The Maker and The Critic

When studying clay at university, the professor gives out concrete assignments, such as make twenty-five teapots by next Monday. Everyone gets busy quick, cranking out lots of pots and keeping the best for the Monday critique. The class would take lots of time discussing the work, praising the good and pointing out the bad. At the end of the long discussion, the professor would bring out the trash can, trashing what was deemed a failure and keeping what was successful. While this approach is potentially painful, it was also very helpful.
Left alone in my studio with no critique deadline, it's easy to make a pot or two, judge it successful or not, and then move on to the next thing. The downside of this approach is that rather than forcing myself to work on something until it in fact works, I can say, "Oh yuck, no more of that." '
Going to the Clay Symposium worked to remind me of the far away time of class critiques. While there, I got to spend hours watching successful potters who have spent years honing their skill. Pot after pot, they have forced themselves to work out the glitches. Often the information was just so simple, yet powerful. My favorite demonstrator was Bruce Cochrane, a Canadian potter who has taught for 30 years . Here is one of the simple things I picked up from him. As he was throwing his nesting bowls, he started with the biggest and worked down to smallest. I was busy feeling stupid for not realizing the genius in this approach, when someone spoke up and said, "God I always start with the smallest and struggle to make the biggest one big enough." This comment came from one of the elite in the group, which worked to make me feel better. I was then able to accept it as a eureka moment-this is but one example of such moments.
Back home, I'm busy working on the Bramwell Awards. I allowed popular opinion to guide my design, though I wasn't so sure that the design was my favorite. However, my studio is full of these pots-a small portion of the bisqued pots are pictured above. Over the weekend, a friend from Connecticut visited. He loved the shape and texture of the award cups, and ordered 30, which he will use as his holiday gifts-sans the Bramwell stamp, of course. That order is forcing me to continue working on this shape and after I finished the 80th cup, I'm beginning to figure out how to make them. Without the impetus of more money for these shapes, I may well have abandoned them to move on to something else. Like so many things in life, I'm glad to be forced to continue working to improve my understanding of the form and am receiving a sense of accomplishment. Thanks, Henri!