Excess and Restraint: Impulse and Reason

Introduction
Historical
Ritual
Colour
Surface and Content
Form
Technical
Personal


Introduction

This thesis was respectfully submitted to Tony Hepburn, Head of the Ceramics Department, Cranbrook Academy of Art as partial fulfillment of requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts, dated May 6, l994.

It took me a long time to come to Cranbrook. Before I did come here, an abundance of clay had already moved through my fingers in schools and workshops, in basement studios and finally in a full-time production studio in an industrial building in my hometown, Toronto. Wedged between all that clay, came two children, a job at IBM (a nightmare) and an on-off relationship with a career as a camera assistant in feature films.

Again and again, my work in clay would run into the same brick wall of the unknown. After reaching a certain point in the development of a form or a series of work, the direction of my next step would be unclear and I would become lost and disillusioned. That was the main reason for my need to attend a graduate program in clay. To be able to find a way around the brick wall. To learn how to question my work, find the historical precedents, have dialogue with other artists in different media and to do the research and locate the information that would help me develop my ideas further.

Cranbrook has given me this most precious of opportunities and I have divided this thesis into the different areas that have been part of my investigation over the past two years: historical, ritual, colour, surface and content, form, technical and personal. In between the pages of my own writing, there are quotes from books that have inspired and informed. They allowed me to realize that there are parallels to be found in other lives and cultures - a constant recognition of continuity and similarity.




Historical

In September 1993, one of the first exercises that Tony Hepburn gave me was to go to the library and look through the section on Ceramics and identify what I spontaneously liked in those books. It didn't matter what period, what artist or what material. Just a gut reaction to forms, colours and sensibilities that were similar to my own. I taped all the photocopies of this work up on my studio wall and worked for a while under their multi-faceted eyes. That was the way in which I started to identify my particular likes and dislikes in historical work and in my own work.

The classical vase form found in Greek vases attracted my innate sense of symmetry and theatre. Their format consisted of presenting a scene from Greek life to illustrate a time, place and event. I began to construct marriage vases based on the Greek vase called a "lutrophorus", which was given to a young woman on the eve of her marriage or her death. The ambiguity of the purpose of the vase was intriguing. My marriage vases portrayed my hands with wedding rings placed in a central focal point and were surrounded by press-moulded images from my daily life.

A book on English majolica opened up the world of the Victorian notion of ceremony, their exuberant style and presentation. The flowing luxury of their low fire glazes and the animation of forms struck a similar chord in my work. I began to build elaborately decorated plates, cups and bowls that definitely could be used in a functional way, but also possessed their own original style and narrative content.

Bernard Palissy had always been a popular artist for me with his plates purposefully filled with writhing amphibious visitors. He demonstrated a playfulness in his modelling and an outrageous premise in completing the interior of a plate with objects of his choosing. If Palissy could fill his plates, so could I. With press-moulds of toy fly wings, bicycle tires, lego blocks and plasticine stamps from my childhood, I arranged patterns in the hidden forms of animals - only to be discovered by the viewer after some investigation.

George Ohr inspired me with his wobbly forms, glazes with minds of their own and a philosophy that included a profound reverence for the spirit of each piece he created. He referred to them as his children and was very concerned as to where and with whom they went to live. After a fire in his studio, he kept a pile of blackened pots aside and gave one away to each customer who showed an interest in them. In this way, he guaranteed that their spirit was respected.

Victorian culture with its ambiguous suggestion of sex versus religion in their art and domestic furnishings, holds great interest for me. I believe that some of those contrasts appear, in particular, in the large vases that I made during my final term at Cranbrook. Built with a separate base, central vase section and a tall lid, they reached the height of five feet when assembled - which, incidentally was my own height.

These vases reference Baroque and Rococo styling with compound classical forms covered with heavy layers of glaze. They have the monumental stature of a totem or symbol of religious or historical power and yet their surfaces are over-abundantly covered to excess. They do not possess the purity or piety of a religious icon, but tend toward an effusiveness and a well-endowed feminity. The height, the fullness, the pouring of the glazes suggest a flush, sexual exuberance - the surface quality might even come close to lust. The recognizable structure of a classical vase or fountain cloaked in a historic air of respectability, can also hold the symbols of hedonism, extravagance and exhibitionism.

Other influences in my work are the heavily ornate, but splendidly functional work of the Sevres and Meissen factories. The extremely high level of craftsmanship in their intricate forms, brilliant glazes and detailed painting echoes a similar work ethic to mine. The decorative content of this 19th century work reflected more than just a pictorial surface. For example, a set of garniture (a five piece set of vessels specifically meant for the mantle) was designed by Sevres as a gift for Madame Pompadour by Louis the XIV. The surface scenes that were chosen show a pair of lovers meeting illicitly behind a hedge wall and it echoed the real life relationship between the giver and receiver.

I thoroughly enjoy this double standard of piousness mingled with underlying prurience in historic culture. Another intent with my large vase forms was to entertain and provide humour for the viewer. The qualities of playfulness, intrigue and an element of intimidation certainly are part of the personalities of the later vases.




Ritual

My mother was a homemaker and I was one also for a while. Cleaning, cooking and picking up all the tossed clothes of two children. A home, or nest or place to put all your "stuff", has always been important to me. The furnishings, cooking utensils and dinnerware are all part of that arena of domesticity and are the tools for the ritual of the home.

In my first semester at Cranbrook, I made decorative functional pieces which consisted of serving bowls and plates. At the same time, I experimented with sculptural work that used a 12 inch model of a woman's body. These models became a woman rattle for the wall, a standing statue with cups on the arms and I also made women supports to hold up a large fountain-like bowl. Although strictly sculptural work interested me, I felt that to maximize my own graduate school experience, it was important for me to choose clearly and whole-heartedly, what path to follow - function or sculpture.

It is now obvious to me that those first experimental months at Cranbrook were the preparation time needed to establish my instinctive interest in the home and I decided to produce a fully ceremonial version of domestic ware. The results were a curious hybrid of sculptural yet functional pieces.

The reason for inclusion of the previous quote was that along with its cultural insight into the ritual of dining, it cites a strong emphasis on the feminine or woman's territorial claim to the home. Domestic patterns are changing in the 90's with many more men cooking and maybe even cleaning, but I believe there is still a strong genetic predisposition in the soul and mind of many women to the home. Instead of protesting and trying to rearrange my rather antiquated view of feminism, I decided to "lean" into my natural area of interest and just enjoy what I enjoy. Cooking, serving food on lavish platters, filling large overbearing vases with even larger overbearing flowers - creating a welcoming, beckoning spectacle in this place I call home: this half-reality and half-fantasy of cohesiveness, of familial bliss and quiet security. Domestic objects are intuitively and historically part of my psyche, and for me to make clay work that embodies the ritual of domestic use, is a natural and honest pursuit.

During the normal daytime meals of my childhood, our family would eat from Melmac dishware; a plastic set of plates, bowls and cups that would sometimes come inside laundry soap boxes as incentive gifts. These dishes could take the heavy use of children and of being constantly washed and bumped around the cast iron kitchen sink.

However, in my mother's china cabinet, were a number of mis-matched and gaudy (but beautiful to my eye) bone china tea cups. They were used only when her four sisters and their families came over for afternoon tea. The cups were very inexpensive in reality; my mother would never pay more than $5.00 for a cup and saucer and she collected many of them from various promotional offers at downtown department stores. After they were dusted and lined up on the dining room table, I was allowed to examine them more closely. What I saw were cups with interiors of pure turquoise and deep ruby and saucer rims lined with gold and filigree - a far cry from Melmac.

The presentation of these cups and saucers elevated the visiting sisters to a level of honour in our house. When we drank from the bright, thin and shiny cups, our families celebrated our existence and good health together. The gossiping, Ukrainian phrases accompanied by bread, cake and cookies completed the scene. Usually these events happened in the restful stretch of a Sunday afternoon around the dining room table in a very cramped and noisy room. The women sipped tea, the men sipped tea and drank whiskey, and there was laughter and sometimes arguments.

The scene was not one of pretence, and the china was not used simply as a status symbol. This moment of respect, the coming together of families was framed and symbolized by this different set of dishes. And it was with some relief that we put back the fragile china behind the glass and went back to pastel Melmac on Monday morning. Life picked up its pace again, and the memory of the ritual of the sisters' visit was illustrated in my mind by yesterday's china.

My grandparents were born in the Ukraine somewhere around Kiev. Details are scarce: there is sometimes a tendency in Ukrainians to be secretive and often they carefully guard personal information. I know because I have that tendency.

Both born in Canada, on farms, my parents made their separate ways to Toronto during the depression to look for work. Discrimination was extreme against anyone who possessed an "accent" or foreign name, and along with changing our surname, my parents never taught me their Ukrainian language. It was odd that the only words I could communicate to my grandmother were dobra (good), melinky (small) and, of course, all the names of the delicious Ukrainian foods that my mother thankfully still continues to cook.

My best friend in high school was a girl with the last name of Kotyk which meant "cat" in Ukrainian. Her family had kept up many traditions and my friend was part of a dance group. I envied her dance costume complete with red leather boots, a heavily embroidered blouse and a headdress with multi-coloured ribbons flowing down her back. One Ukrainian Christmas (January 7), I was visiting their house and they did the ritual of the pashka. It was a sticky bread that was thrown up on to the dining room ceiling. If it stuck there, the year would be a lucky one, if it fell off, trouble. That year, it stuck.

There is an extravagance of passion that is closely bound up with the extremely practical nature of a Ukrainian. On one hand, materials, handicraft and quantities are worried over. On the other hand, excess is frequently wasted in celebration. It is this contradiction that I see ever present in the consideration of how I make my work. It must possess many hours of intense labour and yet convey the outward message of joy and life.

The mornings are my best time for working especially if the sun is pouring in through the studio windows. It is such an optimistic span of hours and I usually start by rolling out clay slabs with a large and heavy rolling pin. Although there is a slab roller available, I find the repetitive, muscular motion of rolling clay, picking it up and flipping, rolling it again - very soothing and interactive.

With my apron on and my rolling pin in hand, I sometimes feel like a cook about to concoct a meal for a waiting group of friends. Family, friends, home, once again. And as I work, I believe I visualize the clay pieces in that very location and atmosphere - included in the fabric of life, not isolated in a gallery, alone. Although the work is easier to examine in the starkness of a white gallery on a white pedestal, the best scenario for it in my mind is to be lived with, to have a continual conversation with it and to learn about all its peculiarities.

Through rituals, ceremonies and through the work we produce day after day, we help to mark our time here on earth. It seems that these past two years at Cranbrook have whirled around so quickly - as fast as a storm that comes and goes, but is remembered. In my life, I'm coming close to that half-way mark in age, and the anticipation of each future day seems to be measured. So the marking of a moment in time, a realization that we are here now, seeing and talking to each other, hearing and learning from each other, is one of the most important duties we have.

As clay artists we are so unique in our ability to reproduce moments of time in our work. Work in clay speaks of its formation by touch and of the process of firing which translates hope and idea to reality. We only have to glance back at an older piece and the memory of its making is there. Our work in the presence of others in their homes, serves to give them their own moments of recollection. They remember our faces, the story that went along with the piece, the location and time that it entered their lives. Associations and memories from others' lives are brought to our work. Our meaning and their interpretation layer together to create a record, a marking.

Often I imagine that people think they're doing me a favour by suggesting that I make my work with a totally white surface. Maybe they feel there's some profound but temporary lapse in my judgement and those brazen colours that I am slapping all over those surfaces, are just a terrible mistake.

So during my second year at Cranbrook, I finally took their advice (no one can call me stubborn) and made some smaller porcelain pieces that had plates with domed lids on them. Actually they also ended up being maquettes for the domed place settings I made later on, but I did leave them white.

I also made a larger vase shape that held candles in the corners and the whole collection of white pieces took on a very sacrificial tone. I placed dime-store wedding rings under three of the domes of the plates and bought a wall-mounted vitrine to place another one in. The light in the morning in my studio produced the most beautiful shadows on the small piece in the vitrine. The textured surfaces were perfectly delineated and serene in the bath of light. I learned that as a study of form, the whiteness helped me see it clearly and the pieces had a preciousness about them that was hard to duplicate in my glazed work.

As a tribute to whiteness, purity and all those assumptions in life that we hold as being unshakeable and constant, I did a short performance piece for one of my critiques. A classmate lit the candles in the larger form and ritually lifted the lids and removed the wedding rings from the plates. At the end of my reading, she tossed them into the centre of the candles and blew them out.

That day, classmates interacted with two of my other pieces as I read poems that I had written about the work. It was a type of short, fleeting theatre and it gave me a way of discovering other meanings in my work by writing about it after completion. It may have deterred the later discussion from the technical issues of my work, but the atmosphere of investigation at Cranbrook allowed me to experiment with another format and I appreciated the freedom.

The following poem was written in my response to the white pieces.

Colour

The most vivid and colourful images that I can remember in a book were inside the front and back covers of a Grimms' Fairy Tales in my house as a child. Not only were the colours rivetting to the eye but the illustrations of small children with serpents wrapped around their feet conveyed definite moral overtones. That book with its excessive content and colour is still one of my favourites and I am ready to admit that I am a confirmed colour "junkie". In fact, if I could not use colour on my work, there would not be much point in my working in clay.

In the past, the glaze temperatures I've worked in were Cone 10 (muted and classic), Cone 6 (getting a bit brighter) and then I used a tin-based majolica on a production line for a number of years. Mason stains became trusted and expensive friends and I used the whole range from Shell Pink, Pansy Purple to Delphinium Blue and Chartreuse.

For a time I became tired of the limited layering possibilities of majolica, and actually painted with acrylics on fired earthenware. The surface was not functional at all and that disturbed me. But I did learn to manipulate colours on top of colours as well as the technique of rubbing black underglaze into the carvings on the surface. The acrylic stage lead to the technique which I now use which is a multi-fired surface of Cone 04 glazes in a range of 22 colours.

I believe my love of colour comes from many sources: my large collection of Ukrainian Easter eggs, memories of smocked dresses my mother made, and years of quilting tiny pieces of coloured cloth during my children's nap time. Also living through many bleak, Canadian winters discourages the love of anything white. Possibly even my severe case of near-sightedness might have contributed to this preference by forcing me to identify things by their colours instead of their outline.

Whatever the source of that love, there is a very strong need for passionate colour in my work; to coerce, convince, lull, shock, seduce, repel, heat up, cool down, emphasize and make disappear. I've spent this time at Cranbrook finding out what glazes work with other glazes, colour combinations that pop out, and flow together. Along with constant glaze testing, I have tried to observe how colour influences form. Through a non-chalant and fearless approach in the application of colour, I now have a hefty palette of colours to continue to work with.

Glaze testing cannot really ever stop; there is always room for changes, whether it's more matte surfaces or a different range of hues. The application of colour and the self-education of how it all works together, can only be learned by doing it. Just jump in and put on that colour. Take it out of the kiln and look at it for a while, throw some more colour on it and fire it again and again.

When I am preparing to glaze, I use a permanent felt pen to write on the different areas of the piece as I visualize what colours to put where. This method helps me remember where I've placed the different colours, since they all look the same in the application stage. You can also write on top of dry glazes with a permanent pen, to keep things straight.

One day during my final term at Cranbrook, Tony asked me exactly how I decide to apply colour to my pieces. My first reaction was to say that intuition led me through it, but the more I talked about the different areas of textures and their sources, I realized there were more factors in this decision.

The surfaces of my pieces are covered with layers of clay that have been press-moulded into objects that I have gathered over the past two years. These objects include my children's toys, odd mechanical parts from around the studio and a few pieces of memorabilia from my childhood. More items were found during a particularly fruitful day at the Salvation Army in Pontiac and other sundry garage and church sales. All of this stuff lies mounded up on the far corner of my table as I work and try out different textures to see what fits where.

The colour I choose for each texture definitely relates to my memory of where the object came from and if it has any past associations for me. For example, there is my old bicycle chain that I use on the stems of goblets and the edges of trays, that reminds me of leisure, heat and freedom. I always tend to do that texture in a light orange reminiscent of those days of riding bikes. On the other hand, there are textures I use, sometimes new ones that I'm not used to yet, that have a strange industrial quality to them. Usually they are covered with a matte, opaque purplish glaze to mask my indecision about their origins and their effect on my piece.

Recently, I bought some East Indian fabric printing blocks from a third world handcraft store in Toronto, and my work is currently covered with Moroccan-like illustrated surfaces. There are paisley designs, suns, dots, wavy lines all carved into these beautiful wooden blocks. They exude history, handwork and crowded bazaars and I therefore use my very brightest glazes and a number of them on one area together.

The application of colour still must come from intuition if it is to appear fresh and uncontrived. I look at the area and I feel, for whatever connective reason, what colour to put there. And sometimes, I make mistakes. Too dark a blue that conceals a curvaceous area of scroll work. Too heavy an application that completely obscures a delicate impression. With luck and a good memory, the combinations of colour can be orchestrated along with form, line, volume and content to produce a work that is provocatively whole.





Surface and Content

For the final review of my first year at Cranbrook, I produced four place settings for the table. The bowl, smaller plate and larger plate fit together and the overall effect was one completely covered with textures and colours. In a black and white photograph of these place settings, very little delineation of colour hues or forms would be seen. The work from my first year was based on thrown forms and covered front and back, top and bottom with press-moulded clay pieces.

Because I was so familiar with my stable of press-mould objects, it was easy for me to understand the flow and relationship between the different patterns and surfaces. But to the viewer, it was much more difficult to single out certain objects, to recognize an overall structure in the decoration or to find a restful spot for the eye to gather strength. In fact, one instructor had the comment that when he sat down before my place settings, that he already felt full!

Another aspect of my first year's work, was that it had a more obvious narrative quality about it. I used impressions of my own hands, fingers, keys from my house, plasticine stamps of elephants, rabbits and cats, leaves and arrows. With this myriad of symbols I literally covered all the surfaces of the pieces I had built. In second year, I began to concentrate on form as a backbone for my decoration and that will be covered in the following section on form.

Also in my second year, the objects that were reflected in the clay, became more ambiguous in their ability to be recognized and therefore more interesting in their content. The spire of a lid was the transformation of the pattern made by a metal spring into an eel-like growth winding upward through the air. This piece used an industrial part to create an organic form, that mimicked some of the movement of the original spring.

The "additive" or "effusive" aesthetic (two comments given during my 2nd year review) is still strongly represented on the surface of my work. I try to suggest forms and larger areas of pattern without using elements that have obvious content such as animals or flower patterns. Sometimes I find also that an eerily comfortable repetition sets in, and I have to completely abandon a favourite object that has been overused in impressions. The surfaces celebrate expressiveness, a tactile compulsion to touch and be touched - for the maker and the user to reach out and run their hand over the impressions of a spring or floor mat to feel its translation into clay under glaze.

The previous quote is a good description of the "gestalt" of my work during a first glance. The dizzying combination of brilliant colour, heavily laden surfaces, extravagant and precarious forms and a disturbing reference to some era other than the year 2000.

The latest work has tried to soar, defy gravity more and to use surface as content in a more cohesive way. In the vase forms, the references to fountains and water are reinforced by the pouring, flowing glazes right down to the feet of the pot and on to the glaze shelf. I've learned to appreciate those puddles of glaze at the bottoms - I just round them off with a Dremel tool and let them stay there as part of the process.

The upward movement of the work is counteracted by the gravity-pulled glaze. There is more conflict and visual interest in the work as the eye follows the movement up and down the surface. Particular colours such as a new explosive orange glaze and a red glaze with a visceral interior message, call for attention when placed strategically on the inside of goblet cups and the mouths of fountain-like attachments.

The work demands constant scrutiny. There is always something more to learn from the surface. A glaze moment tucked behind a handle, an interior that is bathed with turquoise-jewelled glaze turned glass. The lip of a cup that curls back in a grin, two handles that impersonate ears. My work may confuse in the initial stage of introduction, but there is so much to be gained by having a conversation with it. They are complex, rich characters possessing very definite attitudes.

In the industrial world of ceramics, the form usually follows function. Domestic objects are supposed to be ergonomically correct and products are designed for the optimum use of an optimum population. Few idiosyncracies are tolerated because they inhibit mass production techniques and narrow the appeal of the available audiences. At least, this is a current perception in the manufacturing of ceramic objects. Modernism and minimalism made it extremely easy for the makers of mass-produced objects and extremely boring for the consumer.

When it comes to using the pieces I make, the user has to give up some of their pre-conceived ideas about how a thing should work. For example, the domed place settings were accompanied by plates that were completely covered with texture. Eating spaghetti from these plates would not be pleasurable. An arrangement of finger foods or something that didn't burrow into all the crevices of the surface would be perfect.

The goblets are another ceremonial but functional set of pieces that would be appropriate in a moment of high exaltation or utter defeat. Raising one of the goblets high, full of champagne and then drinking deeply, letting it pour down over your chin and chest - that would be a remarkable event.

The work has a personality and has demands of its own. The user must respect it and adapt in the appropriate way. Functional work should not have to be subservient or boring. We as users, simply have to be open to more creative options when faced with an unusual but intriguing functional piece.

As far as the observation that a multi-coloured surface competes unfavourably with other objects (such as food or flowers) that are placed with it - I can only say that "more is more" and if the user is responsive and courageous, the outcome will be successful.

My large vases are built with common disposable objects such as cardboard florists' containers, but the results are forms that resemble classical periods such as the Baroque or Rococo. This causes a curious comparison to happen between old values and new.

The content that can be read into the different impressions and building forms I use are the time periods of the past, present and future. The present can be read in the disposable found objects of today, the past can be felt in the personal objects from my childhood and the future can be interpreted from the industrial, machine-like forms comprised of many composite impressions. Content can also go beyond the simple original reading of a jelly mould, into a structural architectural element referencing a fluted column.

Another example is a square green Lego platform from my son's collection that makes small raised dots in the clay. When this impression is changed into a form on the surface of a pot, it takes on a different significance from its toy background. Now it indicates industry, repetition and the mechanized age and I can see both meanings in its appearance. I found the top of an old egg poacher that I bought from a table of tired household objects at a church sale. The clay impression results in a rounded breast shape which I exploit usually in a symmetrical pairing on the base of vases. The domestic connotation of the household object and the physical aspects of the woman who uses it, are both present in this one impression.

One last area I explored on the surface of my work was that of words. The above quote on mottoes tells of their power to speak out in a very short and succinct way. Here is the list of "homilies" I used on the bases of the goblet series:

And He said "Heal Yourself"
It Doesn't Matter
When to Walk on Water
Mystery of Day, Mystery of Night
Big, Bigger, Biggest
Build Castles in the Air
Follow Me

Although the words were a visual "hook" to the viewing audience, I felt that in the end they limited the full interpretation of the individuality of each goblet. In the future, I will continue to hide mottoes inside containers, under lids and on the bottom of plates so that a discovery can still be made; but not at first glance. In that way, words are mixed with textures and glazes to produce a even greater layering of content and surface.




Form

During one of my critiques, the word "excess" was mentioned, and a classmate voiced the opinion that I was holding back in the "excess" category. That if let loose, my abilities to accumulate images and objects on the surface of clay could be even more bountiful. In reality, that would be much too easy, too comfortable for me to do.

The accumulation of "more" is a basic necessity or given in the personality of an artist who works with an additive aesthetic. Previous quotes in this thesis describe the almost hallucinogenic state of the maker in this infinitely decorative state. I can identify heartily with that and it is a tendency that must be tempered with other considerations, such as form, in my work.

In my final year, sources other than ceramic history became important to me. Architectural drawings of classical Greek temples, Baroque and Rococo cathedrals held clues to building systems that could be used to support my work. Another exquisite source was the 18th century architect, Piranesi, who etched and drew architectural fantasies and settings that my work would fit into perfectly. On my studio wall is a photocopy of a particularly classic Piranesi scene with columns, statues and stairways and I look on it as my window to a world that I can enter.

Other origins of form included the Cranbrook landscape and building design that I have been immersed in for two years. Being fortunate enough to be able to walk through the Cranbrook gardens on my way to the studio, I know that the fountains, statues, decorative brickwork and Cranbrook sense of grandeur have all made a strong impression on my work.

Silverwork of the 18th century consists of ornate, but inventive structural forms. In particular, the extremely tall, covered altar cups gave me inspiration for my domed place settings. Although metalwork doesn't have to contend with gravity as in claywork, and the soaring forms are more realistically achieved.

Structure and form were explored in a number of ways in my work this year. I used the interiors of found containers, the shapes achieved from pressing into a piece of wood corner moulding and plastic jelly moulds to produce clay forms. All sorts of objects can be lined with dry cleaning plastic or dusted with cornstarch to help release the clay. Then I stack these three-dimensional forms in different ways; cut them into sections, join parts together and take them apart, until the arrangement becomes visually exciting and basically stable.

Just a note on precariousness. When I started building separate bases and tall lids, for my vase forms, I was trying to fully utilize the 26" interior height of our electric kilns rather than using the taller gas fired kilns. Oxidation firing is imperative for the glaze colours I use and I also feel strongly about being able to carry around the parts of my work on my own. So individual sections were piled on top of each other to form the 5 foot tall vases. They are relatively stable, but not in earthquake country. To ensure a bond between the parts, the adhesive PC7 could be used for a permanent joint. Although I have used a heat gun on PC7 and managed to reverse its magnificent adhering qualities.

Inherent in the use of gravity-bound clay to make the soaring forms in my goblets and vases, is the uncertainty of whether the work will survive. First through the firing process and next during the balancing act of one section on top of each other. An interlocking system of clay parts at the bottom of the vase and the top of the base, can help to stabilize the structure. Truthfully, I enjoy the visual tension of seeing a large vase shape, perched on a smaller column section. It speaks of extravagance, and is an almost perverse and satirical comment on classical form and its doctrines.

Restraint and excess, reason and impulse; contrasting currents that run continually through my life and my work.

The intricate construction of a Renaissance cathedral spire and how it joins to the roof; Russian thatched wood roofs comprised of multiple forms repeated over and over; five-stage pagoda roofs that delineate levels of space and encourage light to penetrate the interior; elements of form and colour that become the eavestroughing that runs around the perimeter of a Gaudi roof - and so I discovered roofs and how they could influence the building of my pots.

The future holds the further investigation of three-dimensional space around the pieces I construct. For example, within the design of the arms, lids and bases of the linear vases, there is a possibility of moving outward from the axis line. Free-standing forms can interact or connect in some way with the central vase shape. I am even tempted to refer to the flying buttresses of one of Gaudi's interior roof supports to produce a base system that holds a vase in its raised centre.

My natural tendency is towards a symmetrical form, especially in the larger vases which depend on an equally balanced weight to remain erect. But through the flow of surface design and glaze I have tried to impose a contrasting movement that the eye can follow around the form. Symmetry in the vase forms indicates to me, a completed and monumental appearance and is part of the work's visual strength and content.

Volume is one word that Tony is always urging me to consider.

My fingers tend to work in a very compressive way. Press-moulding, pushing clay into the insides of forms, I am defining the exterior limits, not the interior ones. Occasionally I use thrown forms in the centre of my vase shapes and a sense of volume is achieved by pushing out on the interior walls with my fingers.

Another method I am using is to cut into blank clay slab walls on pots to reveal interior spaces, frame sections with open scroll work or use perforated sheets of clay as a screen to look through. I try to allow the work to breath and have a corresponding interior and exterior that are responsive and sensual.

The clearer my understanding is of the creation and embodiment of a separate, almost spiritual entity in my work, the easier it is to provide all the elements that are necessary for it to exist and survive as a successful work of art.




Technical

I purchase a white earthenware clay body that fires up to Cone 2 from Rovin Ceramics. It helps to have some grog in the body, especially when building the larger vase shapes. I bisque to Cone 04 and then glaze fire to Cone 03.

To help release the clay from the press-moulds, I use conrstarch which I brush on the clay slab before pushing into the impression. It was the safest dust I could fine to inhale on a regular basis.

Many thanks to Lisa Orr for developing and sharing this base glaze which I use with a number of different stains:

Orr Glaze - Cone 04/03

Many thanks to John Rolfing for developing and sharing these base glazes which I use with a number of different stains:

Matte Rolfing A - Cone 04/03

Matte Rolfing B - Cone 04/03

For glazes using pink and green stains add to the above recipe:

Satin Rolfing Matte - Cone 04/03

John Gill Glaze - 04/03