A Chorus of Ceramics
When the pottery sings
“Leave the door open for the unknown, the door into the dark. That’s where the most important things come from, where you yourself came from, and where you will go.” ― Rebecca Solnit
Prelude: There are two posts this week, one easy, one hard. The second, a Thanksgiving post of sorts, is linked below along with several posts from last year, posts dusted with ginkgo and gold.
Happy Sunday.
It will be morning for you, maybe. Some of you share morning. But right now, it is tonight.
Tonight, the rain is rushing outside the windows, the dark sounds like a waterfall, the windows rattling, the curtains swaying in wind that should not be finding a way in. The night is dark and deep.
Clink.
Just one. Just one small clink from here, inside, to my right, from on top of the tv cabinet. A single clink.
Tonight, the rush of the rain surrounds the house, but over the last week, there has been clinking.
Persistent.
Random.
Asynchronous.
Insistent.
Earlier this year, when I first heard the ceramics singing, I really thought I might be going crazy. My son had brought home a bunch of ceramics that had come out of the kiln. They were sitting on the floor in the dining room because, really, there was nowhere else to put them. There were a dozen or so pieces at first.
After the proper amount of time spent admiring them, I was back at my computer, back to work, and out of nowhere, the pieces started clinking. A clink here. A clink there.
Here a clink. There a clink. Everywhere a clink clink.
Later, when watching TV, they clinked. When settling in to sleep on the couch, they clinked.
Certain that the ceramics were possessed, I stood in front of them, trying to see the clinking, hoping to catch them in the act of singing. When I stood there, watching and listening, they sat in glazed silence, these bowls and vases and pots made from water and clay.
Only when I gave up and turned away, knowing I hadn’t imagined the persistent chorus but unable to explain it, did the pottery talk.
No rhyme. No iambic pentameter.
Just asymmetrical, intermittent clinking.
It was so very much a Toy Story moment, the idea that toys and other objects are animated in ways just beyond our awareness.
Lots of people evidently head to the internet with search terms like “my ceramics keep making noise.” Nothing makes you feel less alone than realizing thousands of other people have also thought their pottery was possessed.
It turns out that ceramics do clink (or ping). (I’m even worse at describing the onomatopoeia of a sound than visualizing what I draw. It’s no wonder I can’t do imitations and accents.)
This is process called crazing.1
There have been several years of ceramics, but earlier this year was the first time I heard the music.
A second batch of ceramics was brought home and added to the pile on the floor. At times, there was a symphony happening, a beat or two in between, just irregular enough to make you doubt the score.
Fast-forward another set of months.
The first set of pieces from this semester came home a week or so ago. These pieces are big and beautiful.2
He left the new pieces on the kitchen counter. They would probably have stayed there indefinitely if left up to him. Clearing the space, I moved one to the table, one to the top of the TV cabinet, and two to the floor next to the table. There are so many pieces now that there are no spaces on the shelves left.
I went back to work.
Within minutes, the clinking started.
Clink.
They clinked on and off for days. And then we brought home another batch of even larger pieces.
They are still sitting on a counter in the kitchen.
The clinking has mostly subsided, but sometimes when I sit here writing, there will be a clink, or maybe a pair of clinks.
One way to view the quieting, the decrease in the frequency of the interval, is to assume the ceramic and the glaze have reached a point of balance.
Equilibrium.
It is an odd thing to know that the ceramics have a song of their own, a song born of stress, a reaction to a mismatch in expansion and contraction or to rapid changes in temperature.
The silence is the sign of settling in.
.
.
.
I so very much appreciate those of you who read each week.
Amy
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Thanksgiving Week (or Related) Posts
This year
Last year
Weekly Bits and Pieces
A Moment in Panels
A random moment this week (and the best soup ever, which is the way we should think of every pot of soup):
Happy to have made soup this week. Happy to have made oatmeal. Happy to have resolved some things, even though I worry. Happy that in the deluge of the atmospheric river, I know the roof is solid. Happy that even though the room is cold, my sweater is soft and cozy. Happy that when the permanent ink splattered, it landed on a plastic bag of chips, especially since I didn’t notice the puddle of inky wetness until the next night. Happy that I can sit here in a chair and tweak words in the margins, in the morning, late at night, and on the weekend if that’s what I want to do. Happy that work conversations and meetings last week are over, even if the outcomes were disappointing. Happy to have just heard a clink. Happy that I have gotten up every morning in time to record the dawn.
In this November week, it strikes me that I could simply substitute the word happy with grateful. It is, and can be, that easy.
Made It?
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What’s a book (fiction) you want to reread?
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Crazing is not necessarily a good thing, which isn’t a conversation that went well with the ceramicist. But at least I was able to explain what I was hearing, reassure myself that the sounds were real and that the ceramics were singing.
A focus on quantity has now been paired with a focus on size. My efforts to request certain pieces or encourage a focus on practicality have fallen into a void somewhere.
I love the sound of crazing. I had a wonderful job at my alma mater in its Art Department, providing administrative support to 7-9 art professors and managing the art gallery. Dream job! I loved walking into the big cement block kiln room and the adjacent room full of fired and unfired pieces. I know that noise! The someone I'll be remembering: my mum who passed away last week at the age of 97. I'm also grateful for my extended family, so big, so loving, so rich in its heritage. Another great post, Amy.
Your story of the clinking made me smile. “Nothing makes you feel less alone than realizing thousands of other people have also thought their pottery was possessed.” I love that. I also love the soup in a mug, sounds perfect. And your happy things. Wishing you more of those. This week I am grateful for how happy my kids are with where they are at in their lives, with their futures and wonderful partners. I am also grateful for a project to focus on. And I will be remembering my grandparents, Jim and Carol Cowan, this week as well. (We have a similar name in our families. ☺️) They were always such an integral part of the holidays and I always miss them, though they have been gone many years now.