There were all kinds of pictures hanging on the walls, and here and there around the room were wooden stands topped by glazed jars and glass boxes filled with small metal angles and quirky silver jewelry. But there was lots of room around each piece on display, and the walls and floor and wooden stands were painted flat white. Rows of spotlights mounted on black metal pipes crisscrossed the ceiling, each light shining on a different part of the room. There was so much white and light, I thought that this must be what Heaven looks like. There were no shadows anywhere.
A girl about my age with an embroidered shawl and one, long, dangly earring handed me a thin paper book with a big “W” on the cover, and, opening it, I saw that there was a page for each of the artists who had work in the show. On the third page was a picture of Rose. She was looking straight at the camera in the same concentrating way she’d stared at me the day I met her, and underneath the picture was a paragraph written in tall, spiky lettering.
I build and rebuild. My art is concerned with the
mechanics of construction, and I want the viewer
to focus on the rhythm of joins and departures.
Meetings are never smooth, conjunctions never
perfectly symmetrical, and partings never com-
plete or permanent. To achieve the disjunction
of connections, it is sometimes necessary for me to
of connections, it is sometimes necessary for me to
destroy a piece in order to create--or recreate--it.
I didn’t know what to make of this. Underneath the paragraph was a small picture of a clay mask--a man’s face--which looked familiar, and I wondered if it was some famous guy I’d seen before, maybe in the newspaper or on TV.
I didn’t know what to make of this. Underneath the paragraph was a small picture of a clay mask--a man’s face--which looked familiar, and I wondered if it was some famous guy I’d seen before, maybe in the newspaper or on TV.
I started around the room, moving methodically from one painting to another, dutifully noting the title and each artist’s name. When I found a piece with Rose’s name on it, I stood an extra long time in front of it, examining it for traces of her, clues--other than her name on the small white square of paper tacked next to it on the wall--that it belonged to her. In one water color of a forest lake (or at least that what it looked like to me, in spite of its colors that no lake ever contained and its appearance of floating in the air above the trees) I found a faint image of Rose’s long, tapered fingers. In purply crayon lines smeared on rough-fibered paper, I caught a glimpse of a dangling pendant that I imagined Rose might have worn low in the sparse depression between her breasts. The pendant seemed to sway as I tilted my head slightly right and left in front of this sketch, the thick layers of crayon catching the light and moving it almost undetectably back and forth like one of those little holographic pictures that you get sometimes in cereal boxes.
Under a square glass dome I found Rose’s name next to a trio of silver pieces that resembled miniature tornadoes, heavy, swirling masses that tapered viciously to slender funnels. The jewelry confused me; it seemed both beautiful and dangerous, and I imagined lifting those turbulent earrings to my lobes and fastening that shimmering, angry cloud on my breast.
Under a square glass dome I found Rose’s name next to a trio of silver pieces that resembled miniature tornadoes, heavy, swirling masses that tapered viciously to slender funnels. The jewelry confused me; it seemed both beautiful and dangerous, and I imagined lifting those turbulent earrings to my lobes and fastening that shimmering, angry cloud on my breast.
“Like ‘em?” Rose’s voice came so suddenly, so close in my ear, that I jumped and knocked my wrist against the edge of the glass case.
“Jeez! You scared me! What’re you doin’ here?”
“Well, I am one of the people in the show, you know. I’m sort of expected to be here. The proud but humble artist and all that.” She shrugged and laughed offhandedly. “You like my stuff?”
“Yeah. This jewelry is great. I’d like to have some of it.”
“Sorry, it’s promised,” Rose said flatly. Together we stared into the display case. Our reflections were creased and bent in the middle by the angle of the glass top. Rose’s hair was again knotted tightly on top of her head, which made her reflection extend an inch or so beyond mine.
“You look nice, Rose.” She was wearing levis again, but this pair looked fairly new--not torn or stained. Her shirt was heavy and black, with triangles of emerald and teal green. She wore flat-heeled boots of dark teal leather and heavy silver rings on each hand.
“Thanks. Have you seen the raku pieces? Over here.” She took my arm and steered me across the gallery to a wall of plates and masks. Large slabs of porous clay gleamed with metallic blues, greens, and golds. In the places where the pieces were unglazed, the clay was rough and sooty. A series of faces fashioned to be neither completely human nor wholly animal grinned and grimaced darkly. Some of the masks looked familiar: I thought I recognized a larger relative of the little chicken kiln god, her gaping beak ready to cackle or gulp worm. An over-sized man’s face with thick, pursed lips--the mask that was pictured in the brochure--stared stonily out over the gallery.
I gestured at the man’s face. “Do I know him?”
I gestured at the man’s face. “Do I know him?”
Rose smiled. “Well, sort of. Last time you saw him, you smothered him in leaves. This is the stuff we fired a couple of weeks ago.”
“Wow. They sure look different.” I studied the finished pieces before me, but I could find only a vague resemblance between these hard, glittering images and the fiery living things that Rose had pulled from the blazing kiln with her tongs and baptized in my barrels of newspaper. “How do you know how to do this?”
“I assume you mean besides taking an art class?”
“Yeah, I mean, how do you make them look like you want them to? I mean . . . I’m not sure what I mean . . .” I stopped and looked at the wall of masks for help.
"If you’re asking how do I plan for them to turn out this way,” she gestured at the masks, “I don’t. That’s what I like about working with clay. There’s a limit to what you can plan. You have an idea about the shape of the pot or whatever you’re making; you can use a glaze that you’ve seen on another piece; you can try for the same affect each time, but you can’t predict what will happen in the kiln. There are chemical reactions between the fuel source and the glazes, between individual pieces. A slight change in kiln temperature can make a big change in the glazes.” Rose touched the edge of the chicken mask, adjusting its angle on the wall ever so slightly. Her voice floated up toward the pieces on the wall. “At some point, you have to turn your piece over to the kiln gods and trust that they’ll know what to do with it.”
"If you’re asking how do I plan for them to turn out this way,” she gestured at the masks, “I don’t. That’s what I like about working with clay. There’s a limit to what you can plan. You have an idea about the shape of the pot or whatever you’re making; you can use a glaze that you’ve seen on another piece; you can try for the same affect each time, but you can’t predict what will happen in the kiln. There are chemical reactions between the fuel source and the glazes, between individual pieces. A slight change in kiln temperature can make a big change in the glazes.” Rose touched the edge of the chicken mask, adjusting its angle on the wall ever so slightly. Her voice floated up toward the pieces on the wall. “At some point, you have to turn your piece over to the kiln gods and trust that they’ll know what to do with it.”
“I remember you said something like that before, when we were in the kiln room.” I thought about all those Sundays I spent going to church all day long: Sunday School and sacrament meeting and whatever that was in between--Merry Miss?--before my mom finally gave up and let me sleep in. “You know, I never heard of anybody believing in stuff like that. That kinda talk wouldn’t go over very well where I come from."
"Well, I talk a lot of trash sometimes.” Rose shrugged. “Come on. Have you seen it all? I’ve put in enough time. They’re gonna close soon anyway. Let’s go get a beer.” Without waiting for me to answer, Rose started for the door. I folded the show’s program carefully and put in it my jacket pocket, then hurried after her out of the gallery.
"Well, I talk a lot of trash sometimes.” Rose shrugged. “Come on. Have you seen it all? I’ve put in enough time. They’re gonna close soon anyway. Let’s go get a beer.” Without waiting for me to answer, Rose started for the door. I folded the show’s program carefully and put in it my jacket pocket, then hurried after her out of the gallery.
