My freshmen year was my first legitimate taste of what the ceramicist life could possibly be like. My previous relationships with clay ended abruptly after my pieces turned out too chunky, impractically gargantuan, or simply shattered into a million pieces before they even reached their finishing points.
(R.I.P. kitten themed Canopic jar, and Patricia the turtle).
As I entered college, I did not plan on ever touching clay again.
Ever.
To my horror, an introduction to ceramics course was a required portion of my first-year experience in the Arts and Culture Program at my university. Even more of a surprise was the fact that I slowly developed a love for the creative process of ceramic making.
That is not to say that I didn’t face failure that year because I did. And thus begins the tale of the teapot[s].
There once lived a beautifully illustrated cat teapot. Four mediocre slabs of clay joined together with countless hours of cat lady care. Too good to be true, it’s clumsy creator toppled it over, and it fell to its fateful death. No photographic evidence- due to impending trauma immediately following the accident. The only thing that remains is a scratched sketch of the poorly pre-planned engineering.
Teapot No. 2 enters the scene. The walls of this one pinched with care, this time much smaller in scale. Hoping that I could redeem myself with this much more time friendly project design, hopes were soon shattered. Literally. That one exploded into bits.
Two more teapots were attempted along the way, but they did not live long enough to bear a history worth retelling.
4 against 1. Obviously, hand built projects are not where I thrive at this point. So I turned to the throwing wheel-seeking any last shred of hope. 2 years later. I return to the ceramic studio that once caused such trauma. This time, enrolled in the Ceramics II course.
(Shout out to my ever gracious classmates-Being clumsy isn't always easy. Thanks for teaching me more about grace and forgiveness, as I broke my own projects, and some of yours as well.
Back to the basics, I became significantly frustrated with myself. Even the simple process of centering the clay, and balancing the weight of the mud that I want to work with has proven to be quite a struggle. As my professor demonstrated each step necessary to form a proper pot on the wheel, all I could think of is how inadequate I felt when I consider trying to attempt something even remotely similar.
The fear of failing kept me from trying anything new. I threw consistently with about 2.5lbs of clay for much of the semester. In case you were wondering, that is like limiting yourself to an 8 pack of crayons when you have an entire 64 pack at your disposal. I was afraid to takes risks. Afraid to become too attached to a piece that would most likely explode, or that all my efforts would result in flopped over lumps of clay that were overworked and tired out (often how I feel when I leave the art studio most days
However, my professor continued to push me. Reminding me that my lack of experience is not a crutch to my creativity, but rather a reason to become even more fascinated with the challenge of creating. She sees my lack of expertise as an opportunity to instill awe and passion, rather than seeing me as some newbie who is simply a waste of her time.
Not only did she encourage me, but she assigned a wheel thrown tea set project. That’s right. A teapot with matching teacups.
Petrified by this oh familiar task, I found comfort in my sketchbook, hoping that 35 drawings of teapots would pass as a final project. Unfortunately, that’s not the case, and fears must be faced in Ceramics II as well.
So after trimming through the bottoms of two teacups, breaking the handle off of the vessel 4 times, and accidentally fusing the lid and pot together, I finally had something that resembled a teapot, and any further setbacks were sure to lead me to give up on the entire assignment.
Fast forward to THE FINAL DAY OF CLASS.
Precious lil’ teapot glazed to perfection.
Because our class was comprised of a bunch of saps, and goons, a group photo was necessary. My genius suggestion; taking the photo with our most prized project. Of course, I chose the teapot.
And I dropped it.
Alas, this teapot was destined for something more than my best efforts and beaming pride. It was created to be broken, and broken it was.
In comes Kintsugi. The lovely, restorative process of Japanese art. Where broken things take on a whole new form of beautiful. Although I haven’t started the repair process yet, there still remains hope for this little broken teapot.
Moral of the story: Don’t allow the teapots (perceived failures) of life hold you back from putting the pieces you have left back together again.
They may turn out better than you think.
Even if they don’t there are far more possibilities that lie ahead.
So, cheers to some inevitable mistakes to come, the restorative process that can make brokenness even more beautiful, and the challenge to try again, even if it’s for the 5th or 6th, or 26th time.
Thanks for sticking around to read about my pathetic little teapot mishaps. Stay tuned as I'm sure there will be more stories to come.
