Ceramics: It Was Not Like "Ghost" at All

I had some general art credits to finish at school last year. The way I chose ceramics went like this:
 1) You got to be messy and wear aprons. Higher-stakes Play-Doh, essentially.
2) The famous scene from "Ghost" made it clear that the Patrick Swayzes of the world dig the artsy chicks.
3) I knew a drawing class would go horribly.

I didn't know that ceramics would so profoundly influence how I think about things. The first semester, like with everything, Perfectionist Me showed up intending to Do Things Right, and to apply all newly acquired knowledge expertly at the first attempt. I'd make a whole slew of artifacts and never have to buy dishes again. Perfectionist Me is stupid. It was a beginner class, and we started by hand-building containers. Our first assignment was to sketch ideas and bring them ready to share. Perfectionist Me started chanting "Don't mess up, don't mess up" around the bonfire of my brain. While I struggled to sketch a 3D pumpkin with a stem for a lid over the weekend, I dreaded having to go up there and talk about it, because I was ashamed of being a Beginner. I hadn't even done anything yet and I was Ashamed. How messed up is that? I sat there and was amazed at the easy confidence of the Art Ed majors, the aspiring dentist who brought in an astoundingly intricate blueprint of his Minion cookie jar, the American-born soccer player raised in Germany who's sharp, sleek design was as stereotypically German as you'd imagine. Then me and my pumpkin, which I found out was not the only pumpkin about to be made in class, so now instead of comparing my pumpkin to whatever essence I believed a pumpkin should convey, I knew I was already going to be comparing it to the OTHER pumpkin. Rough life, I know. I don't know why I put myself through that horrible cycle. My teacher was the Chillest Guy on the Planet, whereas I was the Neurotic Short Girl thinking I had to be as good as the art major classmate who had taken AP Ceramics in high school and wanted this to be her profession. 

This feeling accompanied me most of the fall semester, but many times it faded to the background, having been outweighed by the Joy of Doing. I was starting to comprehend more in this new language--I learned about slip, glaze, molds, kilns, and how air effects clay. I learned black is a bad color to wear while working. I learned to say screw the results, this is frustrating and fun. We watched documentaries about Warren Mackenzie, who's teacher had him make the same cup for several months--producing hundreds of identical cups--before being able to make a bowl for the next several months, and so on, however long it took to perfect them. As Mackenzie said, "The first 10, 000 pots are difficult. And then it gets a little bit easier." Every class period there was some little PopRocks epiphany in my brain as I discovered that working with clay was a lot like my music-making. Understanding how to create something--like a bowl or mug or sculpture--meant that you had to know how individual elements react to the other, the wall to the handle, the spout to the lid, and whether they were to create unity or conflict with each other. Learning a Bach fugue, I have to know how one line of melody interacts with the harmony, how my choice of finger could determine the sound of the note, where there was unity, where there was conflict.

Then we started the pottery wheel. I went through pottery wheel purgatory (PWP) for the rest of the semester. It was not like "Ghost" at all. Maybe closer to beginner ceramics episode of "Community." A few times I forgot to switch off the wheel, leaned down to take my piece off the wheel, to only have it spin right off, because I had unknowingly floored the pedal. Imagine 3 pounds of wet clay flying away from you, seemingly of its own accord. All it leaves you is a mess and disappointment. Centering the clay on the wheel before forming your piece was maddening. Uncentered clay meant lopsided bowls with dangerously inconsistent wall thickness, nothing Pinterest-worthy. This Step 1 did not take with me until the next semester. But because of that, I found myself frequently saying to my teacher, half-apologetically without needing to be, that "Symmetry's not really my thing, so..."*shrug*. He knew I was trying, and he knew it would simply take time. I eventually morphed "Symmetry's not really my thing" into a mantra that fully acknowledged, like my teacher, that I was trying, I had never done this before, and it would simply take time. I made wobbly pots and made them work. My cups and mugs leaned over, but they still fit to my hand. It was the doing that was important.

Tuesday was our first day with the wheel, and it kicked (most of) our butts. Thursday our teacher gave a demonstration on the wheel, and we watched him expertly create the most elegant, beautiful cup in a matter of seconds. We collectively groaned as a class. He glanced at us. "What?" "You make it look so easy!"  Looking at the piece as he worked, he said plain as the prairie, "I started making pots when I was six. My dad was a ceramicist.  I thought every six year old had a studio in their basement and made bowls on weekends." 
Time takes time. 

My teacher caught onto my musical pursuits, and whenever I needed help, he would always connect the two disciplines, since he was a musician himself. We'd talk about how the two had so many things in common, and how knowing the other helped us with our main work. I was making pots at the same rate that I was learning piano at 6--excitement and interest outweighed quality. It's both an art and a skill, and you must practice it to develop it. Eventually, the process becomes more important than the product, but you always hope they will become equal. You learn to love and accept the impermanence and fragility of creation. The ultimate reward you can gain is the Joy of Doing.