Life in the Studio

Part I

Begin As You Mean To Go On

Practice Makes Purpose

Producing functional ceramics is central to my practice. When I sit at the wheel, I have an ongoing internal dialogue about the relationship between aesthetics and purpose. The earliest examples of ancient pottery combine these qualities in equal measure. Each piece tells a story about its creation, which imbues it with character. My hope is that my work, too, conveys much more than its intended purpose, and that it encourages constant use. I imagine that it never sits in one place for too long, and that as the pot moves from shelf to table and back again, it communicates an appreciation of life’s moments, big and small.

The pots from antiquity that we admire today were originally used for all kinds of ceremonies and meals and not merely for display. I am grateful to be part of this time-honored tradition. A cup or vase is useful, yes, but also sculptural, as a result of being formed by hand. My clients understand that each piece is inherently imperfect, and they trust in the workmanship that accounts for its singular beauty. My hand is forever present, and a part of my spirit is carried with the vessel. I strive to embody graciousness in the making that will be evident in the pot as it becomes part of someone else’s daily rituals.

Of course, I am not alone in this thinking. The Japanese writer Sōetsu Yanagi examines the idea of living with practical objects that add a sense of poetry to one’s quotidian life in The Beauty of Everyday Things, a book I reference often. His words remind me that utility brings the work into a home: Its purpose is to be part of a timeless domestic routine. Recently, I read the poem “To Be of Use,” by Marge Piercy, which sums up exactly how I consider the relationship between form and function, especially in its last lines:

Since I began making ceramics, my family and I have been surrounded by my pots. Just as I cut flowers in the garden for arranging, I choose serving pieces I have produced for our table—plates, bowls, and mugs for daily meals, but also vessels for special occasions, like footed cake stands that hold birthday cakes year after year, and the oversized plate on which my daughter’s wedding cake was displayed. These everyday and celebratory pieces reinforce my philosophy about making and its result, and about the fragility of time.

My Foundations in Art

From an early age, I wished to be an artist. At my request, I was given drawing classes, and my mother bought me any art books that I asked to read, which were many, as I was eager to study and learn everything I could. We often made the trip together from our home in New Jersey to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City because I loved looking at the paintings and sculptures firsthand. I was especially captivated by art that is a process, meaning that the result is as dependent on the characteristics and opportunities of the medium as it is on the artist’s intent. I was—and remain—intrigued by how work shifts and changes as it progresses in ways that have nothing to do with the individual, due to the nature of their craft.

I remember exactly how certain artworks impacted me—not only because I admired them aesthetically but because they sparked my curiosity. I was eager to understand how they came to be. What materials were used to create that drawing, painting, sculpture, statue? I wondered. What techniques were employed, and what tools? I am still just as interested in the how as in the why behind the work. I want to know what went into it, and to try to imagine myself similarly engaged. This exemplifies my lifelong obsession with the creative process.

While studying foreign service at Georgetown University, I took my first art history class and spent time wandering around the Smithsonian museums in Washington, DC. I felt a whole new world opening up around me. I decided to concentrate on art history and transferred to Barnard College in New York City. During my undergraduate years, I worked in the Columbia University art library and as a slide projectionist. The latter job enabled me to take all the art history and architecture classes I wanted (without having to pay for most of them). I loved every minute of this immersive study.

I went on to get a graduate degree in art history at Columbia, then took a job at the contemporary art space known as P.S. 1, in Long Island City, Queens. This was in the early 1980s, and many accomplished artists showed there at the beginning of their careers. My pay was low, but the work was fascinating. After about a year, I was put in charge of the sister gallery to P.S. 1, the Clocktower Gallery on Leonard Street in Lower Manhattan, and thereafter took a job at Petersburg Press, which published limited-edition prints by some of the greatest artists of the day. Being steeped in both the historic and contemporary art worlds provided a strong foundation for my future endeavors.

Finding My Calling

It was exciting to be surrounded by notable contemporary artists at Petersburg Press, but after a few years, I felt I needed to produce my own artwork rather than continue as an arts administrator.

I was spending many hours designing and making knitted garments while working full-time at the press, and in 1983, I decided to start my own knitwear company. I researched who could best help me scale up the production, and found the person who managed the knitwear collection for Perry Ellis. She worked with a team of freelance knitters out of an office in the Garment District in New York, and we collaborated to create a small line of sweaters. I began to sell to local stores, including Henri Bendel, Betsey Bunky Nini, and IF. Although I loved designing the sweaters, my operation was not sustainable at its small scale, and I grew frustrated trying to keep up with the seasonal demands of fashion. A mutual friend suggested that I meet with Wally Palmer, a successful designer for a menswear company who knew all about the knitwear business and could perhaps give me some pointers.

When we met, it was love at first sight. I never consulted with him about my business, and not long after our meeting, I realized that I was not interested in expanding my knitwear company. Wally and I married in 1986 and had a daughter shortly thereafter. We are still together—one daughter, two sons, and more than three decades later.

Before Wally and I began dating, he had purchased a modernist glass house in Weston, Connecticut, as a weekend place. We had an apartment in New York City’s West Village and were going back and forth until our daughter, Daphne, was born, at which point we moved to Connecticut full-time.

It turned out I was completely unprepared for living in suburbia. Wally and I knew only one couple who lived nearby, and I had never held a baby in my life. No one back then talked about the challenges of nursing or postpartum depression, and I thought I had failed on every count. It was all a bit of a disaster, and if not for an amazing pediatrician who took Daphne and me under his wing, I’m not sure we both would have made it!

After this rocky start adjusting to motherhood and life in Connecticut, Wally suggested that I embark on something new, something I had always wanted to try but had never had time for. In that period, I was reading about the Omega Workshops, the artist compound of the Bloomsbury Group in early-twentieth-century England. I was fascinated by these artists who produced all the decorative aspects of their environment: paintings, fabric, wallpaper, pottery, and clothing that they lived with every day. I was intrigued by the idea of making my own pottery to use when entertaining. I signed up at the Silvermine Arts Center in New Canaan, Connecticut—a wonderful school that was started by local sculptors in 1908—and learned to throw.

Making ceramics appealed to me immediately. It was a natural extension of the things I loved to do: cook, entertain, and arrange flowers (although it would be years before I had a garden, I went often to the wholesale flower market on West Twenty-Eighth Street in New York City for a steady supply of fresh blooms). Now I would be able to set the table with plates, bowls, and vases I had made myself. My background in art history was a perfect complement to my newfound passion; I was able to study different periods and artists who produced work that I admired and translate these ideas into my own style of pottery.

After a year or so of throwing classes, I had grasped the essentials. I was not keen, however, on the stoneware (which effectively burned out any bright glaze colors) and 1960s-style-ceramics clays and glazes at the guild. My vision was to work with a white, low-fire clay that I could paint on, in a technique similar to that of the Omega Workshops pottery, so I bought a used wheel and kiln and set up my own home studio in the family room of our formerly pristine house!

On Perseverance

My mother was a very practical person, adept at many things. She taught me how to sew and knit, how to work with my hands. Our house was the location for most holidays and other celebrations, as she was the best cook in the extended family, and she generously and patiently showed me how to set a table, compose a meal, and bake (pies, especially).

A great athlete, my mother competed in tennis and golf. She was a master bridge player and often teamed up with my father to compete in tournaments. She also handled the accounts for my father’s various businesses. With all of these activities inside and outside the home, my mother maximized her time with the utmost efficiency. I learned multitasking skills from her, as well as how to channel my energy productively—both of which serve me well to this day.

One lesson in particular stands out in my memory. I must have been around seven years old when my mother taught me the recipe for pie dough that I have used ever since. She put the flour and butter in a bowl and explained how to make a crumb before adding her secret ingredient, orange juice in place of water. When I attempted to pull the flour and butter together, for some reason the mixture became too wet. My mother calmly put that failed attempt aside and organized a fresh bowl. The texture of the crumb was much better the second time around, and when we added the orange juice, it all came together as it should.

The underlying lesson of my mother’s pie-dough demonstration—to recognize that the first try may not succeed and that one needs to persevere—flows through all of my work. The goal is not perfection but rather an in-depth understanding of the process and appreciation of the journey.

A Delicious Inheritance

Goat Cheese And Leek Tart

This tart combines my mother’s pie dough with a filling adapted from Alice Waters’s Chez Panisse Menu Cookbook. (All of her books are well worn in my kitchen; I love the simple elegance of everything she does.) It’s just the thing when I need to make something in the morning that can be left at room temperature until lunchtime. Makes one 9-inch (23 cm) tart; serves 8

For The Dough

1¼ cups (156 g) all-purpose flour, plus more if needed

2 tablespoons (25 g) sugar

Pinch of coarse salt

8 tablespoons (1 stick/113 g) unsalted butter, cubed, plus more for the pan

3 tablespoons (45 ml) orange juice, plus more if needed

for the filling

8 tablespoons (1 stick/113 g) unsalted butter

3 to 4 pounds (1.3 to 1.8 kg) leeks (12 to 14 small), white and light green parts only, washed well, trimmed, and julienned

Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 large egg

½ cup (120 ml) heavy cream

2 teaspoons Dijon mustard

Pinch of curry powder

4 ounces (113 g) fresh goat cheese

¹⁄³ cup (38 g) bread crumbs

Preheat the oven to 400°F (205°C). Butter a 9-inch (23 cm) tart pan.

Make the dough: Whisk the flour, sugar, and salt in a large bowl. With a fork or pastry blender, cut the butter into the dry ingredients until the mixture is crumbly, with only pea-sized lumps remaining. Do not overwork. Pour in the juice and mix just to bring the dough together. It should not be wet or sticky, but you can add a bit more flour if it is. If the dough is too dry, add more juice, a tablespoon at a time. Form the dough into a ball or disc and set on a large sheet of waxed paper, and chill while you prepare the filling.

Make the filling: Melt 6 tablespoons (85 g) of the butter in a skillet, then cook the leeks over low heat, stirring, for 10 minutes. Season with salt and pepper, and let cool. Beat the egg lightly in a large bowl and stir in the cream, mustard, curry powder, salt, and pepper. Crumble in half of the cheese. Stir in the cooled leeks.

Prepare the tart: Roll the dough into a round a bit larger than the tart pan. Fit it into the pan, trimming or folding over any excess dough, and refrigerate for 15 minutes. Fill the shell with the leek mixture. Crumble the remaining cheese over the filling, then sprinkle with the bread crumbs. Melt the remaining 2 tablespoons (28 g) butter and drizzle over the top. Place the tart pan on a sheet pan and bake for 30 to 40 minutes, until the pastry is a beautiful brown. Transfer the tart pan to a wire rack to cool before unmolding and serving.

Being Centered

Learning to center the clay is the first step of throwing a pot and exemplifies my mantra “begin as you mean to go on” because this initial step is crucial to the outcome. If the lump will not center, you might as well pull it off the wheel and start over.

First, a measured weight of clay, wedged to remove air pockets and make it pliable, is placed on a bat (a flat, removable disk) or on the head of the potter’s wheel. As the wheel begins to turn, a concentric circle emerges on the top of the clay to indicate the center. Hands are wetted with water from a nearby bucket, then placed on either side of the clay. With a bit of strength, the ball is moved into symmetry before the center opens and the sides pull up. There is a delicate balance between applying force and gently coaxing the clay into place as if it had a life of its own.

Often, I close my eyes as I begin centering and feel my way through this process with only my hands. I have to concentrate fully on what is happening at the wheel and allow the material to guide the result; extraneous thoughts must be put aside.

I love the calmness that centering requires. I need to approach the wheel in a tranquil frame of mind. The minute I experience stress or confusion, the clay senses it. The walls of the pot will come up unevenly, or the ball of clay might even swerve off the wheel. The shape will not take the form that I am intending if I do not begin correctly. If I feel tired or upset while at the wheel, I stop until I can pull myself together or I move on to another task; there is no point in trying to throw when my mind is unfocused.

In her iconic book Centering in Pottery, Poetry, and the Person, potter, poet, and essayist M. C. Richards states that centering “bears the future within it” and that it is “a space for ongoing development and differentiation.” This extends beyond the wheel—for Richards, centering clay is a clear metaphor for finding purpose and self-understanding. Fundamentally, this is what I also experience when I begin to center the clay. It seems as though I am simply making a pot, yet the practice suggests a larger contemplation, and I feel joy that this is my task to accomplish.

Promotion and Patience

After my initial foray into pottery, I quickly realized how much I enjoyed working at the wheel and decided to find a way to sell my pots. I wanted to develop a business for three reasons: to approach the work with seriousness, to make functional pieces, and to earn my own income independent of my husband.