Such a Deal!

Last month, as I contemplated the awesome dilemma of  what I could possibly bring to Africa to share with students I had no experience with, my friend, Priscilla got me thinking by asking me what skills I am comfortable teaching. One of the things that I have learned something about in the ceramic arts is the RAKU firing process. Like so many who appreciate the ceramic arts, I have been smitten by the radiant colors, iridescence, antique crackling and smokey abstract shapes that appear on the surfaces of raku ware.

Raku was developed as a low temperature alternative to traditional firing in 15th century Japan. Finding a way to fuse the surface of pots with a glaze (glass) at a lower temperature has an obvious advantage in that firing takes less fuel (energy) and time. The disadvantage is that firing in this way produces a weaker bond in the clay structure and the glaze that is attached to the surface; thus a weaker vessel. Additionally, this quick fire, quick cool process typically introduces more variables and therefore lacks the predictability of higher temperature firing. The results, however, are so immediate and so transformative that the mystery of the outcome is part of the fun.

In Japan, raku was originally used for producing ceremonial tea bowls that were not destined for harsh treatment and did not need to be strong. Raku art as it is practiced today is still subject to the same limitations and consequentially, is made mostly as decorative ware. However, much has changed in the evolution of the artform as many artists exploring the process add their experimental discoveries. Raku kilns can be lightweight and portable, and for that reason raku has seen a resurgence in popularity in art studios, schools and community facilities.

I decided after learning from Agnes that WayiWayi studios did not have this kind of kiln that I would bring the supplies to make one, since it can be done with some basic materials and common items. My goal is to leave a functioning kiln and some practical know-how behind that future artists-in-residence or visiting artists may use. The decision to pack a kiln sent me on a quest to find more information about the process, the kilnmaking and the feasability of transporting the equipment.

Here I need to thank some folks that took the time to walk me through possible scenerios. Joe at Tacoma Clay Art embraced the project and spent hours plying me with helpful information and a sense of what would be essential. Bob at Georgie's in Portland has been on board with this from the beginning and whose assistance and support have been vital. And Bonnie and Dave Deal, who allowed me to invade their studio space and took the time to talk me through the raku part of the adventure.

I have noticed a general trend with ceramic artists: they typically possess a tolerance, if not a preference for, solitude, especially during the firing process. Raku can go from magical to butt ugly in a matter of inattentive seconds and requires a lot of direct observation and decision-making that is best suited to the personality that thrives on uninterrupted timespace. Knowing this personally, I was somewhat shy about asking  Bonnie and Dave Deal, our regional experts on all things Raku to invite me to their  home/studio in the hills above Camus to observe their process.

I arrived just in time to see the kiln reaching the desired temperature and was able to watch and film Dave operate in the last critical stages. I have come to agree with the research that suggests that 80-90% of what we learn is from non-verbal sources. Especially body language. I was able to pay close attention and learn from every move that Dave made until the last of the wares were safely "tucked" into a bed of combustibles (secret formula) to smoke, cool and mature.

Then, over cookies and tea, I was invited to pick the brains of these two special artists for any bits of wisdom they could offer that might help me succeed in bringing the craft to students in Africa. I learned that as an art team, Bonnie is more comfortable working the two-dimensional (brushwork, design) side of the equation, and Dave is all about the production and the fire. They live and work together in the woods without many of the benefits/trappings (like electricity) of society.  That they thrive on the space they have created for their process is clearly evident in the remarkable work that they produce. Thank you Dave and Bonnie!

You can see their work in public spaces around the region and they will be on sale this weekend (April 29-30, May 1) at the Oregon Pottery Association's Ceramic Showcase at the Veterans Coliseum.

Why Art? Why Art Education?

I began my career as the only art educator in a small rural school district, and as such, I had many opportunities to weigh in on questions from colleagues and the greater community about or related to the arts. There was a perception that having a degree in the field gave one permission to be historian, technician, practitioner, critic, assessor, ambassador etc., so trying not to disappoint, I wore all those hats and then some.

As the "art guy" in a world with no peers, I assumed the role and was proud to represent the arts at the education table even when my knowledge base was not as deep as others assumed. Over time, my position allowed and required me to build a broader base of subject and history, and I began to form some opinions based on observation about the place that art holds in the grand parade of civilization and some questions about the feasibility of actually teaching the arts.

Germaine to this discussion is a common notion that I encountered almost daily: the belief that we are either art "types" or we are not. If we are not, then what is to be done? And if we are then how do you teach something as personal and individual as the creative experience?

My observations have led to a belief that any student who is convinced that they are not an art type will have a transformative experience when they actually produce art or, they will continue for some time to hold onto their doubts in spite of contrary evidence until they learn more about working the creative process. Very few refuse to even try. My conclusion agrees with what many cultures know and put into practice: That we are all potential artists and become so as soon as we begin doing art.

What is doing art? I would define the doing as focusing energy into a creative experience that leads to a personal expression through that experience. In the art room, a high value is placed on understanding, developing and strengthening this process. Education is rediscovering that this teachable process is essential for success in any subject and through any walk in life.

Our world has automatons and robots; what we do not produce through our technology is the celebration of the human experience. Key to that celebration is the ability to concoct something that previously existed only in the imagination. Let us take a look at the elements of what we can call a creative experience.

Imagination- To use the mind to image or see or feel some form of an idea is common to all humans. We all do it all the time. It is the starting point of the experience.

Organization- In order to find expression, the components of a thought, vision or feeling need to be prioritized. What is primary, tertiary etc. requires choices.

Materialization- At some point, organized thought must manifest. Just using mental energy does not count as the experience, as it cannot be verified.  Organized thoughts can take form in any number of ways to qualify the experience: writing, speaking, acting, dancing, drawing, painting, sculpting, playing music. We choose the instrument of our expression. A creative act requires a physical expression.

Assessment- A word I much prefer to critique. A left brain function that is impossible to separate from the experience. When the organized thoughts materialize, they become subject to evaluation and comparison. By ourselves and others. We do it all the time. All of us. Critical thinking leads us to reevaluate, change, improve, improvise.

That is it in a nut shell. Who among us does not do these things every day? Not that we always do them well, but that is the point. We can get better. The masterpiece becomes possible when the components of the creative experience are cycled over and over until a high degree of expression is achieved. Not only can we learn new ways  to express our better selves, but to allow what is unique about us to become an active part of the big story.

Arts education holds a place of distinction in academia because the focus centers totally on the creative process. In any branch of study, simply repeating what has gone before is not the formula for evolution. New thinking is only possible when new ideas become manifest. We are all players and art types when we use the creative experience, and we do it all the time. We use this process when we choose furnishings, fonts and fashion, and when we acknowledge this in ourselves we open ourselves up to explore new thinking. More on this topic forthcoming.

Why I like to Ride but don't always like what I see.

I began my love affair with my bicycle around the time of my first job, a paper route, when I was about 12. I grew up in Denver in the '50s in an era of communal trust, living in a middle class neighborhood at a time when bad happenings in the world seemed far away. Most parents let their kids roam the neighborhood freely, and freedom for the day only required an occasional check-in or promise to be home for dinner. I loved this freedom, and my bicycle made my long leash even longer. About this time, I stumbled upon a great truth: I, by myself, had the ability to get up and go as far and as long as I wanted. So began my exploration of the world beyond the world that was given to me.

In pushing the boundaries of this new found freedom I discovered my limitations, of course: mental, physical and psychological, but weekends and summers offered endless opportunities to test the boundaries. These were enlarged exponentially when, at 16 I traded in my love for my bike for a car. The desire to see what's over the next ridge and the notion that I was the only one stopping me stoked a thirst for adventure that has stayed with me to this day. Thank you Jack Kerouac, et.al.

My love of the car  began to wane sometime around the invention of the turnpike. When getting "over the next hill" confirmed that a lot of people had already arrived, defiled the camp and were clearly not there to for the quiet and solitude, that love lost some luster. So, to keep my dreams alive and even fuel them, I returned to my bike. A state-of-the-art Fuji 12 speed, a surprise gift from my wife 30 years ago got me going. Although the thought of heading out the driveway and crossing the continent on my own still calls, I have learned to be quite satisfied with abbreviated versions of the big adventure.

A bike, like a boat or a horse allows one to see the world through a different lens and to reach places that people, otherwise, might not be able to get to. It allows for a change in perspective. It represents freedom: there is always a quick ride out of Dodge when the panic or escape mechanism ignites from any daily crisis.

On a bike, in the real 3D world, your perspective changes dramatically in two ways: The speed you are traveling (typically 5-25 mph) allows access to all manner of roads and pathways (relatively) safely while sharing with faster and slower vehicles. And our cities have lots of roads! Lots of access, and I often reach a destination as fast or faster than I would in a car. Outside the city and in the city's greenspace, you travel at a similar pace as many bird species. A thrush dives from a passing branch, cuts in front of you, matching your speed, and allows a close up view of a bird in flight. Not going to happen walking, and definitely not in a car. You are the director in your own wildlife movie.

The second  perspective shift comes with altering your height when you climb on a bike. That relatively minor adjustment has a profound effect. Consider the timing of the evolutionary change when humanoids gained advantage in their environment by becoming bipedal. Slowed them down, but speed loses some significance when you can see further, all the time, and therefore have more time to plan an attack or a retreat. More time to plan became a need to plan and that led to larger brain size (humans most "successful" adaption) and that led to the invention of the wheel....and, of course, the bicycle.

My latest "contribution" to evolution are adaptations in my style of riding. I have readjusted my seat so it functions more as a perch than a bench and I have added a device that extends the handlebars upward. This allows me to see further and adopt a variety of riding postures. These adaptations allow great relief from an aching neck that develops after a few miles on the road. This upgrade caused me to rethink the whole concept of maintaining a curled position through a ride. Was I going out to race or ride? The sight of spandex slickened bodies whooshing past me as I am stretching my back and taking in the sights does not trigger the competing urge like it used to. Following my ancestors, I have sacrificed speed for comfort and an improved view.

So, when friends asked if I would join them for a ride on Portland's much touted Springwater Trail I said sure, in the spirit of adventure, I will give it a go. We met at Oaks Park and started a lovely ride through the city of Sellwood, a burg of Portland, between spring downpours. As we headed east toward Boring, we entered the Johnson Creek floodplain, and it was clear from the rolling mass of water why it was so called. As usual,  I was riding high in my sightseeing position when the view along the trail changed dramatically. The greenspace started to be interrupted by a few scattered tents; maybe remnants of Portland's hippie communities...so that is where they hang. As we rode on into an industrial area tents became tent city. Packed in "no mans land" in the corridors between busy thoroughfares and between businesses was a sprawling nylon and plastic community which had all the need for the surrounding city's infrastructure, but had none. Well, not exactly none---someone provides a port-a-pottie every mile or so.

And this went on for miles. Moldy structures of every kind, pushed up against chain link fences, each with piles of soaked debris outside the "doors" and stacked overflowing in commandeered shopping carts. I moved from surprise to wonder to shock to fascination to a grim realization that I was seeing the answer to a nagging question I have harbored for some time: Where are all the hoards of homeless we hear have been chased from this or that city park or public area. They were here. It made sense that 8 years of political deadlock and economic crisis had made a few people in our country way more wealthy, but the folks living here were The Forgotten. I was riding high in the saddle seeing things I didn't want to see. I get out and about in this city often, but I had never seen this. These are the mentally ill, the migrants, the addicted, the sick, the unlucky, the troublemakers, the dropouts. Donald Trump's "losers". All this in a country that really should know how to take care of itself.

So, in a little over a month I am heading off to Africa where I will likely experience a different combination of riches and poverty.  Some places I may visit may not look all that different than the Springwater Trail, but my mission is to witness not to judge, and in my heart I hope I can find and fulfill a need. I will be very interested in what is over the hill.  Hopefully I can see some of this from the saddle of a bike. It has come to me that I will be going back to a place that was just the right spot for our species to want to get up tall and see as far as possible.


                           

   
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