Michigan winters can be dull and dark, so I decided to take a ceramics class to help get me through. As it turns out, Michigan skipped winter this year, but I stuck with the class anyway. Clay work appealed because it’s a right brain activity that is also physical. Each Saturday in the UICA’s light, airy art studio, we pound and push, and roll and coax a resistant gray clay, standing and stretching in our workspace. I thought if I might enjoy a new art form, this would be it. Those who know me well, know that physical activity is my daily dessert; I save it for the end of the day, after work, and savor the time I spend smashing tennis balls across court or repeatedly pushing myself through plank position in yoga.
It’s also no secret that I might be just a little competitive. So, I entered into the ceramics class wanting to simply enjoy a medium with which I had no experience, nothing to prove. Though a beginners class, a few students showed up with some prior claywork experience. I deliberately chose cheery thoughts of “no problem!” and “good for them!”. The first week, we made the third grade classic – a pinch pot. It took me back; it felt great to touch the wet clay and mold something new, using my hands to shape. It was all good- no worries, no comparison, no failure.
As the weeks progressed, my inner critic emerged, damaging my enthusiasm. The ego is a tricky bastard. The artsy-fartsy woman diagonal from me wound thick square coils into a vase- an urn, for goodness sake, the sides rising from her hands strong and smooth, an elegant shape emerging from the base to the top. She proceeded to detail her urn with delicate hand-cut clay shapes. Beginner, my arse. The sides of my little bowl dipped unevenly, little cracks forming along the low base. I felt defeated; I didn’t understand how the clay worked, the timing of it. My ego intervened in my creative play.
“The grace to be a beginner is always the best prayer for an artist”, states Julia Cameron in her book The Artist’s Way. I wanted to try an art form different from writing. I’ve got dozens of hidden drafts held close to me, arranged in my digital folders never to be seen. Why? I’m not sure. No one has ever jabbed at my writing. Rather, I’ve experienced thoughtful criticism and encouragement. I’m not really sure where my insecurity comes from. I’m not sure that even matters or that I care. And why do I want to do something that is so difficult and frustrating? It’s like singing- there are a couple things that I may have been good at, but by not sharing them with anyone, I’m unopen and unexposed and protected. Classic, I know. You’ve probably got them, too.
I hate ego. It’s a roadblock, thwarts progress, and forces me into hiding. Julia’s concept of grace to be a beginner lets me take just a step. Moving forward requires humility and bravery. Bravery might be too strong a word, reserved for someone running a marathon, or hiking the Appalachian trail. But I need a little kick in the pants to pick up my pen. Admittedly, both my cable and internet are out- that’s how my draft got written. It’s about the process, playing with words and ideas, and not being right all of the time. Ah, but it’s hard.
Ask anyone in my ceramics class, and they’ll tell you that the studio is a sort of sanctuary. Two walls of windows shine in blue sky, music fills the space, and our gray medium bends with us, receiving our ideas, often on its own terms. It’s a place to lose oneself for a couple of hours, a space for quiet play when I’m humble enough to drop the ego. This week, I’ll begin again with big plans. Maybe I’ll go glaze that imperfect bowl.
