Category: rough ideas

My dad was a loud sleeper. Boy, did he snore. In the summer after my mom died Zoë slept in the cabin room next to his, separated only by a thin pine wall. She was dismayed by his dream swearings in the wee hours of the night. Our family also believed in naps. My brother Stephen and I used to wonder if the soup and sandwiches at lunch were drugged to make us all nap so soundly.

My father also hated it when his children retold their dreams at the breakfast table. I have had recent vivid dreams of baby sitting for our grandson or meeting my dad at a Soho restaurant. In my dreams my mom is worried about candles and flowers. I always want to slip into a dream life that is less messy, perhaps full of the seeds of ideas, simple rich meals, and resonant pots. I have been dreaming of scattering the poppy seeds in our field for next year’s blossoms and visualizing the Meyer lemon tree weighed down with fruit.

Careful of what I carry
in my head and in my hollow,

I’ve been a long time worried
about grasping infinity

and coaxing some calm
out of the softest part

of the pins and needles of me.
I’d like to take a nap.

But not a nap that’s eternal,
a nap where you wake up

having dreamt of falling, but
you’ve only fallen into

an ease so unknown to you
it looks like a new country.

Let me slip into a life less messy.
Let me slip into your sleeve.

Be very brave about my
trespass, the plan is simple —

the plan is the clock tower
and the lost crow. It’ll be rich.

We’ll live forever. Every moon
will be a moon of surrender

and lemon seeds. You there,
standing up in the crowd,

I’m not proud. The stove
can’t boast of the meal.

All this to say — consider this,
with your combination of firefly

and train whistle, consider this,
with your maze and steel,

I want to be the rough clothes
you can’t sleep in.

–Ada Limón, excerpt from The Noisiness of Sleep in Bright Dead Things, Milkweed Editions

Today at lunch I noticed a baby ground hog climb up on a three-foot high willow stump on the edge of the pond. I reached for binoculars and sat on the porch to watch as a parent climbed up to join in the fun. They both rubbed their ears against the rotting wood. I was mesmerized by the liquid bristle and waddle.

Give Me This

I thought it was the neighbor’s cat back
to clean the clock of the fledgling robins low
in their nest stuck in the dense hedge by the house
but what came was much stranger, a liquidity
moving all muscle and bristle. A groundhog
slippery and waddle thieving my tomatoes still
green in the morning’s shade. I watched her
munch and stand on her haunches taking such
pleasure in the watery bites. Why am I not allowed
delight? A stranger writes to request my thoughts
on suffering. Barbed wire pulled out of the mouth,
as if demanding that I kneel to the trap of coiled
spikes used in warfare and fencing. Instead,
I watch the groundhog closer and a sound escapes
me, a small spasm of joy I did not imagine
when I woke. She is a funny creature and earnest,
and she is doing what she can to survive.

–Ada Limón, originally published in Poem-a-Day, 9/16/2020, by the Academy of American Poets

Although the jar in today’s image cracked as it was heated in the firing it is still held together by fire and ash. There is a fierceness to the fragility. The cracks in it speak a sharp language but are vocalizing with a soft voice. I think part of my job is to emphasize that this is compelling. When I put the foot-long Philodendron Monstera leaves, reminiscent of Matisse-esque cutouts, into the cracked vase it takes on even more focus and significance.

I remember as an undergrad my teacher at the time was trying to get me to be a better craftsperson. They felt my trimming was too messy, especially when I often left bits of clay inside the foot. One day someone brought several Sung dynasty Chinese bowls into school. We sat in an office admiring the feeling and touch of the bowls. I began to pick at a bit of trimmed clay that was stuck inside the foot of the antique bowl. I was admonished for doing so because that clay spoke of those Chinese potters. Later I wondered if I left a bit of clay inside the foot of a bowl why didn’t that speak of my hand and my moment in time.

“nothing is ordinary now even when it is ordinary.” Embedded in her poetry she writes, “is my secret work, to be worthy of…this infinite discourse where everything is interesting because you point it out and say, Isn’t that interesting?”

–Ada Limon quoted by Lauren Leblanc in her article “All Writing Is Basically Failure”: Ada Limón Reckons With Poetry in Today’s World, Vanity Fair, 5/9/2022

So ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.

― Leonard Cohen, Anthem

Last week at the farmers market one of the vendors had a tiny bundle of pea tendrils. I loved their wild sculptural lattice work. Although my garden was mostly neglected for the last week, I was able to squeeze in short watering sessions and picked a few peas. Today my goal was to have a longer meditative stretch picking peas but it became another slap dash harvest because after picking a tangle of tendrils I retreated to the studio to photograph.

for my grandparents, who did not teach me
how to farm, and yet they scattered these seeds:
. . .

What would they think of my pea shoots
left unlatticed, free to tendril one noose
after another around other plants,
my slapdash harvest, larder left to chance?

–Jennifer Perrine, excerpt from Port Murray, New Jersey and Milwaukie, Oregon

In the basin of my mind, as I carry pots to be photographed on a simple background for our online sale, I am thinking of the more poetic images we concoct. I have running list/images of the bowls, vases and plant materials that I notice in our daily habits of use. I am attuned to the extraordinary moments of the season or the shifts in light or the turn of a wrist. My dog has learned where the blueberry bushes are but luckily the snow peas are inside a fence.

but here, in the basin of my mind,
where I’m always making a list
for you, recording the day’s minor
urchins: silvery dust mote, pistachio
shell, the dog eating a sugar
snap pea.

–Ada Limon, a fragment from The Last Thing, in The Carrying, Milkweed Editions, 2018

We lost another friend. Nol Putnam was a well-known artist/blacksmith. Originally his forge was just north of us in a town called The Plains. Then he moved less than an hour west. Over the last maybe thirty-three years we have had a running conversation with him about art or work or teaching or health. In the beginning of a relationship that doesn’t feel that large. Nonetheless it grows into a substantial friendship. Sometimes we chatted in his forge, or at our studio, or perhaps during a firing. One time it was by a chance meeting in the Boston airport as we were all on our way back to Virginia. There’s been a few meals at a friends-in-common house. As a child in Connecticut he could visit his sculptor neighbor Sandy Calder and soak up the ambiance of a metal infused studio. He taught English early on and was a good story teller. In 2007 I borrowed a group of hammers from a larger group hanging on the wall in his forge to order to make drawings. At the time I didn’t think they captured the particular essence of heft or use. Looking at them today it’s lovely to linger on the images and the memories. I am sure there is another story to tell as we linger saying goodbye at the door.

The number
of hours
we have
together is
actually not
so large.
Please linger
near the
door uncomfortably
instead of
just leaving.
Please forget
your scarf
in my
life and
come back
later for
it.

–Mikko Harvey, excerpt from For M, in From Let the World Have You, 2022

After a weekend of meeting and greeting people, showing what I have been making over the last few months, I feel a little like a kohlrabi, part cabbage and part turnip. I have told the stories of my first pots and what they were inspired from; asked what is on my bucket list. Primarily, I keep saying I want to continue making pottery as well as imaging beautiful ways of using pots. I keep changing as I look at objects, read, and weed. Thus, my solutions keep shifting. It’s hard to translate my ideas and process into bite size pieces.

“I’m just very suspicious of any kind of summing up of any kind of this is who I am. Because, first of all, who I am is changing rapidly all the time with what I’m reading, and who I’m with, and what I’m experiencing. And then the other thing is even I can’t sum up who I am. So I don’t know if I can trust someone else to do it.”

–Ada Limon from an interview on the Ezra Klein show, 5/24/2022

All my energy has gone into arranging pots and flowers; greeting old friends and making new ones. At the end of the day Warren walked Luna (the dog). Afterwards we sat outside on the swing and Luna rolled and rolled on her back as if to shake off the oomph of the day, happy to feel the grass and bask in the sky.

Optimism

More and more I have come to admire resilience.
Not the simple resistance of a pillow, whose foam
returns over and over to the same shape, but the sinuous
tenacity of a tree: finding the light newly blocked on one side,
it turns in another. A blind intelligence, true.
But out of such persistence arose turtles, rivers,
mitochondria, figs–all this resinous, unretractable earth.

–Jane Hirshfield, in Given Sugar, Given Salt, HarperCollins, 2001, p. 71

Today Warren and I hustled to get the gallery ready. We cleaned a few windows, clearing off dog and cat nose prints along with some toddler hand prints. We made sure paintings are signed, and that everything looks generally OK. At the end of the afternoon I took a few minutes to paint several bags. If one buys something during our open studio it is wrapped in a hand painted bag. This part of the preparation is always a delight for me. Afterwards Warren and I stood in the gallery space making sure everything was priced. I am terrible at this task, but the process reminds me to see the eloquence of each object, to slow down and identify what are my favorites and why. I am not sure if this is a delight muscle or a beauty radar.

“It didn’t take me long to learn that the discipline or practice of writing these essays occasioned a kind of delight radar. Or maybe it was more like the development of a delight muscle. Something that implies that the more you study delight, the more delight there is to study.”

― Ross Gay, The Book of Delights, Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill, 2019, p. xii

While cleaning up for my exhibit/sale this weekend, I moved some photo books around and found an old picture of my mom in Maine weeding her flower bed when it was new. I was struck by how I have let the daylilies and the fireweed fill all the space. She loved those flowers. When I arrive in Maine, I admire the bees feasting on the purple fireweed, cheering those tiny wings that have flown from the mainland to our little island. When we spread my mom’s ashes in the ocean in Maine my dad first asked everyone to pick every blooming daylily. We put them in buckets and after we sifted the ashes into the sea, we tossed the lilies and watched them float away. The following morning, I walked the high tide mark hoping to find a flower tangled in the seaweed to press into my journal. But none were to be found. That’s what death feels like, you go looking for evidence of life and it is missing. With a heavy heart I walked up the path to the cottage and there in the garden all the daylilies were blooming again.

I bow closer to the new face. I am always superimposing
     a face on flowers, I call the violet moon vinca

the choir, and there are surely eyes in the birdeye speedwell,
     and mouths on the linearleaf snapdragon.

It is what we do in order to care for things, make them
     ourselves, our elders, our beloveds, our unborn.

But perhaps that is a lazy kind of love. Why
     can't I just love the flower for being a flower?

How many flowers have I yanked to puppet
     as if it was easy for the world to make flowers?

--Ada Limon, from In The Shadow, in The Hurting Kind, Milkweed Editions, 2022