Years ago getting ready for a journey home, I tossed most of my belongings to make room in my backpack for two things: wool yarn, bought from the nomadic sheep herding Berbers on the plains of Morocco and pottery – assorted traditional, patterned vessels collected from local artisans in Spain. It was like carrying back DNA samples which have stayed with me ever since, markers of my creative interest.
Soon after that trip, I moved to Brooklyn. Looking for a place to make ceramics, a friend gave me a contact. I showed up at the door wearing woven slippers bought in the Medina in Fez. He had a potter’s wheel, kiln and airplane; we dated for two years. In my next attempt, I was digging out clay from the Lamoille River, hauling it back to the studio with my Toyota truck for use in unfired sculptures. More time goes by, I transport my sister’s kiln from New Hampshire to Brooklyn and borrow a friend’s wheel. Sitting still in my studio for five years, their sole purpose a subtle irritant and reminder of what I wanted. Now, taking classes in a neighborhood ceramic studio – things are moving along.