The audio file for this article was produced by the Ceramic Arts Network staff and not read by the author.
I decided to become a potter rather late in life. I always loved the arts, especially music, ballet, and fabrics, and had a twenty-year arts career when I started a degree in mechanical engineering. Scheduling got in the way of taking my final calculus class, so I took a pottery class instead. That decision changed the trajectory of my life.
Finding Excitement in Clay
I enjoyed feeling the clay between my fingers, and I liked to see the amusement on my teacher, Stephanie Beiser’s face, when, no matter the assignment, my final results were rarely what she expected. Yet she encouraged me to embrace my home culture. Stephanie referred my portfolio to Luke Sheets at Ohio Northern University, and I went on to discover wood firing on the way to my BFA in ceramics. Wood-fired kilns made my work seem closer to my roots, and I enjoyed the camaraderie of wood firing. Surprisingly, I liked the hard work, and I learned to trust the kiln god, as long as I was satisfied with my own efforts.
When I have fired at the Morean Workshop Space in St. Petersburg, Florida, with John Balistreri, Matt Long, Brad Schwieger, and Trey Hill, I was grateful for their inspiration. The same is true when I see the impact of Beth Morean’s dedication to the arts, Michio Sugiyama’s influence in bringing the artist-in-residence concept from the Archie Bray Foundation to Japan, Tom Turner’s mentoring legacy, or the others who influence in unseen places–those who watch over and inspire me.
So, for me, clay is about building connections between material, creativity, food, and, most importantly, the people with whom we fire and share the results.
Developing a Voice
As a teacher and a maker, I think my role is to help artists find their voices. When I see ceramics around the world, I have noted a few things. First, I can distinguish the works of China, Korea, or Japan from one another, as well as the common thread between them. When I see works created in the US, Europe, Australia, etc., I cannot seem to culturally distinguish them from one another. I often wonder if they have no distinguishing features, or if my failure to see them is caused by not being culturally savvy.
As a ceramics professor, I see some students struggle with rulers, scissors, and their own fears. These distract from the details in front of them. In Asia, artists seek to be different from one another while remaining true to community and cultural expectations. I worry that too many of my students chalk up errors and deficiencies as their persona or style. Sometimes my message for students to develop detail is taken as criticism, rather than as an opportunity to improve their execution. I have come to think another one of my roles is to find a bridge between quality and individuality . . . for students and myself.
Creating the Bell Form
My works are admittedly coming from my culture, but I usually have no clue what I am going to make until I put the clay into my hands and begin the wedging process. The size of the chunk of clay that I cut or peel off directly influences what comes to mind, and as I wedge, center, wet the clay, push, and pull it up then down to release air pockets, the clay starts talking to me.
I must have a lot of voices talking to me, because I find myself making so many types of things: functional, decorative, sculptural, and tiles, but one thing the voices do not tell me is the final form they want to take. That is solely my decision.
Begin by wedging 2–3 pounds (0.9–1.4 kg) of clay. Even for this small amount, I may spend five minutes to make sure that the clay is free from air bubbles, and then move to my wheel, center the clay, and knead even more. Add plenty of moisture to make this process smooth and thorough, pulling up and down five or six times to improve elasticity, and begin to make a typical cylinder.
Then, stretch this up and outward toward the desired shape, in this case, that of a Buddhist Temple Bell (see 17). Then, measure the opening for the lid. Repeat the wedging process of the clay to be used for the lid, as you would for a cylinder, then trim and shape, using a needle tool, a rib, a chamois piece, and your hands. Next, measure to make sure that it matches the opening in the jar body, and let it dry (1–10).
Developing the Surfaces
Surface decorations, such as the bell rivets on my jars, cups, bowls, etc., have a specific meaning: they represent people in my life who have made me stronger, wiser, and better. I used to worry that the rivets were all neatly aligned, now I worry that even ONE of those little rivet tabs will fall off. I would hate that they felt like they were omitted.
Cover and dry the piece to semi-leather hard, then measure lines by dividing the jar vertically and horizontally, creating a uniform grid (11–13). Trim off excess clay from the grooves, and this grid will form the location of the rivets. Attaching rivets is time consuming, so I cover and attach premeasured beads made from small coils, one section at a time, occasionally spraying with a water/distilled vinegar solution of about 5:1. As for the actual attachment of the beads, I use a ball-tipped stylus to make an indentation into the jar at each of the grid cross points. Then, each rivet is sized into a tiny ball. After you add slip to the indented cross-point, place the ball on the slip and gently press to slightly flatten (14).
Completing the Lid and Firing
The final production step is completing the lid. First, a handmade stencil is used to cut out a desired handle shape. The handles have ending tabs that suit the bell design, and provide enough surface area for attaching the handle. The handle is attached by etching both the lid and underside of the handle, applying slip to the handle, and pressing it into place. Seams are sealed, and I occasionally attach rivets to the handle tabs (15). The final piece (16) is dried, bisque fired, and wood fired to cone 10 or hotter for maximum ash impact.
The wood-firing process that leaves that beautiful and unpredictable surface reminds me not to insist on what “I” want, but to let the ash solidify all those bumpy rivets, bringing them together through the flow of ash glaze over them—and ultimately permanently connecting us in a protective armor.
the author Mayumi Makino Kiefer, earned a BFA from Ohio Northern University, in 2012, and an MFA from the University of Oklahoma, in 2019. She currently teaches ceramics at Pittsburg State University, Kansas.
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The audio file for this article was produced by the Ceramic Arts Network staff and not read by the author.
I decided to become a potter rather late in life. I always loved the arts, especially music, ballet, and fabrics, and had a twenty-year arts career when I started a degree in mechanical engineering. Scheduling got in the way of taking my final calculus class, so I took a pottery class instead. That decision changed the trajectory of my life.
Finding Excitement in Clay
I enjoyed feeling the clay between my fingers, and I liked to see the amusement on my teacher, Stephanie Beiser’s face, when, no matter the assignment, my final results were rarely what she expected. Yet she encouraged me to embrace my home culture. Stephanie referred my portfolio to Luke Sheets at Ohio Northern University, and I went on to discover wood firing on the way to my BFA in ceramics. Wood-fired kilns made my work seem closer to my roots, and I enjoyed the camaraderie of wood firing. Surprisingly, I liked the hard work, and I learned to trust the kiln god, as long as I was satisfied with my own efforts.
When I have fired at the Morean Workshop Space in St. Petersburg, Florida, with John Balistreri, Matt Long, Brad Schwieger, and Trey Hill, I was grateful for their inspiration. The same is true when I see the impact of Beth Morean’s dedication to the arts, Michio Sugiyama’s influence in bringing the artist-in-residence concept from the Archie Bray Foundation to Japan, Tom Turner’s mentoring legacy, or the others who influence in unseen places–those who watch over and inspire me.
So, for me, clay is about building connections between material, creativity, food, and, most importantly, the people with whom we fire and share the results.
Developing a Voice
As a teacher and a maker, I think my role is to help artists find their voices. When I see ceramics around the world, I have noted a few things. First, I can distinguish the works of China, Korea, or Japan from one another, as well as the common thread between them. When I see works created in the US, Europe, Australia, etc., I cannot seem to culturally distinguish them from one another. I often wonder if they have no distinguishing features, or if my failure to see them is caused by not being culturally savvy.
As a ceramics professor, I see some students struggle with rulers, scissors, and their own fears. These distract from the details in front of them. In Asia, artists seek to be different from one another while remaining true to community and cultural expectations. I worry that too many of my students chalk up errors and deficiencies as their persona or style. Sometimes my message for students to develop detail is taken as criticism, rather than as an opportunity to improve their execution. I have come to think another one of my roles is to find a bridge between quality and individuality . . . for students and myself.
Creating the Bell Form
My works are admittedly coming from my culture, but I usually have no clue what I am going to make until I put the clay into my hands and begin the wedging process. The size of the chunk of clay that I cut or peel off directly influences what comes to mind, and as I wedge, center, wet the clay, push, and pull it up then down to release air pockets, the clay starts talking to me.
I must have a lot of voices talking to me, because I find myself making so many types of things: functional, decorative, sculptural, and tiles, but one thing the voices do not tell me is the final form they want to take. That is solely my decision.
Begin by wedging 2–3 pounds (0.9–1.4 kg) of clay. Even for this small amount, I may spend five minutes to make sure that the clay is free from air bubbles, and then move to my wheel, center the clay, and knead even more. Add plenty of moisture to make this process smooth and thorough, pulling up and down five or six times to improve elasticity, and begin to make a typical cylinder.
Then, stretch this up and outward toward the desired shape, in this case, that of a Buddhist Temple Bell (see 17). Then, measure the opening for the lid. Repeat the wedging process of the clay to be used for the lid, as you would for a cylinder, then trim and shape, using a needle tool, a rib, a chamois piece, and your hands. Next, measure to make sure that it matches the opening in the jar body, and let it dry (1–10).
Developing the Surfaces
Surface decorations, such as the bell rivets on my jars, cups, bowls, etc., have a specific meaning: they represent people in my life who have made me stronger, wiser, and better. I used to worry that the rivets were all neatly aligned, now I worry that even ONE of those little rivet tabs will fall off. I would hate that they felt like they were omitted.
Cover and dry the piece to semi-leather hard, then measure lines by dividing the jar vertically and horizontally, creating a uniform grid (11–13). Trim off excess clay from the grooves, and this grid will form the location of the rivets. Attaching rivets is time consuming, so I cover and attach premeasured beads made from small coils, one section at a time, occasionally spraying with a water/distilled vinegar solution of about 5:1. As for the actual attachment of the beads, I use a ball-tipped stylus to make an indentation into the jar at each of the grid cross points. Then, each rivet is sized into a tiny ball. After you add slip to the indented cross-point, place the ball on the slip and gently press to slightly flatten (14).
Completing the Lid and Firing
The final production step is completing the lid. First, a handmade stencil is used to cut out a desired handle shape. The handles have ending tabs that suit the bell design, and provide enough surface area for attaching the handle. The handle is attached by etching both the lid and underside of the handle, applying slip to the handle, and pressing it into place. Seams are sealed, and I occasionally attach rivets to the handle tabs (15). The final piece (16) is dried, bisque fired, and wood fired to cone 10 or hotter for maximum ash impact.
The wood-firing process that leaves that beautiful and unpredictable surface reminds me not to insist on what “I” want, but to let the ash solidify all those bumpy rivets, bringing them together through the flow of ash glaze over them—and ultimately permanently connecting us in a protective armor.
the author Mayumi Makino Kiefer, earned a BFA from Ohio Northern University, in 2012, and an MFA from the University of Oklahoma, in 2019. She currently teaches ceramics at Pittsburg State University, Kansas.
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