Outstretched to the future

I grew up in a converted white clapboard church in the center of a small New England town to a family of artists and anthropologists. One side nurtured artistic creation, while the other explored, among other things, the function of art in society. My interest in clay is an intersection of these two sides, art and its function, both holy and humble. For three years, I apprenticed in the workshops of North Carolina potters Matt Jones and Mark Hewitt. Their work combines traditions, from the Anglo-Oriental school of Leach, Hamada, and Cardew to the folk pottery of the south-eastern United States and many places between. In their workshops I learned to love these simple pots; adorned or bare, quiet and strong, they make their place comfortably at the table or hearth and speak to the thousands of years of pots before them.
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Fish@... in Saloniki

Feel Earth

What it Means to Throw Clay and feel Earth Come Alive

There is life in this clay as I wedge before day, when morning is just but a gleam

Its life’s hard to feel, when it’s not on a wheel, but my fingers are gentle and clean

So any heartbeat, that lies in the deep, is like waves that crash on the shore

And as I, wedge my clay, in the dawn before day, I will help this life to grow more

Slump in my chair, and brush back my hair, before lifting the first ball to me

A five-pound no more, but size is no chore, for a master with hands that can see

And its smack on the bat is loud as a crack, hunch over the faint little heart

With a sponge in my grip the water turns to slip, a push of the wheel now I start

At once it’s alive, it beating will thrive, I can feel my own heart speed the wheel

Off-center a bit, but its life has been lit, it’s alive and it moves with my feel

So I dive with the earth, and help to give birth, to a pot which this clay will now form

Be proud where you end, I tell my dear friend, but it trembles and shakes with reform

The clay moves not you, my words whisper true, as the form writhes in my grip

I cast up and down, the slip forms a crown, on its head which comes off in a strip

As my hands move in, its beating grows din, to center this clay is the devil

But I remember my phrase, and my hand does not raise, ‘til it’s round and perfectly level

My hands go to center, my fingertips enter, and I open the clay to a torus

I can tell that it’s scared with its insides so flared, my fingers move together in chorus

Sing now my dear! I implore you drop fear, my hands guide your way as you rise

Your form grows with majesty as you spin in front of me, you breathe ‘neath my hands with your cries

But suddenly I stop as you reach your full top, and I place my hands on your base

I listen and feel with the spins of the wheel, but I realize some thing’s out of place

For deep in your wall an air pocket’s small, a death wish for pots of all size

You don’t feel it that much, but it hurts when I touch, I fear this will be your demise

And it pains me so, when the wheel does slow, and gaze at your fabulous lines

You were princely, a king, your figure could sing, yet none of your grace undermines

The dawn crept near when I shed a tear, and pulled out a long coiled thread

Around fingers of life, I wrapped thread like a knife, and cut you from the bat so you’re dead

Severed and broken, your body a token, of clay that could breathe and laugh

And I look at the thread which claimed you instead, and sighing I cut you in half

There in your wall, I see a bubble, that’s all, what brought you down from your top

Cannot be, it’s not fair, I feel the despair, as I throw your two halves in the slop

But dawn has a way, of clearing dismay, and as the sun rose so did I

I felt through my feet, a breathing in beat, coming from the earth and the sky

It breathed both in time, to clay’s heart and mine, and I saw myself split like the pot

But my breathing lived on, though my body was gone, for the heart and the soul don’t get caught

The sunlight now broke from cracking night’s cloak, like gold ships from the sea I saw light

The majesty I saw put in contrast the flaw, in the pot thrown at dawn after night

Yes the form it was great, but that did not make, the clay who it was ‘neath my hands

It was beating and breath, not cause of death, which defined my dear friend in my plans

So again let us throw! I shout all aglow, We will make such a form never seen!

Clay on the bat, loud as a crack, I drip you in water ‘till you gleam

And this time I touch, not one beat as such, but the breath of the earth and the sky

I pull and there’s life, give beauty with knife, I’m a potter, with clay I can fly

Pottery and Titanic

Bookseller, Bookseller, why are you mad?

The Bookseller

Bookseller, Bookseller, why do you weep?

Because I must sell my books far too cheap.

Bookseller, Bookseller, why do you grin?

Because an old lady is just coming in.

Bookseller, Bookseller, why all this joy?

Because she requires a nice book for a boy.

Bookseller, Bookseller, why do you cough?

Ahem! Well, the discount forgot to come off.

Bookseller, Bookseller, why are you gay?

Because it's my best of business to-day.

Bookseller, Bookseller, why are you mad?

Because the half-sovereign I changed her is bad

This rather rare children's book of poetry and lithographic illustrations relating to various kinds of employment - some quite unusual - was first published in Fleet St in London in 1900. Text by JJ Bell. Illustrations by C Robinson.
via BibliOdyssey

Ligo,Jani and Skandinieki

The annual celebration of the summer solstice, known as Jani is generally viewed as the most important Latvian holiday. Jani is celebrated on June 23 and 24. The traditions and rituals associated with the celebration of Jani are deeply rooted in ancient Latvian folklore and continue to have deep symbolic meaning for the celebrants. Participants gather flowers, grasses and oak leaves which are used to make wreaths and decorate the farmstead, house and farm animals. Jani night activities include the singing of special Jani songs (Ligo songs) around a ceremonial bonfire. Home-brewed beer and a special Jani caraway seed cheese are an essential part of this colourful holiday ritual.
Skandinieki is a collective of singers and instrumentalists (a total of 23 are credited on this recording) that marked its 27th anniversary last November. The core of Skandinieki is the Stalts family. Dāvis, Helmi, Julgī, Marga and Ričards Stalts perform on their new CD(Dzied un spēle Skandinieki) Of note is that the Stalts are of Liv descent. Though their numbers have fallen through the years, the Livs are still alive and well in Latvia
Today there are only about 300 Livonians, most of whom have become Latvianised. Approximately 70 of them understand Livonian partially, maybe ten speak it as their mother tongue.
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Tony Blair's Ein Hod Connection

SEEKING TO confuse the paparazzi who were not among the invited guests, supermodel Esti Ginzberg and property developer Adi Keizman sent out wedding invitations that listed the venue as a villa in Zichron Yaacov. Only on the night before the wedding did guests receive notice of the correct address, which was in the courtyard of the home of fashion photographer Ron Kedmi, who lives in the Ein Hod Artists’ Village. It was Ginzberg’s first wedding and Keizman’s third. At the time that he and Ginzberg started keeping company around two years ago, he was still married to Ofra Strauss, who chairs the Straus Group. Strauss was previously married for 18 years to Dan Lahat, son of former Tel Aviv mayor Shlomo Lahat. Her name has since been romantically linked with that of Middle East envoy Tony Blair, with whom she enjoys a close friendship. Both Strauss and Blair have denied that their relationship is more than platonic, but neither the Hebrew nor the British media have accepted the denials. Keisman, who is more than a decade younger than Strauss, is 16 years older than his 22 year old bride. via JP

Jugs Full of Secrets

Archaeologists in the eastern Mediterranean region have been unearthing spherical jugs, used by the ancients for storing and trading oil, wine, and other valuable commodities. Because we're used to the metric system, which defines units of volume based on the cube, modern archaeologists believed that the merchants of antiquity could only approximately assess the capacity of these round jugs, says Prof. Itzhak Benenson of Tel Aviv University's Department of Geography.
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