primalmommy on thu 12 dec 02
Just for the sake of conversation: the blue thing fits into my general
theory that our comforts and joys often come from the first weeks of
life.... or earlier...
I think the reason we are soothed by hammocks, rockers, by ticking
clocks, by the sound of the ocean and the bass-line of good music is
that we first became aware while rocking, swaying in the hammock of a
womb, hearing the "waves" of our mother's breathing, the rhythm of
heartbeat, and the lowest notes of conversation...
I think we are comforted by teabowls because our infant hands held that
warm round breast shape when we first drank warm soothing liquid,
nursing... our hands love those silk half-matt glazes because they are
like warm skin...
So if the west has a particular joy in rutile blues, maybe it's because
a large percentage of anglo-nordic types spent their first "aware" days
gazing into their mother's rutile blue eyes... and all newborn eyes are
blue, at first... look at the iris of a blue eye, it's kind of a
floating blue... those rutile greens a hazel version.
Me, I think marketing is the root of all evil... I think families are in
credit card debt up to their eyeballs and kids are often raised by hired
strangers because mom and dad have been convinced that diamonds and a
second lexus and name brand fashion are a "need"... oddly if I expect to
sell my pots I have to learn to market my stuff... what a dilemma.
I made the same amount of money at the show last weekend as I made at a
sale last year... tied my all time high. (comparatively small potatoes,
but nice for me.) But I am way more proud of this year's sale, because
it wasn't all -- what did Janet call it? Cheap and cheerful? --like last
year. I kind of stuck my neck out and made the stuff I like; the only
blue was a few left over from last year (a few little candleholders with
holly, etc.) and overall it was some pretty strange work. I sold fewer
pots but at higher prices and it came out OK. I had been worried.
A metaphor: When I first started writing poetry my Dad loved it. He
secretly photocopied my dorky rhyming poems about "my horsie" and such
and submitted them to literary mags ;0) naiive but determined... I found
the files years later. Sadly, when I finally evolved as a poet to the
point where I was regularly being published in literary mags, he would
scratch his head and admit that he just didn't "get" them. He still
wishes I would write about my horsie.
I have seen potters evolve to a point with their work where John Q.
Public just looks alarmed and grabs the checkbook and flees. Maybe
that's where the galleries come in, time for a different audience
looking in a different way. Still, it's sad; a good potter with some
really "out there" work that impresses other potters, sighing because
nobody's buying his stuff...
I love that David Hendley has managed to do both things well, making
functional, reproducible, marketable stuff with just enough idiosyncracy
that you wouldn't mistake his work for anyone else's... and you know
he's having a ball making it. I have one of his extruded vases on my
table, with two little "arms", a body like a long hoof and a gesture
like a waking baby, stretching...
ok sorry about the blabla... it's a sickness...
Yours, Kelly in Ohio... down to the
have-to-glaze-to-cool-to-pack-to-ship-to -the-inlaws-by-christmas
deadline...
_______________________________________________________________
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primalmommy on fri 13 dec 02
Just for the sake of conversation: the blue thing fits into my general
theory that our comforts and joys often come from the first weeks of
life.... or earlier...
I think the reason we are soothed by hammocks, rockers, by ticking
clocks, by the sound of the ocean and the bass-line of good music is
that we first became aware while rocking, swaying in the hammock of a
womb, hearing the "waves" of our mother's breathing, the rhythm of
heartbeat, and the lowest notes of conversation...
I think we are comforted by teabowls because our infant hands held that
warm round breast shape when we first drank warm soothing liquid,
nursing... our hands love those silk half-matt glazes because they are
like warm skin...
So if the west has a particular joy in rutile blues, maybe it's because
a large percentage of anglo-nordic types spent their first "aware" days
gazing into their mother's rutile blue eyes... (and all newborn eyes are
blue, at first)... look at the iris of a blue eye, it's kind of a
floating blue... those rutile greens a hazel version.
So blue is "in"... do we care, or not? Me, I think marketing is the root
of all evil... I think families are in credit card debt up to their
eyeballs and kids are often raised by hired strangers because mom and
dad have been convinced that diamonds and a second lexus and name brand
fashions are a "need"... oddly if I expect to sell my pots I have to
learn to market my stuff... what a dilemma.
I made the same amount of money at the show last weekend as I made at a
sale at the UU church last year... tied my own all time high.
(comparatively small potatoes, but nice for me.) But I am way more proud
of this year's sale, because it wasn't all -- what did Janet call it?
Cheap and cheerful? --like last year. I kind of stuck my neck out and
made the stuff I like; the only blue was a few left over from last year
(a few little candleholders with holly, etc.) and overall it was some
pretty strange work. I sold fewer pots but at higher prices and it came
out OK. I had been worried.
A metaphor: When I first started writing poetry my Dad loved it. He
secretly photocopied my dorky rhyming poems about "my horsie" and such
and submitted them to literary mags ;0) naiive but determined... I found
the files years later. Sadly, when I finally evolved as a poet to the
point where I was regularly being published in literary mags, he would
scratch his head and admit that he just didn't "get" them. He still
wishes I would write about my horsie. My poetry had an increasingly
smaller audience but they were the hard-core literary types.
I have seen potters evolve to a point with their work where John Q.
Public just looks alarmed and grabs the checkbook and flees. Maybe
that's where the galleries come in, time for a different audience
looking in a different way. Still, it's sad to see a good potter with
some really "out there" work that impresses other potters, sighing
because nobody's buying his stuff...
I love that David Hendley has managed to do both things well, making
functional, reproducible, marketable stuff with just enough idiosyncracy
that you wouldn't mistake his work for anyone else's... and you know
he's having a ball making it. I have one of his extruded vases on my
table, with two little "arms", a body like a long hoof and a gesture
like a waking baby, stretching...
ok sorry about the blabla... it's a sickness...
Yours, Kelly in Ohio... down to the
have-to-glaze-to-cool-to-pack-to-ship-to -the-inlaws-by-christmas
deadline...
_______________________________________________________________
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From health and pregnancy to shopping and relationships, iVillage
has the scoop on what matters most to you.
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