It’s time for me to write a new artist statement. I have avoided this not-so-easy task for too long, and I believe that a well-written statement not only serves as a bridge between the art and the viewer, but also helps the artist develop meaning within the work. The task begs the question, what compels me to make what I make? I create small, similar objects that I string together and hang on the wall. As much as I love pots—using, buying, displaying them—I am not the best maker of them and I gravitate toward what I know. I am an unapologetic collector who spends an egregious amount of time rearranging gathered objects in all manner of ways. So, I took inspiration from this daily compulsion and turned it into the crux of my practice. While this is a start to putting words to paper, how I proceed can mean the difference between engaging readers or turning them into deer in the headlights.
Artists unnecessarily make artist statements hard. We often over think them, then over write them with wording that is boringly academic, far removed from the art’s meaning, and full of cliches: “I am inspired by life/nature/the world;” “finding the extraordinary in the ordinary;” “my work is a journey;” or “juxtaposition of daily life and spirituality.” These statements are too broad, lack depth, and rarely move the needle in a viewer’s understanding of the work.
I argue that one’s approach may be better to break the rules: write a shorter text, ditch the perfect grammar, ban academic wording, and make the narrative awkwardly personal. By doing so, the reader quickly engages and gains an acute understanding of both the art and the artist.
In the issue’s Tear-Out-and-Try, ceramic artist Katie Fee writes about how a mentor challenged her approach to designing forms. The mentor suggested, “What would happen if you take your clay on more exciting dates?” So, she asked the clay, “Me, romancing a mound of clay. Should we go somewhere new, or return to an old haunt? What haven’t we talked about lately?” It’s this kind of atypical approach that one can also bring to their statement writing. The questions you ask yourself in the studio can be the words that land on the paper. Your statement can be many things, shock-and-awe, cheeky, flirtatious, candid, raw, but above all, avoid it being boring.
This issue celebrates handbuilding techniques with several unique approaches to forming pots. Stephen Biggerstaff cuts slip-colored slabs into strips, then forms them into vessels over a hump mold (1). Katie Fee uses wide trimming tools and a wire harp to carve out basins from a mound of clay (2). And, Jennifer España teaches us how to dismantle corrugated cardboard and use the interior texture to create dynamic surfaces for cups and trays (3). All this and so much more: handles, medallions, lobed vessels, and cut feet.
While you read this issue and get started in the studio, I am going to begin my artist statement. Cheers!
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It’s time for me to write a new artist statement. I have avoided this not-so-easy task for too long, and I believe that a well-written statement not only serves as a bridge between the art and the viewer, but also helps the artist develop meaning within the work. The task begs the question, what compels me to make what I make? I create small, similar objects that I string together and hang on the wall. As much as I love pots—using, buying, displaying them—I am not the best maker of them and I gravitate toward what I know. I am an unapologetic collector who spends an egregious amount of time rearranging gathered objects in all manner of ways. So, I took inspiration from this daily compulsion and turned it into the crux of my practice. While this is a start to putting words to paper, how I proceed can mean the difference between engaging readers or turning them into deer in the headlights.
Artists unnecessarily make artist statements hard. We often over think them, then over write them with wording that is boringly academic, far removed from the art’s meaning, and full of cliches: “I am inspired by life/nature/the world;” “finding the extraordinary in the ordinary;” “my work is a journey;” or “juxtaposition of daily life and spirituality.” These statements are too broad, lack depth, and rarely move the needle in a viewer’s understanding of the work.
I argue that one’s approach may be better to break the rules: write a shorter text, ditch the perfect grammar, ban academic wording, and make the narrative awkwardly personal. By doing so, the reader quickly engages and gains an acute understanding of both the art and the artist.
In the issue’s Tear-Out-and-Try, ceramic artist Katie Fee writes about how a mentor challenged her approach to designing forms. The mentor suggested, “What would happen if you take your clay on more exciting dates?” So, she asked the clay, “Me, romancing a mound of clay. Should we go somewhere new, or return to an old haunt? What haven’t we talked about lately?” It’s this kind of atypical approach that one can also bring to their statement writing. The questions you ask yourself in the studio can be the words that land on the paper. Your statement can be many things, shock-and-awe, cheeky, flirtatious, candid, raw, but above all, avoid it being boring.
This issue celebrates handbuilding techniques with several unique approaches to forming pots. Stephen Biggerstaff cuts slip-colored slabs into strips, then forms them into vessels over a hump mold (1). Katie Fee uses wide trimming tools and a wire harp to carve out basins from a mound of clay (2). And, Jennifer España teaches us how to dismantle corrugated cardboard and use the interior texture to create dynamic surfaces for cups and trays (3). All this and so much more: handles, medallions, lobed vessels, and cut feet.
While you read this issue and get started in the studio, I am going to begin my artist statement. Cheers!
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