“Getting There”, 2023

Published in Ceramics Art and Perception 121, 2023

We are born. Then we die. Between the gooing and the gloaming, artists are active. I have been involved professionally now for sixty years. What is it like to be here?

Before getting to that, let’s go way back and start at the beginning. My early ambitions were simple enough. There were not many potters around. To become one, you took the route outlined by satirist John Clarke, in his role as Fred Dagg the New Zealand farmer. You bought a chicken shed at the remote end of a lane, and turned it into a workshop. You dug up clay to make pots and glazed them after crushing rocks down fine as flour and fired the pots in a kiln you had built. I had learned and understood the technical processes but managed to avoid the overly romanticised chicken shed, and follow an individual modus operandi.

As a digression – potters have been digging clay for thousands of years but the current Wild Clay movement gives the impression it is a new idea. I suppose if you have been buying clay in plastic bags for years, it is. And if crudity is the aim Japanese woodfirers were there long ago. It is, though, a positive development, stimulating new uses of materials and personal learning and development. I look forward to the coming of the Wild Glaze movement.

When I was a student there were very few potters, but now they can be found in every second street, retitled as ceramicists. Coronavirus, with lockdowns and the need to fill in time, caused a surge of interest, almost a parallel pandemic of pottery making. Beginners and amateurs are everywhere. Endless questions – what should I do? - appear on social media. The answer to many if not most of these questions is try it and see what happens, as professionals do. There is no failure, only learning.

Some beginners sell work that is not very good, not aware that it is not much good, to buyers who equally do not – and probably cannot, discriminate. The good stuff takes time to develop whatever the style. So, what exactly is the good stuff? Aha, I exclaim. To quote Shakespeare: that is the question. My answer? Keep searching. Find the answer for yourself. Hand wringing and brow scratching will not help – answers will come from keeping on working. You will learn to see and those who can see can discriminate. Seeing is different to looking.

It’s difficult now for novices to know what to do, where to turn, how to break in to the scene. It can be like flying a spacecraft to the moon with no training. Beginners need advice about how to become proficient and professional. There is more than enough of that kind of advice out there, so no need to add mine. Perhaps just a little: when starting out, at first follow the advice of others; but I soon decided persisting with that approach meant I would eventually become someone other than myself. When you wish to evolve into yourself there is no advice available. So I just made it up along the way without worrying too much about the value (artistic and financial) of the results. Others decide that for you.

Some ambition helps; a large ego might help (or might not – it can be annoying), along with a smidgin of intelligence, a pinch of emotion and a splash of courage. With the greatest luck, it’s possible - but unusual - to find a patron. All those great Renaissance artists had one. Whatever happened I just kept on working, to find out where that led.

There is stigma about being judgemental; but being judgemental is essential. Seeing what is good and what is bad is important. It might not be wise to say on social media that someone’s work makes you want to vomit but it’s a good healthy exercise to privately think that. Knowing what to avoid helps achieve the best work. Admiring the best work also helps.

In short: there is a right way and a wrong way to go about art. The wrong way is the right way. If you do it the right way – the way someone else told you is right – then it will be wrong for you. FFS take a risk. Art is risk. Everything else is just repetition.

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If you make it to mid-career, the question becomes: how far can all this be taken; and is it worth the trouble? Having achieved some modest level of recognition, should you make a serious effort to become more widely recognised? After all, you feel enthusiastic about offering the results of your brilliance to an expectantly waiting world. Do you feel the need to be the news? To become famous? An influencer? Artists at this stage may evolve, becoming new beings, deeply ambitious to be recognised for the wonderful new contributions they are making, revising perspectives. The best of them will raise the curtains on a future stage. The worst are just deluded.

Artists divide into promoters and hiders. Some promote themselves by advertising more frequently than Coca-Cola, swamping social media, blowing their trumpets and sounding their drums, selling the most attractive version of themselves, hair done and makeup applied. Conversely, some are never heard of in public and it’s almost secret men’s/women’s business to get to know them and see their artworks; even if as sometimes happens, the quality of their artwork can equal that of the most heavily promoted.

To become well known it’s not enough to just make the best quality work; although that is necessary. A network must be developed, to open doors: to get access to galleries, to offer workshops, obtain residencies, travel the world. That network of people is not best obtained by cynically singling out those who can be useful and feting them with smooth talking and gifts. Its best done by finding friends and treating them as friends, offering your friendship; rejecting anyone you would not be happy to spend a week with in an isolated cabin.

All friendships involve an exchange. And what do mates do for each other? Just the usual. Invite them to come and stay with you, organise something for them- maybe a workshop that helps them pay for the trip. As friends, it will be enjoyable to have them around, to travel with them, to show them the sights. As a result, the world will open up. They will look forward to seeing you again and will offer the same in reverse.

As Yeats said:
“Think where man's glory most begins and ends
And say my glory was I had such friends.”

Establishing the network begins with travelling, to visit people – or to be involved in events where there are lots of compatible people. Here in Australia the Gulgong events, in Wales Aberystwyth, in Korea the Biennale, in the USA NCECA. Around the world endless events are happening. At them, talking to as many people as possible has helped me feel out where the warmth lies, making new friends.

Getting on in the arts (in any public activity, really) involves creating your mythology - otherwise known as a reputation. Every well- known artist has a mythology attached – think of the stories about Picasso. What will be your story? The mythology may or may not be related to the real character of the person involved -the private person and the public person are often quite different creatures. Fiction may be involved. Objectionable people can receive glowing testimonials and beautiful people faint praise. Help with establishing stories can come from critics, gallery publicists, story tellers of all kinds. The best of them will get the facts by talking to you directly; the lesser ones will pass on someone else’s errors.

Serious collectors often buy the name of the maker, not the work itself. It’s a Picasso, I’ll buy it regardless of how it looks. Evidence is seen when a number of artists are producing similar work in the current fashion. The known artist sells; the unknown begins to run out of storage space. The mythology enhances the name. In industry it’s called branding.

Ambitious mid-career artists in ceramics aspire to exhibit in national and international galleries and sell their artwork for phenomenally high prices, to go all out for recognition, to be written about and spoken about, to become le grand fromage. Success (what is success?) may bring fame - but the famous will acknowledge that carries a price. In the words of the old Graham Nash song: is the money you earn worth the price that you pay?

Recognition creates obligations, and expectations to come up with something better each time, which is not easy. Setbacks are inevitable, creating stress and anxiety. There are options: quietly settle back, accepting enjoyment rather than accolades. After all enjoyment is at the core. If you don’t enjoy it, why would you be doing it? Are you crazy?

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Unavoidably, life moves in one direction only. Survivors finally reach the later stages, no longer jeune et jolie. Ambition subsides. I seem to have been born with a quota of ambitions; I know my store is becoming depleted. The need for all the trappings of success gradually fades away, leaving nothing more to prove. What remains when ambition takes a rest? Fortunately for me what remains is curiousity – what will happen if?

It's not only ambition that changes. Networking based on friendships is useful while those friends are still there, those fellow travellers. But they are also changing; leaving jobs where they can be helpful, being replaced by new comers. Ultimately, friends go into the permanent long darkness (heading skywards - or downwards - if you believe all that stuff) – and they no longer offer invitations.

But it’s never all gone. What remains – something we all have and never lose - is the need for self-identity, a sense of self. How do you see yourself? Or as we say in Australia, what are ya?

Committing to our profession gives us a large part of our identity, a purpose, a sense of meaning in life, a direction, a group of friends, a group of acquaintances, perhaps even a few enemies to provide a little frisson. That is not all we are of course – a large part of identity involves family and fun, whatever makes us smile.

But - if you step out of the bath, the space you occupied closes over, the warmth that surrounded you is no longer there. A few – very few - who have become widely known and praised are safe from this. But many are not - they leave, stop, retire, or just give up. They risk losing that part of their identity, becoming a nonentity, expendable, disposable, forgotten, unacknowledged, solitary, no longer required. Suffering from relevance deprivation syndrome. The poet Robert Frost said:

No memory of having starred
Atones for later disregard
Or keeps the end from being hard

Of course, that may be illusion, not reality; many fears derive from illusions. It ain’t all black and white. To banish those demons we remain active. Isn’t it fortunate that most of us involved in the arts do not have to consider ‘retiring’? Perhaps dancers lose their flexibility, and singing voices weaken, but in ceramics we can go on making until we die, smiling, adapting as we go.

In the beginning of a career adapting means gathering - knowledge, skill, experience, contacts. But in the later stages, adaptation involves letting go; despatch anything not essential, and move on. Moving on means – keep working.

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The question for me becomes: go on with what? My body has gradually changed; although other parts seem OK my lungs are shot. Too much dust, too much smoke inhaled. Difficult breathing makes physical work more difficult. As Jack Troy said to me in an email: Remembering stamina is a lousy but inevitable substitute for having it.

Even if the stamina is there, progress is erratic. Some days there is not enough time to get through it all, there is so much to be done. Other days can be spent looking out the window, wishing your chip could be re-flashed. And recently, covid brought change for many: lockdowns jangled confidence, exhibitions were cancelled - or sent digital, losing all sense of presence of the work.

My body protests more now than it used to while doing physical work; sometimes it just says no. So let me introduce you to my new best friends: my machines. Clay from my Peter Pugger clay mixer can be used with no further kneading, allowing my shoulders to remain intact. Enough wood to fire my small kiln ten times can be split with my Redgum log splitter in a few hours. Instead of a day sieving ash or clay slips or glazes by hand through a fine sieve, it’ s done in ten minutes using my vibratory sieve machine. Mixing new batches of glaze, or stirring old ones, is done in a few minutes with high-speed paint stirrers in a powerful drill. Converting slaked clay into slip is easy with an even heavier stirrer. I prefer to work alone so the machines are better company than a human assistant who wants to talk, ask questions and generally make me forget whatever it was I set out to do.

As well as machines I sometimes need the discipline to keep on working whatever the excuse to stop. Don’t stop until it’s done. No problem – I want to work anyway and anything else is a distraction.

But what about the end zone – presenting to the public? In total contrast to beginners who will -and probably should- grasp at any opportunity, there is now the option of saying no. No thanks. Not interested. I am especially inspired to do so when presented with a ‘theme’ or ‘curatorial focus’, meaning someone else tells you what you should make. Why should I bother with someone else’s idea of what I should be doing? What is to be gained from following what others see as the current fashion? Not for me brightly coloured primitivism, or multi-hued half collapsed spotty or stripy things.

One consequence of this disinterest is gradual detachment, losing track of who is who anymore, not following all social media, living isolated. I know just enough to be aware that some strong work is being done - amongst some dull and uninspired offerings. And to be aware of complaints about new styles from some who practise old styles. That is healthy. As my son Mike said to me once, the aim of music for the young is to piss off their parents. Complaining about the new is like going to Beijing and insisting on fish and chips for dinner.

Some current fashions make some venerable elders angry - but I am not one of them. I see radically different new work as renewal, and exploration as inevitable, as valuable. After all what I do derives from something that used to be rejected when it began. Snooty gallery owners looked down on woodfiring (some still do). I don’t have to like all of the new stuff (or any of it, really), and I don’t have to compete with it. I cannot anyway – the concerns are not my concerns and I don’t have the right skills. But I can in an at-a-distance way respect it, as an occasional spectator.

Turning to the work I do make; now there is time for reflection, for considering what is the best use of time, of skills, of experience. That reflection has gone like this: my exhibition work in recent years has been mainly purchased by collectors, who indirectly influenced the direction of my work. They bought what they were expecting to see and to some extent I made what they expected. Each of us becomes known for our unique style of work. And, in continuing to develop our familiar styles, deep awareness allows slight improvements, subtle innovations.

But - seeing those same woodfire surfaces over and over again for so many years has led me to say – enough. The shell marks, the runs of ash, the bare patches and scars. I have run out of ideas about how to develop this. When you open a kiln, you want to feel like Howard Carter when he first looked into Tutankhamen’s tomb – that you are seeing something that nobody alive has seen before. But it has begun to all look the same to me.

The woodfire adventure involved a high level of risk when it was new, exploring where there was no existing relevant knowledge. Designing kilns, working out how to fire them, and what to load in them. There were examples from Japan to inspire, but no awareness of how to create an Australian aesthetic. In the early days of the big Australian woodfire kilns the few people involved were each doing something individual, learning as we went along. But now it has become fashionable and spread widely, there is no point in continuing with that.

The whole thing has now developed to the point of being routine, attracting hobbyists and amateurs to the ‘romance of woodfiring.’ The rankest amateur can boast of ‘doing a woodfiring’, although the results usually attest to someone who has not put in the hard time. Well, I am happy to let them breathe smoke - I have inhaled enough.

All is not lost. The core of my woodfiring practice, those concepts of imperfection, can be developed in new ways. What those new ways are is what I hope to find out. The main lesson of the anagama kiln remains – acceptance. The tree bends with the wind and when the wind ceases, stands straight again.

These changes bring a new conundrum. In the past, recognition – some call it success - led to demands, or their politer form, requests for more and more; more talks, more appearances, more exhibitions, more exciting work. Ultimately more becomes too much, creating stress from trying to meet deadlines, trying to come up with something better than last time, from other people directing what you do rather than making it up yourself. That is unacceptable. I prefer adagio - slow and leisurely, a contemplative pace.

The quarrel of opposites intrudes. Needing solitude fights with craving recognition; the eternal conflict becomes more difficult to resolve. I like the idea of being famous and admired by everyone. Equally, I want to be left alone, not burdened by doing something that I don’t really want to do just to please someone else. I am driven to continue working – but on my terms.

Unlike the Rolling Stones, I am tired of singing the same old songs; I want to follow other leads. The momentum of the old should no longer dictate the pace of the new. But what will the collectors make of a radical departure? Henry Ford said that if he asked customers what they wanted they would say faster horses. Moving into something different asks the question: will the audience adjust to the new you? Will an established professional reputation be damaged?

I think it was Laurence Olivier who said his stage fright got worse as he got older and more experienced – because he had more to lose. If you take a risk and exhibit work that is different and unfamiliar, those out there may lose interest. Or will they be excited and love the innovations? Will it attract a new audience? Is the risk worth it? It’s a choice – make what others expect; or make whatever amuses me on the day? Remembering that experience does not always mean we cease to be foolish. 

The answer is in one respect simple. I can sit and worry about it until my head throbs – or I can just do it and see what happens. Anxiety can be converted usefully into energy, propelling new work, transmuting into problem solving, converting uncertainties into art. Insistent small voices in my head tell me to try something I’ve not tried before, but wished to. And there are plenty of ideas, endlessly circling like mosquitos. Can I recreate that sense of excitement felt way back in the beginning? So I have tried it. A new sense of freedom resulted, in which anything was worth a try. Evaluating, accepting, rejecting, all fresh and engaging.

The results of this attitude are that in one major exhibition of mine a few years ago where I mixed old and new work, both sold, which I suppose is some kind of guide to acceptance by others. That helped me make a decision to take it even further away from the familiar; to not let how it was take over from how it is or how it could be, to move into a new world of invention and uncertainty. A fine place to be. Like a beginner – jumping in to see what happens. Conundrum solved. Who am I trying to please – other than myself?

The recent first exhibition of my latest work, in Canberra – photographs and abstract sculptures - was the lowest selling exhibition I have ever had, and one of the most personally satisfying. A deep sense of involvement, a new sense of pleasure accompanied the making and that is what mattered. It’s been said that writing can be a way of working out what you think. Making with clay can be a way of winkling out what has been hidden in your innermost recesses.

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One of these days I will do an Amelia Earhart and disappear over the horizon never to be seen again. Awareness that your end is coming sometime creates priorities about what to do before it arrives. Some people speak of fulfilling their dreams. Others don’t quite make it; those long-forgotten dreams of long ago (Kris Kristofferson).

Meanwhile I will take the Muslim approach – if it’s not my time I will survive. If it is my time – goodbye and good luck. Absorbing that attitude is liberating – it allows me to continue with the oldest maxim of all – just keep working. All those scraps of paper with something that could happen but never did – I can try them now knowing that as always most of them will never happen. I will continue to ignore anything that asks you to follow ‘curatorial themes.’ That’s at least a mug’s game and at most offensive – asking you to do the work someone else thinks is interesting. No commissions, no grants, nothing that creates obligations preferably – apart from planning exhibitions. As Nick Cave said: You no longer have to devote time to finding out what you are, you are just free to be whatever you want to be, unimpeded by the incessant needs of others. Going into the unknown is the plan. Nothing is ever finished – everything promises somewhere else to go. Otherwise, what’s the point?

Which to me is the core of my whole life in ceramics. Learning more, expanding what can be done, living with surprises. After so many years’ involvement any surprise is worth having.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you’re destined for.
But don’t hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you’re old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvellous journey.
Without her you wouldn't have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.*
What comes next? I don’t know. I haven’t been here before.

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This essay was inspired by Artistic Risk and the Ticking Clock, by glass artist Paul J Stankard in American Craft Oct Nov 2017 pages 34-35.

*Source: Shortened version of Ithaka, by C.P. Cavafy: in Collected Poems (Princeton University Press, 1975)