Monthly Archives: March 2006

My husband and I are exploring a renaissance of art. This is not to be confused with exploring Renaissance art. That would involve going to a museum and looking at slightly overweight naked ladies painted in gold and brown tones, angles swooping overhead and all that rot. Not that staring at slightly robust naked ladies is awful, but face it, my husband gets to do that any time I step out of the tub, so it isn’t exactly a temptation to seek out more of the same.

By exploring a “renaissance of art”, I mean that we, personally, are diving into new, unexplored artistic regions. For fun. Stretching our artistic muscles. Our lives have always been somewhat artistic, considering we made a living at dance, costuming, choreography, and running a business with excessive creative thinking our only resource. Then, on the side, we were involved with gardening, writing. . . oh, the list goes on and on.

But now, we are a bit like children who have escaped one room they’ve been locked in for too long. It may have been a room full of great toys, but we’re ready to play with new things now. We have stepped away from dance, and the world is like this huge store filled with artistic wonders that we can pick up off of shelves to try on for size. 

It began with our new career choices. My husband dived into woodturning. He is wonderfully talented at it. And fascinated with the medium of wood, he is creating furniture and all kinds of other wood objects. I became immersed in writing – fiction, poetry, non-fiction. You name it. But those were our choices for our new vocations. Beyond this, we started seeking artistic avenues for fun too. We discovered the Campbell school. Mark took woodcarving and I took pottery. We returned for a course in storytelling. Out side of this, I took classes on jewelry making, wire wrapping and more. Mark took gourd carving. I even bought yarn and began crocheting again, something I haven’t done since I lived in New York (where last I lived and experienced a true cold weather.) Our hands are always nimble, working at creating something new.

This weekend, we took a two-day class on how to make deer antler baskets. Don’t laugh. They’re beautiful, complex and gorgeous. Mark made his perfectly formed. Green. It is striking in its tight weave and defined pattern of colors. I chose to attempt something more rustic, and I weaved more texture into mine, including a hairy, frayed rope and a copper brillo pad. Mine is the one pictured in copper and brown tones. Don’t laugh. My odd selection of materials worked. People in the class asked if I was an artist. Ha. Nope, just willing to explore. But I was pleased that they considered my imperfect basket “artistic”.

We came home with two lovely baskets for our cabin. But what was better, was we learned all about how to drill holes into the antlers (which were all naturally shed antlers, for those of you who wonder why I, a confirmed naturalist, would want to make something out of the parts of an animal.) We learned how to make rib bases, and then, how to weave. I used to make jokes when stressed at my business –I’d insist it was just a matter of time before they would lock me up in a loony bin where I would weave baskets all day. Ha. I had that wrong. I think going crazy begins with weaving baskets , THEN you need to be locked up in a Looney bin, because weaving a basket can drive you crazy. Really. It’s tedious and challenging all at once. It took about 9 hours to make our antler baskets.
 
We came home, and Mark immediately began another project out of some antlers he bought last year. Not me. I was ready to take a basket break. He plans to make several more as gifts for close friends and wants to get started while he remembers how. I might do the same, after a basket break but it would have to be for someone special – a friend who adores nature and art, – because these antler baskets, while pretty, are tons of work.

My husband and I miss dance. But we have a huge, ever growing list of folk crafts and arts we want to explore and this helps covers the empty spot inside where dance used to be. I’m signed up for a course in chair caning in April.  I figure, if Mark is going to make rustic furniture, I can make myself useful by learning how to make all kinds of interesting cained seats. That way, any furniture he makes for our home will be crafted by us both. (I’m a romantic, and I find the idea that we worked together to fill our home with things that have meaning rather than a price tag, rather endearing . . so shoot me . . I’m an idealistic sap).

I’m supposed to bring chairs to the course to work on, so I bought two old, wooden antique chairs at a garage sale and plan to refinish them in the next few weeks. I am planning to decoupage them so they are totally covered in this newspaper print I have from a romance flyer printed in the 1800’s. I found a penny press version of a romance paper, complete with pictures and great romance headlines and stories etc at an antique shop…. I will cover the chairs in this historical material, then put layers and layers of shellac on it so it looks as if the articles are under glass. I will then cain the seats and have something special for my new writing room. Perhaps I’ll shellac a table to match, and have it as a bistro set. The pieces will be all about romance, history and art. Such furniture suits me more than I can describe.

Let’s see, I want to take glass and fused bead making, and book making. I am determined to try spinning, dying and weaving and a few of those textile classes. Mark is worried that if I like it, I’ll demand a llama. You can make your own yarn from the fur of a llama, ya know. You can do so with sheep too, but a llama is more fun, and I am looking for an excuse to get one.

Anyway, our world is filled with art lately. It is in every corner of our home, a part of our days, and in our thoughts. For entertainment, we go to museums, galleries, art festivals or we take a class for hands on fun. It is all a part of our new art renaissance. Escaping the jail of our previous business and going wild in a productive way, if that makes any sense.

I suppose our art fascination will fade some as the weather warms, for I feel nature calling me now, and it has a louder voice than art. I am ready to hike the Appalachian trail, go kayaking, and tubing, whitewater rafting and camping. I have every intention of sleeping on our land in a tent in May when I believe our new colt will be born. I’m NOT going to miss that! Our blueberry bush is filled with tiny buds, and will spring to life soon, which means the only art I will have time for will be in the kitchen making blueberry splendor of some kind or another. I can cook something everyday and not make a dent in the abundant blueberries available on our land. I should know. Last summer, I tried. The only art we will have time for when the weather offers such choices, will be the avenues we’re pursuing by profession, writing and woodturning. The extras will have to wait.

So, art will rest, and we will turn to new adventures, the kind that are accompanied by bird songs, cool breezes, and a night sky, so black, that the stars appear to glow brighter than possible. Nature is god’s art, and frankly, it surpasses anything man can make. It certainly nourishes the soul as well, if not better. Eventually, when the bears hibernate, we will come inside again to escape the cold, and we will turn once again to artistic adventures as our pastime of choice.

 Just today, as I was coming home from a workout class, I decided to stop by to feed our horses. I actually missed them and I wanted to turn them out in the second field to eat. We have a hay shortage in town and I can’t stand that my honey’s don’t have hay to munch. Anyway, when I turned onto the dusty, graveled drive of our land, two deer were standing in the street. They paused, then lept to the side, paused again, and just stared at me. They were doe . (No antlers to make me feel guilty.) I sat there until they slowly ambled off, watching with a thrill I can’t describe. I can’t wait until our house is done and we move to this beautiful, remote, world of our own. I have hope that these creatures, and others, will greet me on my morning walks. And I bet then, I won’t need to pursue artistic ventures to feel that heart pounding satisfaction of creation.

Then, our very lives will be, what I consider,  a perfect work of art.

As someone both artistic and practical by nature, I’m drawn to art with utility. Therefore, I thought a class in pottery would suit me. I wanted to make something with purpose and find out what nature’s most useful mud feels like between my fingers. Also, I confess, I have romantic visions of clay, thanks to the movie “Ghost”.

I guess you could say I had big plans. I wanted to make a cup.

    At $435, for a weeklong pottery class at the famous Campbell School of Folk Arts in North Carolina (plus the cost of materials and lunches) mine would be an expensive cup. To justify the investment, I announced to my husband that I was making the cup for him. This gave me incentive to produce something presentable. I was determined.

    My husband took a class in woodcarving at the school the same week. He was making a hand-hewn bowl and spoon, something that looks like a caveman would use for his Cheerios in the morning. The wood studio was conveniently located right beside the potter’s studio, so he could stop by throughout the day to say hello and lend encouraging advice. When I needed a break, I’d go to his class to watch him chipping away at his log (no advice from me, since I know less about woodcarving than I know about pottery.) While we were not together in these endeavors, it felt as if we were, for each lunch we came together in the big, family style lunchroom to share our experiences of the day. The week felt like one huge, art exploring date.

      When we were not together, I was meeting new people. The other students in my class were all enthusiastic, non-competitive, art-loving beginner potters too, and they spent as much energy “oohing” and “awing” other’s attempts, showing sweet unconditional support, as they did wiggling their nose at their own work. I fit right in, surprisingly at home when playing in the mud with my new friends. 

     You wouldn’t think I’d feel fondly towards an art form that strips a gal of her glamour, but I took to pottery immediately.  Not only are you muddy and wet throughout, but alas, your nails have to go. Ghastly!  It’s not that I’m pampered or spoiled, but losing my nails makes me feel like I have Fred Flintstone’s fingers when typing. I was working on a non-fiction piece for my MFA in the evenings, and let me just say, for once, the typos in my paper were legitimate. My hands were raw and sore from the friction of the mud spinning on the wheel all day long and the absence of my hard protective nails made me so sensitive to touch that each time I hit the keys of my computer, it was like hitting miniature funny bones hidden on the ends of my digits. Nevertheless, the joy of seeing improvement in my pottery each day kept me grinding away at the wheel.

    I’ve discovered I love the feeling of the wet clay under my fingertips. I love experiencing how subtle pressure makes huge adjustments in what I’m creating as I draw the clay from the base up the sides of a cylinder. I like how the pressure of my foot against the pedal controls the speed of the spinning, allowing me to determine how force and gravity will shade my creation. I even love the various implements and tools used to fix imperfections or decorate a piece in artistic ways.

     I now know how to wedge and center clay. I can make cylinders and bowls. I even practiced carving my initials in the bottom of my very own creations and came up with a pretty flourish of my initials to make my mark.

      The goop of clay is sensual. Sometimes, I found myself sitting, just focusing on the glorious sensation under my fingertips rather than remembering to work on my project. I’d feel the sticky mud seep into the tiny cracks and lifelines on my palm, massaging the pads of my fingers with forgiving pressure, the hands-on contact with art both earthy and satisfying. Pottery is natural, clay extracted from the earth, molded by man to make a finished product that is at once useful and striking. I was thrilled to be a part of that wonder.  

       I practiced eight hours a day, then went home exhausted, continuing to feel the wheel spinning under my hands, not unlike the sensation of getting off a treadmill where, even though you know you are standing still, it seems as if everything around you is racing. I felt out of time sync with the exterior world, however, my inner world, my artistic soul, was satiated.

     My teacher, Andrew Stephenson, is a professional potter with a MFA who also served two two-year apprentice terms with world-renowned potters. Another artist who works in the medium of wood and pottery, Matt, assisted him. Both are great teachers, demonstrating and explaining in detail what we have to do to successfully create a piece, then showing us what happens due to the natural errors beginners tend to make.

     First, they’d observed us trying each new skill, then they’d squat beside us, taking our hands and guiding them to adapt the correct pressure, angle and touch required to make something beautiful. On breaks, we viewed slides of their artwork found in galleries, and saw films about famous potters. We learned the history, culture and technique of pottery. All of this made the class much more than a lesson in how to make a cup. The teachers were not only attentive and caring during the class; but they woke in the middle of the night, scurrying through the cold to the pottery studio, to load and unload the kilns, making it possible to fit several firings into the single week. There commitment came across as encouragement, inspiring us all to stay focused.

       Producing pottery is a complicated process. Your creation can go belly up anytime during the many stages required to make a finished product. Once you master the art of forming the piece on the wheel, it still has to survive the trimming stage, the drying process and the first firing. If it doesn’t explode at this time, due to air bubbles or cracks, it has a second chance to go bust in the second firing. Then, having survived this half of the journey, your creation is now subject to luck with glazes and another go in the kiln. The chemicals react differently determined by the level of heat, cooling, and application and the result is always a surprise. A great potter is not just a visual artist, but a chemist, a baker and logician. Pottery is complex, creative, and experimental all at once. And fun.          

     I made seven owls, and two cups. I inspected each piece as it came out of the final firing, marveling at the differences in the glazes, how each one reacted differently dependant upon where the piece was placed in the kiln. It’s like each piece of clay, once molded, has a unique personality, modified and exaggerated by heat.

     I presented my slightly lopsided, thick, caveman style cup to my husband on Friday with no small amount of pride. It’s his favorite cup (or so he claims, as a dutiful husband must.) My pieces are clearly a beginner’s attempt. They aren’t great, but they’re mine, precious tokens of a wonderful experience    

     North Carolina and Georgia is home to the country’s most renowned potters. People come from all over the world to study here. Galleries, festivals and shops feature displays with everything from traditional folk pottery to Terra Sitillata, Porcelain, or Raku. I now have a new understanding of pottery and can pick up a piece in a shop and imagine just how the clay felt under the artist’s hands. I even recognize many of the techniques and different glazing styles used. I’m filled with a new appreciation for the craftsmanship involved, and will never again question the cost of handmade pottery, knowing how much talent, time and effort is required to make beautiful, artful, handmade containers.

    One week is only enough to get a taste of the art of pottery, so I will no doubt take another class someday, perhaps hand building, or glazing techniques. My husband, once a hobbyist potter, tells me that if I get “into” pottery, we can buy a wheel and kiln and build a small pottery shed by his woodworking shop. He’d like that, not only for me, but because he might visit and whip out a carafe or bowl on occasion, too. I guess pottery is an art that seeps into your soul. Even when you move on to a different art, you never forget the compelling feel of that sensuous mud between your fingers. I told him I might take him up on the offer someday, but for now, there are other interests I want to explore. The truth is, I’m not ready to live with Fred Flintstone fingers on a permanent basis.  

    Thanks to my positive experience in the class Mud Made Fun: Getting a Spin on the Potter’s Wheel, I may not become a great potter, but I am a new supporter of the art. I want to go to kiln openings and start collecting a few prime pieces in which to serve my ongoing “experimental” cooking. I’m convinced food will taste better from a container made with care. Beautiful handmade bowls will inspire me to make dishes worthy of the art that holds them and I look forward to setting a table that is also a work of art.

      The class is over, and I have put pottery behind me for now, while I go back to the demands of my everyday life. But, if I close my eyes, I can still feel the smooth, cool clay between my palms. Mud is simple. Magical. And therapeutic.

      Occasionally, I even borrow my husband’s cup, just so I can sip my coffee from something made by my very own hands and remember pottery’s greatest lesson. Making a mess can be good for the soul.     

    I think of storytelling as an art wedged in between writing and theater. It is embedded with history and based on simplicity. Considering these are all things I adore, I have been fascinated with storytellers ever since moving to the woods of Georgia. I dragged the family to a storytelling festival at the Blue Ridge Arts association a few months ago (which wasn’t very good) and continue to mark off storytelling events at area coffee houses, albeit we have yet to attend. As a writer, I am riveted with the idea of stories being passed on from generation to generation and I have toyed with the idea of learning how to stand up and tell a story orally myself.

    So, when we heard a radio announcement that the Campbell Folk Arts School was giving away two tuitions to an upcoming storytelling class (a weeklong intensive) because they are looking for more storytellers in the area, I was thrilled. I’d just taken a class on pottery, and my husband had taken woodcarving at the school, so we didn’t really have another free week to indulge in a new interest, (I fall behind with my MFA work when I play too much) but the opportunity to get a 450 dollar class -one that I lusted for – on the house, was too delectable to pass up. I called and put myself on the list, unaware that my husband had also called to enroll me as a valentines day present. When I told him I was going, he sheepishly explained that he knew I would love it and he had called to enroll me too. Now, I was enrolled twice. Not a big problem, I just dragged him with me as the other “Ginny” in class. He is a good sport. Storytelling wasn’t his primary interest (cause there is no wood in the craft) but he cleared his schedule and accompanied me just to see what it is all about.

      We had to miss the orientation day because we had friends visiting from Florida that were not leaving until after Monday, so we arrived on Tuesday. Then, we found that there were only four people registered in the class and the other two had decided to leave. One was sick, the other embarrassed when he discovered that storytelling involves standing up in front of an audience. (Duh!)  The teacher was highly qualified with lots of experience as a performer, published recordings and she even has a Masters in storytelling – now who’d ‘a thunk they made one of them darn things – It was an odd circumstance that so few people were registered. Storytelling is usually a popular subject, but several different classes were small or canceled at the Folk School that week – no doubt because of the bad weather and the fact that February is not a big draw in the mountains. Nevertheless, the instructor hoped we’d stay since she been contracted to stay the week, students or not. We were game. So together, my husband, the teacher and I, dove into the art of storytelling.

     We learned the folklore and history of the craft, and waded through many stories. By the end of the first day, we were taking turns telling stories, being critiqued and learning the techniques that make a story interesting. My husband and I were both very good, but that is no surprise considering we have theater experience and feel comfortable with public speaking. We selected a few stories to claim as “ours” and practiced them, perfecting them for a performance on Thursday night for the school participants.

   It is no surprise that the story that suited me best was a “Jack tale”, original folk tales brought to the mountains by Scots in the 1800’s. (Jack and the Beanstalk is one of them). These are tall tales with lots of exaggeration and humor. They suit my sense of humor and personality. (Its no secret I tend to exaggerate for fun)  Mark chose a fairytale, something with a poignant moral, which suits him as well. He is first and always, a teacher.

     The second day, we were told to select another story, and I smiled and asked, “Can I try an original story. I would like to see if I can do this with something I’ve written myself.”  Of course, this is what I had in mind all along when I thought of learning how to tell a story aloud.

    The teacher was pleasantly surprised. Not many people want to do something like that.

     Mark said, “It took you long enough. What are you going to do, the Lobster Story?” Damn man, he knows me better than I know myself sometimes.

    So I began working on the Lobster Story, figuring out how to tell it orally in under ten minutes. It worked beautifully. The story is embedded with moral and emotional messages. I was so thrilled to have this new way to share something that comes from within.

      When we performed, I chose a tall tale and my lobster story. Both went over very well. I was somewhat nervous telling my original story, I guess because it could bomb on two levels. The way I told it could be bad, but the story itself could be bad too. Yikes. But in the end, it was very conducive to this medium of entertainment.

     By the time we were through, we had the confidence and skills to do this anywhere and anytime. We have even thought we might offer our services at a few coffee houses nearby one day – we will be able to put together a fun program between us. We joined the Blue Ridge Storytellers Group, and we are now proud members of the National Storyteller’s Association. I even bought us tickets to the annual Storyteller’s festival in Tenn. in October. It is a big four day event. Seven tents are erected and each day the greatest storytellers in the country perform. They even have midnight ghost tales for those willing to stay up. Gotta love it. We will just go for the weekend – don’t want to burn out the family on stories first time out but I am sure the kids will love it. Fall is a wonderful time for new experiences in the mountains.

     I have begun collecting old folktales. I am thinking I will try to design an independent study of the art of storytelling for next term for my Creative Writing MFA as my interdisciplinary course. I think Storytelling goes hand in hand with writing, and I’d love an excuse to delve into the history of it more.  I can write a paper about the festival, produce my nifty certificate from the seminar, and do some reading. I am guilty of trying to find utility in my every endeavor. This way I can pursue this new interest with conviction. “I HAVE to read this (or go there) cause it is my HOMEWORK.” Yep. That alleviates guilt every time.

      In the meantime, I’ve explored something new and enjoyed all the delight that comes with learning I have undiscovered talents. And if nothing more, I am ready to entertain friends around the bonfire or when camping now. I have a wealth of stores to share, some that have been passed down for generations and some that are uniquely mine. Fun!

    And the best things is, stories are infinite . . . and now, I have one more reason to dig them out of my soul!