Boy, these things are hard to write. Don’t want to engage in off putting “art speak,” but want to show a bit how I got to where I have ended up.

Here ’tis:

I’ve spent my life with paper, real and virtual, writing, editing, drawing, painting. And here I am stepping into the third dimension.

As I started to get used to the mechanics of making a pot, I realized that the pots that wanted to be created by me were small. I can make bigger things, but they don’t talk to me.

These small pots told me they wanted to echo ancient Greek amphora and urns. But not modern copies. No, these little fellers wanted to evoke the ravages of shipwrecks and millennia spent resting on a seabed. They wanted to be crusty or broken and toppled.

And then, like little orbits of galactic dust, they wanted to congregate and coalesce. They called out for ceramic boxes to lie in. Or for discarded drawers so they could be displayed like finds in a Victorian’s curio cabinet.

Like characters in a short story that take off for Paris when the author had in mind they’d stay put in Ohio, these pots decided to have their own lives to be lived in their own small worlds. Sometimes I think I’m just along for the ride.