Hendrix, Taylor J. on sun 13 apr 03
Howdy all:
Here is another installment in a Newbie saga.
Time is precious. I know that. Hours fill up, the days book up, and
weeks roll past. Before you know it, two weeks have passed since you've
touched clay and those days seem like dead days. The other day with
just such a realization, I stole, no crept, to the garage and my kick
wheel for forty-five minutes of wheel time while my wife took a much
needed nap. She has been taking two and three extra jobs to help us
make ends meet while maintaining her PhD work, and she was beat. On
this day, mind you, she had gotten up at 5:30 to go down to Hayes county
for some observations and was planning to spend the night and next
morning with our church's youth at the World Hunger Farm
(http://worldhungerrelief.org/), a local non-profit.
My job was simple. I was to wake her in time to get up, get dressed and
down to the church to catch the van that was to take her, two other
adults and the 14 or so screaming junior and senior high kids for 24
hours of exposure to subsistence farming and the third world. That was
it; get her up. Not a problem. I would set the oven timer and throw a
few pots while my bride recharged her batteries. Everything was packed
and ready. I had already re-rolled the borrowed sleeping bag, putting
in two extra pillows. We thought it would be a good idea. We've seen
the demonstration house out at the farm.
Well, the wheel was making me pay for all my time away. I was having a
devil of a time pulling cylinders and I was beginning to get frustrated.
A largish lump of clay was giving me a particularly difficult time
during centering when I heard the door to the garage fly open at my back
followed immediately by the most chilling "Taylor!" I have heard in a
long time. I shot bolt upright, my Lockerbie continuing to spin. Clay
slip flew to the four corners as I spun around. There was Marsha in
just a skirt, framed by the door. "I thought you were dead at the
wheel," she blurted out. "I've got ten minutes to get to the church!
You didn't wake me."
I had been hunkered over the wheel head as I am want to do, my face
about a quarter of an inch from the clay, tense with the effort of
trying to center this stubborn piece of clay. It was me practically
prone and motionless over the wheel that had frightened Marsha so.
So many things to think about at one time. That is how someone
described to me the difficult task of throwing a pot. The balance of
pressures, slow and sure movements, the choreography of the hands and
the kicking of the wheel. The presence of mind on the clay. But with
the "Taylor" everything clay evaporated. Such a pitiful cry of anguish
I have heard from her only a few times before. Once was when she
thought our diabetic dog was going to die on our floor as he convulsed
helplessly in my arms. Usually so strong and sure of herself, she
became a pacing and frightened deer. It was like that again.
"Right," I said, "I'm so sorry. I just lost track of time." I was so
startled by Marsha's exclamation that I forgot about the alarm I set. I
flew into action, trying to fix what I had broken. It is something I
have grown accustomed to doing (I forget a lot of things) and I was out
of my wheel without thinking. I didn't worry about the clay smears on
my face and simply wiped off my hands on what I hoped was a clay towel
as I left my half centered lump of clay and went to help my wife.
Marsha, understandably frantic, paced from the bathroom to her closet
and back again. "Call the church and tell them I'll be late."
"When should I say you'll be there?" I was trying to be as helpful as I
could as I dialed the number. This was going to take some finesse I
could tell.
"I don't know. I can't think strait." Her body was slowly recovering
from the initial shock, and I could tell by her body that fright was
giving way to annoyance. =20
Some things require a soft touch "Don't worry. We know where the farm
is. I'll just tell them that you will meet them there and I'll take
you." This I am convinced saved my life--a second time--and allowed
that pressure, which those of us who have become slaves to our schedules
know all too well, to dissipate.
Of course I apologized several more times as she prepared herself for a
night away from me--she almost seemed relieved about that--and made
small adjustments here and there to help her get ready with the least
amount of work. She gradually seemed to regain her composure and was
beginning to look forward to her trip. Now that the crisis was averted
her thoughts turned from the morbid to the mundane. "I hope there
aren't any bugs where we're sleeping."
"The youth will protect you," I offered as I tucked the sleeping bag
under my arm, but I was still upset about that sound in her voice. I
don't think I have ever before been so focused on something and then
been so violently yanked back into the here and now. Everything was
alright though. Marsha hadn't lost her husband at the wheel and I was
going to get her to her appointment, twenty minutes late but still
there. I grabbed my keys and hit the button for the garage door opener,
and as I shot a quick glance over to my wheel that was still spinning
faithfully down, the oven timer went off.
Of course the question remains for the list. What must I do to animate
my centering? I don't ever want to hear my name cried out like that
again!
Taylor, in Wacky O
Ned Ludd on mon 14 apr 03
Taylor wrote:
>Howdy all:
>
>Here is another installment in a Newbie saga.
>
>Time is precious. I know that. Hours fill up, the days book up, and
>weeks roll past. Before you know it, two weeks have passed since you've
>touched clay and those days seem like dead days. The other day with
>just such a realization, I stole, no crept, to the garage and my kick
>wheel for forty-five minutes of wheel time while my wife took a much
>needed nap. She has been taking two and three extra jobs to help us
>make ends meet while maintaining her PhD work, and she was beat. On
>this day, mind you, she had gotten up at 5:30 to go down to Hayes county
>for some observations and was planning to spend the night and next
>morning with our church's youth at the World Hunger Farm
>(http://worldhungerrelief.org/), a local non-profit.
>
>My job was simple. I was to wake her in time to get up, get dressed and
>down to the church to catch the van that was to take her, two other
>adults and the 14 or so screaming junior and senior high kids for 24
>hours of exposure to subsistence farming and the third world. That was
>it; get her up. Not a problem. I would set the oven timer and throw a
>few pots while my bride recharged her batteries. Everything was packed
>and ready. I had already re-rolled the borrowed sleeping bag, putting
>in two extra pillows. We thought it would be a good idea. We've seen
>the demonstration house out at the farm.
>
>Well, the wheel was making me pay for all my time away. I was having a
>devil of a time pulling cylinders and I was beginning to get frustrated.
>A largish lump of clay was giving me a particularly difficult time
>during centering when I heard the door to the garage fly open at my back
>followed immediately by the most chilling "Taylor!" I have heard in a
>long time. I shot bolt upright, my Lockerbie continuing to spin. Clay
>slip flew to the four corners as I spun around. There was Marsha in
>just a skirt, framed by the door. "I thought you were dead at the
>wheel," she blurted out. "I've got ten minutes to get to the church!
>You didn't wake me."
>
>I had been hunkered over the wheel head as I am want to do, my face
>about a quarter of an inch from the clay, tense with the effort of
>trying to center this stubborn piece of clay. It was me practically
>prone and motionless over the wheel that had frightened Marsha so.
>
>So many things to think about at one time. That is how someone
>described to me the difficult task of throwing a pot. The balance of
>pressures, slow and sure movements, the choreography of the hands and
>the kicking of the wheel. The presence of mind on the clay. But with
>the "Taylor" everything clay evaporated. Such a pitiful cry of anguish
>I have heard from her only a few times before. Once was when she
>thought our diabetic dog was going to die on our floor as he convulsed
>helplessly in my arms. Usually so strong and sure of herself, she
>became a pacing and frightened deer. It was like that again.
>
>"Right," I said, "I'm so sorry. I just lost track of time." I was so
>startled by Marsha's exclamation that I forgot about the alarm I set. I
>flew into action, trying to fix what I had broken. It is something I
>have grown accustomed to doing (I forget a lot of things) and I was out
>of my wheel without thinking. I didn't worry about the clay smears on
>my face and simply wiped off my hands on what I hoped was a clay towel
>as I left my half centered lump of clay and went to help my wife.
>Marsha, understandably frantic, paced from the bathroom to her closet
>and back again. "Call the church and tell them I'll be late."
>
>"When should I say you'll be there?" I was trying to be as helpful as I
>could as I dialed the number. This was going to take some finesse I
>could tell.
>
>"I don't know. I can't think strait." Her body was slowly recovering
>from the initial shock, and I could tell by her body that fright was
>giving way to annoyance. =20
>
>Some things require a soft touch "Don't worry. We know where the farm
>is. I'll just tell them that you will meet them there and I'll take
>you." This I am convinced saved my life--a second time--and allowed
>that pressure, which those of us who have become slaves to our schedules
>know all too well, to dissipate.
>
>Of course I apologized several more times as she prepared herself for a
>night away from me--she almost seemed relieved about that--and made
>small adjustments here and there to help her get ready with the least
>amount of work. She gradually seemed to regain her composure and was
>beginning to look forward to her trip. Now that the crisis was averted
>her thoughts turned from the morbid to the mundane. "I hope there
>aren't any bugs where we're sleeping."
>
>"The youth will protect you," I offered as I tucked the sleeping bag
>under my arm, but I was still upset about that sound in her voice. I
>don't think I have ever before been so focused on something and then
>been so violently yanked back into the here and now. Everything was
>alright though. Marsha hadn't lost her husband at the wheel and I was
>going to get her to her appointment, twenty minutes late but still
>there. I grabbed my keys and hit the button for the garage door opener,
>and as I shot a quick glance over to my wheel that was still spinning
>faithfully down, the oven timer went off.
>
>Of course the question remains for the list. What must I do to animate
>my centering? I don't ever want to hear my name cried out like that
>again!
>
>Taylor, in Wacky O
Whoa, Taylor, what a an experience. Lucky you got away with it this time!
I for one would sooner face a Panzer on the eastern front - think
Kursk '44, not Kirkuk '03 - armed only with an old copy of CM, and an
HVLP sprayer loaded with Floating Blue, than a beloved spouse turned
into a Medusa. Ponder deeply on this, Taylor! For in the doorway, at
the moment you were shocked into awareness of your sin - yes, SIN ;->
- was your wife not dressed as a Minoan priestess, but for the
writhing poisonous snakes held aloft in each hand? As also the
goddess Hekate in her holy rites, forbidden to men on pain of death?
Neither are to be trifled with, Taylor. I strongly advise you to
abase yourself, and perform the rites of atonement, with sacrifices,
to She Whom You Have Offended. Your wife? The Goddess? Both!! Have
fun.
Now, your centering problem.
In return for this wonderful tale of the Goddess appearing to you -
in Waco, hahaha! - I am going to tell you the best way I know to
learn to center clay. I warn you, you are probably not going to like
it. You will want to be told of an easy way. Ah, screw easy. It gets
easy later, just don't expect it from the get-go. IF you have what it
takes - perseverance, humility and spunk - it works. I think it will
work for you in a week, if you stick it out. I have seen total
duffers go from Day-One-on-Wheel-Goofball to functional thrower up to
snuff on small ware, within ONE day. Ok, you ready Taylor? You have
to really really want it, mind, or forget it.
Go find a busy production studio where they THROW runs of all kinds
of pots. Pay the boss to take you for a week, as if you were an
apprentice, and treat you as part of the team, give you a real
assignment, put you to work, first on small pots like mugs.. and for
the most part ignore you. Get there early. Leave late. Wedge and
throw throw throw. What will happen is this: your focus will shift
away from awkward self consciousness to the pots the clay is waiting
for you to make of it. Observe and learn from the other throwers near
you, absorb the energy, and work. That's the only secret. Hence my
fiendish, diabolical advice to put yourself in a place where you
can't give up easily!
Do it, and believe me, you'll never have a problem centering again.
Take it or leave it, Taylor
best wishes, and say a warm hi to the Goddess from me!
Ned
E.G. Yarnetsky on tue 15 apr 03
I have been on both sides of this situation. I can remember many
evenings when my husband Jerry would come by the studio to keep me
company while I finished a glaze load on a deadline. How many nights
it was a, 2, or 3am before I finished???? One night I turned around to
find him sleeping on an unrolled length of bubble wrap on the cold
cement floor! What a keeper!
On the other hand, is anyone on the list married to a reporter?????
Forget time - it doesn't exist!!!! How many nights that I used to wake
up at 2, 3, or too often 4 am to find him still across the street at
the newspaper typing away! I must admit Jerry has been much more
patient with me than I was with him! He now is working as a reference
librarian, and for the first time has a set schedule!!! I am finding
out just how many of his overtime hours I spent making pots!!! We are
both happier and healthier with a regular schedule and I am trying to
learn to work within a reasonable number of hours. It is hard to stop
thinking about pots when i am "off"
Suggestions ? set a studio schedule, and stick as close to it as
possible. If you have to be somewhere in less than an hour, stay out
of the studio!!!!!!! An hour in studio time feels like 15 minutes,
which only leads to disaster! Been there done that! :) No matter how
involved you are, set aside time for the 2 of you. Meet for a picnic
on her lunch hour, take a half hour walk after dinner, ect. Shut the
door to the studio occasionally and take a break! Set more than one
alarm clock, set the clocks a little fast, get a noisy clock that will
catch your attention... Good luck!
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