My life story begins with confusion, a mystery for my infant mind, leaving me constantly seeking and self-reflective, and at times a fool, a child, falling down and getting up, again and again. It helps to be philosophical, playful and permissive. The result is a lot of art, portraits of companions on the stumbling dance of life.
Play and youth are entry points for compassion and endurance. These are beings that have endured a rigorous process of creation, including the crucible of firing. (See my post, Glazing Mystified) If I’ve been true to my experience and theirs then the compassion they evoke is reflected back.
Creation from the mystery of my preverbal self is like dipping into the vast well of everything said and everything left unsaid. The past is waiting, with all it’s joys and tears, memories and occlusions. Clay in my hands becomes the vessel for this forgettery, always coming forth, always let go.