REFLECTING ONES INNER SPARK IN THE SHARED ARENA OF ART IS A KIND OF ARCHEOLOGY OF THE SOUL. I DIG FOR BEAUTY AND BRING IT BACK WITH JOY. TO SHARE WHAT I UNCOVER IS AN ACT OF LOVE.
I began making pots in the Arizona Mountains, digging the beautiful red clay near my grandparents' spring. I'm both humbled and at home with its touch- the power of Earth.
there... intense, thrilling, dynamic. It's a demanding medium, with clay's overlay of technical-chemical balancing, thrown together with fire and self. It's my ancient love.
precious earth: -Collecting shards of Native American pottery by a creek with my grandmother, until she one day chose to stop, recognizing they were sacred. -Walking with my feet immersed deep in silken warm mud of the same creekbed on their land... a memory of joyful embodiment. -Climbing at age five up a white clay bank on Whidbey Island in the Puget Sound, alone in nature, as I often was. Quickly rainfall shifted ease to terror. I struggled to climb down, clinging to roots of brush, small feet sliding over the slippery-slick white clay. -Walking into a studio at UC Santa Cruz for the first time... the sight of my husband (unknown) forming a porcelain bird bath bowl, a so-familiar beauty, as though it were something I'd been waiting long to see. -Early times of working with children and clay, witnessing small fingers and faces quickening with joy.
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