When I am in the middle of making work for the kiln I have multiple lists in my mind and a couple of lists on paper of shapes and scale and commissions but to tell the truth it is a confusion. As I get to the dead line I begin to let go if things and I grieve for the unmade. They are like icebergs floating below the surface of my imagination. When Warren and I begin to stack the kiln that is when the story really unfolds.
We were glad for some sun today to dry the last wet things.
We begin stacking on Monday.
When you are in the middle of a story it isn't a story at all, but only a confusion; a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood; like a house in a whirlwind, or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids, and all aboard powerless to stop it. It's only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all. When you're telling it, to yourself or to someone else.
-Margaret Atwood, Alias Grace
We were glad for some sun today to dry the last wet things.
We begin stacking on Monday.
When you are in the middle of a story it isn't a story at all, but only a confusion; a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood; like a house in a whirlwind, or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids, and all aboard powerless to stop it. It's only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all. When you're telling it, to yourself or to someone else.
-Margaret Atwood, Alias Grace
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