The Accidental Potter

I was sent off to summer camps a few times when I was a kid. (kicking and screaming I may add. I did not like summer camps.) Anyway, I was perhaps seven or eight years old the first time. I was there two days and caught chicken pox -- an epidemic at the camp. My parents, to make things worse, came to visit me - through a window in the cabin called "The Chicken Coop." (any wonder I decided I hated summer camp from then on?) Once out of the "coop," the only activities I remember are the dance classes and the crafts cabin. I worked in clay for the first time, and I sculpted a bird. That's what it began to look like so I went with it. I remember that it was surprisingly good. The counselor in charge said we could pick up our work the last day of camp. The bus waiting, I hurried to the crafts cabin. I stood in the doorway unseen by the counselor, who was packing her bag. I saw my bird sculpture being wrapped in paper and put in her bag. I knocked, and asked for my bird. She did a very bad acting job when she told me it had broken in the kiln. I told her that I was sure she was mistaken; the bird was in her bag. She became rude and verbally kicked me out. I hope to this day that it broke in her bag before she made it home.

All of that to describe my first encounter with clay. When my kids were little we'd play together making things from clay. I'd make baker's clay for them (the stuff made with flour and salt -- remember?). And we'd create a plethora of sugar cookies over the years in magical shapes and designs. The first piece of art I ever purchased was in Pittsburgh when my boys were very young and we were very poor. We went to a craft fair and I bought (for $7.50 - quite a sum back then) a wheel-thrown bowl. I have always loved that bowl; I haven't had the opportunity or where-withal to buy many pieces of art since then. Happily, the bowl remains in tact even after a life-time of moving from place to place like some sort of gypsy.

And then one day, I met a charming lady who introduced me to her pottery teacher who had a place in her class which was held in her basement. The love affair began: me on a kick-wheel; for over five years, every Wednesday night! Her name was Sandy Lenz; she was a fine potter and a good teacher. When I look at the pieces I created those years (well, the ones I didn't give away) I wonder whether I was actually quite adequate or whether my teacher's hands were all over the work. In any case, the society of the small class, the camaraderie, and the total involvement the clay provided albeit the pieces one took home: all of this wonderful adventure stopped for years and years. When I moved to the New York area in 2002, my son gave me a great birthday gift: a series of classes at a pottery studio near my workplace. I went there with so much hope and spirit only to find a totally unfriendly environment, a teacher who didn't teach -- didn't even look at what was being done. And while my head remembered everything, my hands did not. In fairness, the wheel was electric. I had learned on the kick wheel; a totality of experience. An almost dance -- a complete concentration. But at the New York studio my work looked like a very young child had an accident with some clay. When the series ended, I gave the craft up as a part of yesterday.

This past fall I walked into a charming shop in Beverly, MA where I live, called "Clay Dreaming." A street away from my apartment. How lucky is that?! Some excellent work was exhibited for sale; a lovely space was set aside for folks to paint greenware with glazes. Once fired a nice piece of pottery was wrapped to take home. And then there was this large room with 10 or 12 potters wheels. I had been laid off from my job; I was feeling rather depressed after months of applying for work to no avail. And, like Alice, I saw a door to an adventure I sorely needed -- if I could only make myself fit through. I managed it; found my box of pottery tools still in tact; showed up for class.

My head still remembers it all. Well, most of it. My hands do not always cooperate. The society is there -- chatty, friendly, supportive. The teacher wants very much for each of us to succeed in the way we want for ourselves. When I put the clay on the wheel I sometimes know what I want to create (usually a nice, large bowl) but the clay seems to have objectives of its own. If I don't take command I either wind up with a failed attempt or with something I had no intention of making. Thinking about this, it seems that the same scenario plays out quite often in my life. (yours, too?) When I started my little theatre school (a lifetime ago) I meant it to be a place for children to learn about acting and theatre. Most of my students were adults and young adults. There was a class of youngsters, but mainly the school had attracted grown-ups who had always wanted to be part of the theatre. I never intended to do shows for audiences, but the needs of the students and apparently for me led to a small repertory company and a traveling children's participatory company. One of my former students told me years later that "it was magic." Well, it was hard work, but certainly the outcome was always magical.

There's a saying in Yiddish (my grandma Jennie always quoted) "Men plan; God laughs." I've given the universe much to laugh about. But I no longer fight it. I go each Tuesday evening to see what the clay has in store for me. I don't turn out the quantity of work that my classmates accomplish. But I have to believe the clay will listen to me more and more as I continue the adventure. And if not, I will permit it to surprise me, until one day I surprise myself.