My Most Personal Piece: Part 1
I have made many works of pottery over the last few years. So much that I’ve lost count. If I were to venture a guess, maybe several hundred? I would even entertain the number approaching 500 to 600 individual pieces. Most of my pieces have developed organically. I rarely create the same design twice, and many people who have followed me from the beginning have noticed my evolution as an artist. I would like to go in depth into one of my latest pieces, Lion, that holds particular meaning to me, and in a way is a representative piece of a very important event in my life that I experienced recently.
2023 has been a year of change. It will always mark my transition to a full-time artist. It hasn’t been so seamless. I remember my first month after retiring from my previous job that I held for over twenty years: Creative Director at Bohannan Huston.The first week after I left I was having genuine anxiety, wondering how I’m going to survive as an artist, no stable paycheck, no health insurance, all of that. The fear was palatable. However, one thing that did help was a looming deadline of an upcoming show, and that served as a healthy distraction. Instead of wondering what to do that day I had to quickly sculpt several pieces, paint, and fire them.
As the days became weeks the opportunities began to arrive: exhibition invitations, meetings, and order inquiries. Earlier in the year I had accepted an artist’s residency with the Hand and Machine Lab at the University of New Mexico (more on that in another post) during the summer. Another opportunity stood out to me: a chance to participate in an exhibit, which included me visiting a place where old, historic Cochiti pottery was being stored and choosing certain pieces to display in the exhibit.
I eagerly accepted this invitation and I knew there was a good chance that there would be pieces created by my great-grandmother Estephenita Herrera aka Hah-nee-yahts, as well as other aunts of mine. Estephenita, in particular, was a renowned and skilled potter, and she was an important person in the village. I remember seeing her gigantic dough bowls with traditionally bold designs painted with native spinach, as well as the stories my dad would tell me about her and how he lived with her as a child. I never met her. She passed away some fifteen years before I was born, but her art always left an impression as I would see her work at my house, or my aunts or other family members' residence.
The day of the visit came during the summer solstice. The eagerness I felt in the days leading to the visit gave way to nervousness, like I was going to meet someone very important. I was led to a basement, each step becoming more pronounced as I descended the stairs until I was there. I didn’t realize my hands were trembling when I was reaching for my corn meal pouch to greet the pieces. I don’t even remember what I said or if I was speaking out loud. My friends led me to the right area, and there they were. In the dimly-lit room, the shapes and pigments were unmistakable: the cream colored slip, the jet black native spinach that was used to create the designs, and the red clay. Some were bowls and some were figurines with earnest expressions. My nervousness gave way to joy. It felt like I was meeting lost grandparents. They had a very inviting aura, like they were calling to me and they knew who I was. I could feel a lump in my throat. The analytical side of me was puzzled. How could these pieces, made by family members before my time, affect me the way they were?
I held it together the best as I could, and when I came at last to a large dough bowl, I instantly knew it was one that my great grandmother made. The craftsmanship, the lines, and balance between positive and negative space all were her calling cards, not to mention the sheer scale of her bowls. It was unsigned, but I somehow knew it was hers. I touched the bowl for an extended period of time, and I could hear a gentle laughter, an older woman’s laughter. It was a very soothing feeling, and it only deepened as I looked at more pieces.
I spent the rest of the time picking my choices and just sitting and visiting with the pieces. Some of them I recognized the names of, many I did not. I marveled at the ingenuity, grace and playfulness of them: They are a selfie of that point in time: how they lived and what these were used for. It felt like there was a dialogue going on between me and them, but on a very basic level, far below my thoughts and very close to my core. It was a little strange at first, but then I let it happen naturally. I didn’t understand what was communicated and I still don’t, but something did take place in that manner.
As my session neared its end my happiness gave way to sadness, and the lump returned to my throat. My heart wanted very much to bring them home and be with their families. I didn’t want to leave the aunts and grandmothers there, but I understood the circumstances in which they were there. Knowing this, it didn’t make it any easier. Time was short, and I made a conscious effort to memorize these shapes, designs and patterns, and right there I made a vow to honor this precious legacy the only way I know how: remaking these forms and continuing these patterns and designs as an integral part of my work. It is a commitment I will hold until I cannot make art anymore.
To be continued…
