making art: in life as in clay
A few months ago, I enrolled in a six-week class to learn how to use a pottery wheel. The instructor, Heather, was a smart, brilliant teacher, and very funny. I, on the other hand, was hopeless.
One night, as she walked past me, I sat back in frustration.
“This is so hard.”
She looked at the clay object on my wheel. “It’s fine!”
“It really isn’t.”
“It is! I mean … well, do you have a pet?”
I feigned offense. “Heather, what I’m hearing you say is, ‘Whatever that is on your wheel is not fit for human consumption.”
She burst out laughing. “That is NOT what I’m saying! I’m just saying it would make a good cat bowl, maybe? Or a bowl for a small dog?”
Me, stifling laughter: “You really aren’t helping yourself at all.”
She pretended to be contrite. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I can’t imagine why I said that.” Needless to say, I haven’t let her live it down.*
Despite my clear lack of natural talent, I found that I loved being on the wheel. So much, in fact, that I signed up for a membership at the pottery studio.
This weekend, I returned to the studio to pick up the glazed pieces from my class and throw a few more pots.** I looked at the array of poorly glazed vessels with a sinking heart. What the hell am I going to do with these, I thought. But then, it came to me:
You know what, these are sucky bowls — but maybe they’d make interesting candles …
And so, I bought some candle-making supplies, watched a few YouTube videos, and got to work.
It turns out that making candles is less “art school” and more “science lab” — which means that my engineering heart could approach candlemaking with far more confidence than I did pot-throwing. The candlemaking kit I bought came with soy wax, and I had some paraffin wax lying around, so I was able to experiment with each to see which was easier to handle (for what it’s worth, soy wax FTW). After a couple of hours in my kitchen, I ended up with nine candles.
See? You heard it hear first: sucky bowls make interesting candles.
They’re clearly beginner’s work, but I’m cool with how they turned out. It feels like I’ve given purpose to the rudimentary vessels I made. And making them reminded me of a conversation I had earlier this week:
A lovely woman I know, who recently had an unexpected challenge arise, told me that when she faces a hardship like the one she's currently facing, she likes to imagine herself facing her life with a paintbrush in both hands. "I'm determined to make art of my life," she said. "And this image makes me feel strong."
I believe that what she’s describing is the difference between surviving and thriving. For many years, I thought the secret to living was to handle tough things that happen in life by simply getting through them, hopefully without making things worse. But honestly, that’s just what you do to survive. I’ve come to believe that to truly thrive means figuring out a way to turn the shitty stuff into a source of making life better on the other side. This is not to say that I believe that there shouldn’t be space for feeling loss or grief. But ultimately, I think a part of healing is integration, or at least making an effort to. And of course, sometimes we’ll succeed, sometimes we might not, but I can’t imagine ever regretting it.
Sort of like how a sucky pot might make an imperfect candle, but at least now I have something that will make my house smell good, right?
In any event, here’s my wish for all of us: may we find ways to make art of our lives this week.
* Also needless to say: don’t let my wonky pots and my relentless ribbing fool you, Heather is a gifted teacher, as any of her students would readily attest.
** I’m still really not good at this, but the good news is that every time I sit behind the wheel, I feel like I learn something new. And that’s kind of the point, right?
the promise of the summer solstice