My parents didn't have a money tree. I learned to make what I wanted with my own hands - toy trucks from scrapwood, knives from old broken pieces, little pots from clay I found along a creek bank. That was fun. It generated a love of craft and the old ways, the real ways of making things with a personal touch.
As an adult, I couldn't get away from my fascination with clay. It caught up with me. I studied long and hard, trained under old masters and picked their brains.
My adult daughters and son couldn't keep their hands out of it either, and followed in my footsteps... my handprints. Getting into the rhythm of creating, we often lose all sense of time in the joy of it.
I like to compare the creating of a pot to a song.
The perfection of each step from kneading, forming, drying, bisque firing, glazing,...
- Joined September 26, 2010