Found #2

When I saw this punch bowl set in the thrift store, I remembered the summer during graduate school when I broke up with words. Frustrated with their abstractions, elusiveness, intangibility, and their fondness for the sublime, I instead picked up pottery. There was nothing more concrete than playing with clay. The hunk of rejected dirt (nothing could grow in it) had to be kneaded, picked through, watered, coaxed, forced into symmetry on a spinning wheel, dried, baked, cooled, glazed, baked again, then cooled again to become a cup or a bowl. The process was time consuming and unforgiving. One falter along the way could mean returning to the beginning. I know the time and care it takes to make a bowl out of clay. And there is nothing quite like the heft, texture, variations in color and the given uniqueness of each piece found in pottery. It truly has the look and feel of being formed by hands.

Signed by Fred in 1990

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Published in: on March 30, 2011 at 12:05 pm  Leave a Comment  

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