as a
tutor through the Evening College, T.A.F.E. College, or one of the local
Universities. I liked being employed by the University of New England as
the remuneration was OUTSTANDING=21 A veritable GOLD MINE=21
One of these groups was tutored by a very talented hand-builder, Sue
Moore, in a large carport beside her home on a very large sheep and
wheat property way out west. They could only make pots for about six
months of the year as during the summer, it was just too bloody hot and
dry. The pots would dry out as they were being made=21
It was decided that over a three-day weekend, Frances and I would
concentrate on two aspects of pottery making. We would concentrate on
throwing skills, taking that bit in turns, but at the same time, fire a
newly built kiln in a kind of shortened (somewhat) bizen-style firing.
The goodly women (no men made pots out there=21) organised the
construction of the kiln to a plan they acquired from one of the kiln
gurus in Sydney. The men-folk were dragged in and assisted in the
construction of this cross-draught, wood burning 30 cubic foot, sprung
arched baby. In consultation, I had convinced them that they should
leave ports to either side of the fire box so that I could set up my
diesel burners to take the pressure off stoking over night. This was
duly done.
I had a couple of small burners hanging about the place and planned to
take those with a couple of old vacuum cleaners to supply the air under
pressure. No problems. However, I took it upon myself to construct
another high-velocity, vapour jet diesel burner to fire through the wood
box. This was a monster in testing, with about as much power as a Saturn
II rocket=21 I loved it =85 brought out the pyromaniac in me=21 Of course,
this required the use of the forge fan, so we took that with us as well.
A few days before departure, I started loading the necessary equipment
into my very large trailer =85 the burner stuff=3B some of our own clay=3B a
few spare wheels=3B sleeping bags=3B bags of ash=3B pots thrown especially =
for
this kiln from all sorts of clays =85 etc etc. By the time we were ready
for departure, I had an enormous load. Not to worry =85 the big Ford could
pull anything, and once down the 20 miles of hills to town, it was flat
sailing all the way =85 300 odd miles of it=21
Country hospitality is wonderful and we were treated to every luxury,
but, more especially, country cooking in abundance=21 The plan was to pack
the kiln the day before the workshop was to start, and set her going.
This way we could have the firing last for at least 3 days and nights.
This was duly done with tall (bisqued) cylindrical shapes I had thrown,
sitting the full length of the bag wall, and lots of rounded thrown and
hand-built pots (all bisqued) stacked on a minimal setting of shelves. I
remember commenting that the floor looked a little strange, but was
assured that Sue's husband had mixed it to a recipe given him by a
well-respected potter from East Sydney Technical College. (It looked
like funny cement to me, though=21)
We had her lit before dusk and all gathered around to steadily stoke the
fire as we watched the temperature climb. The air was crisp, the sky
predictably clear meaning that a frost would settle before morning. The
fire warmed our hearts as much as it did our bodies.
For several hours we sat, stoked, warmed our bums from the glow, drank
lots of wine, and told and heard stories, bursting into fits of laughter
to the shock of the curious kangaroos and working dogs alike.
As we all became sleepy, I set up the diesel burners either side of main
fire box, and the retro-rocket pointing into the firebox itself. Once
convinced these little beauties would at least hold the temperature, I
decided to doss down nearby. Just for good measure and to cheat a
little, I threw in a few handfuls of the ash we had brought. Already
there was a glistening, glazey sort of look at the rear of the firebox,
so we imagined that the ash from the wood, plus the stuff I had thrown
in was doing it's stuff. Great=21 Let's go and rest for a couple of hours=21
It must have been about 4.00 am when I awoke and decided to check on
this baby. All appeared to be going well, and the temperature had
reached 1300 Celsius for the second time. I turned down the burner fuel,
allowing more air to blow over what remained of the coals in the
firebox. As the air cooled things down there, I could see not only a
very glassy area at the rear of the box, but there appeared to be such a
huge build up of ash that it had melted and was, indeed, starting to
flow=21 Wonderful=21
Several of the bodies joined me as daylight approached, each of them
cuddling a warm mug of tea and clutching a plate of treats for me. You
know what country women are like about force-feeding, and I was only a
skinny bugger in those days=21 LOL=21
They all wanted a report on progress which I delightedly related,
pointing out the ash glaze at the rear of the firebox. Ooohs and Ahhhs
were the order of that crisp morning, bums once again being pointed in
the direction of the warmth. We were going through a cooling period to
simulate the rise and fall of a bizen-type firing. Once it had dropped a
hundred degrees or so, stoking could once again commence. The burners
were removed altogether at this point, with each of the ladies taking it
in turns to stoke. The wood burned beautifully. I think it was yellow
box which the men had collected, but whatever it was, it was dry and
burnt like a mad thing=21 We were soon back up to top temperature. More
ash was thrown in.
As we had to set up the throwing space, it was decided to utilise the
burners once more to give us all a break from stoking. This was duly
done, with me setting them to at least hold the temperature. We left
her, but maintained eye and ear contact.
More tea and HEAVENLY BISCUITS as we commenced the throwing
demonstrations and tutorials. For a couple of hours the kiln was almost
ignored, apart from the odd glance and those giving their backs a break
wandering over to take a closer look. Variations in fuel and air
proportions were attempted to simulate the reduction/oxidation phases of
stoking.
By morning tea (another splendid spread=21) it was time to gather around
and check progress. To me the whole thing appeared to be BLOODY HOT to
say the least, so I asked Frances to peer into the spy hole to find out
what the cones were doing. I had estimated that they were in one of the
cooler parts of the kiln =85 a cone 12 there to tell us when to stop, so
to speak.
The heat was so intense that Frances (and anyone else who looked) could
see nothing. I turned off fuel to the two smaller burners but left the
air running. This did have some little effect, but still there was
nothing=21 In desperation, I shut off the fuel to my retro-rocket leaving
only cool air blasting through the box and kiln. Only then was it
possible to see anything inside.
Frances finally called out in amazement that there was nothing there to
see. Not even pots=21 In disbelief, I pushed her aside and took a look
myself=21 She was right=21 I could see right through what had been stacks of
pots to the far wall=21=21 Where had everything gone??? Very little
persuasion was needed for me to decide to turn everything off.
As we peered through the firebox, we could see the problem. What I had
thought (and convinced the others to see =85) was molten ash accumulating
at the rear of the firebox was actually the kiln floor melting and,
indeed, FLOWING towards us=21 It was like a setting lava flow=21 Beautiful,
but not desirable=21 Oh=21 Was it my super retro-rocket? What had I done?
Woe is me=21
The other thing about country women is that they are good-natured and
philosophical about things. We returned to the wheels and worked our
little butts off for the rest of the day. They made wonderful progress =85
Frances and I are both strict, but good, tutors I have to say.
The evening meal was more spectacular than even I expected=21 And there
were more glasses of wine and more great yarns. We laughed well into the
night.
Early next morning I was surprised to be joined by the entire crew. Here
we were at the aftermath wondering what we would find in that brick
tomb. I had promised that nothing would be touched (but we could peer in
with torches) until the last of the ladies (who lived 50 miles down the
river=21) had arrived.
Jocelyn and her mother could be seen approaching about 10 miles away in
a cloud of dust, so we drank more tea, ate more goodies, and waited. As
soon as they were out of the car, we were into it=21 Before no more than
10 of the bricks in the wicket had been drawn, we could see the mass of
misshapen pots inside.
The set of shelves closest the fire-box were warped at about 45 degrees,
the props that had held them up had completely melted into adjoining
pots, and the cylinders I had placed along the bag wall now curved like
strange brass instruments. However =85 there were some pots that were
still whole and undistorted. A miracle=21 (A BIGGER miracle than we had
first thought, though =85 they were the only pots in the whole kiln I had
thrown from an EARTHENWARE clay bought in Queensland=21)
As we continued to unpack what we could (with the aid of hammers,
crowbars and tyre levers =85), Sue's husband =85 the one who had been
responsible for the floor =85 returned from one of the outer paddocks
where he had spent the previous night in an outstation. No sooner had he
entered ear-shot than Sue was calling at him to ask what he had used to
make the floor. Defensively he told how he had followed to the letter
instructions from a certain (well-known) potter from Sydney. He had
mixed portland cement and ash in the ratio of 1 to 1, blended it in the
concrete mixer and poured =85 just as he had been told=21
I could not believe what I was hearing=3B knowing that not only is
portland cement a great source of fluxes, but ash is an even better one=21
He dashed towards the house to find his notes. Sure enough, he emerged
with his notebook to show us not only his own notes, but the
hand-written letter from this eminent gentleman from Sydney. We forgave
him=21
The remainder of the weekend was spent throwing and laughing and picking
out bits of pots from the =22tomb=22. We had all learnt something, and most,
quite a bit.
The kiln still stands there as we left it to this day almost 25 years
later. Sue and Bob sold the property and moved closer to civilization
where their son, to my knowledge, runs a very successful pottery
producing terra cotta planters.
Those were the days =85..
Geoff.
http://www.cronulla-pot.com.au/
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