Mountains. Bigger and Better Ones.

I've been really into fault lines and earthquakes and mountains lately. I miss hiking up big mountains. I miss the silence and peace that nature brings me.

Sometimes you need a big earthquake to shake up your life so you can build everything back up into taller, stronger mountains. I needed that quake, I got that quake. I've cleaned up the mess and I'm building things bigger and better than ever before. I'm feeling more and more at peace with everything.

I see you.

This one is for you, Mrs. McHugh

Every Saturday I went to Mrs. McHugh's house and paint. The schedule usually went as follows: wake up, donuts with Dad, Mrs. McHugh's, friend's house. This was my weekend ritual for years. I would skip out on Friday night sleepovers because I had to paint on Saturday morning. I'm not sure if my parents made me stick to the engagement because it was the responsible and respectable thing to do but I never seemed to mind those Saturday mornings.

Mrs. McHugh was my junior kindergarten teacher. I know it is hard to believe when I say this but I remember so vividly the day that I met her it seems like yesterday. On open house day I was shy (that didn't last very long) and stood behind my parents. Mrs. McHugh came up and introduced herself to me specifically and I came out from behind their legs and my fears of anything went away. I still have a few memories of that class in my mind. She let me stay awake during nap time to work on a paper collage. She used to hide a ghost around the classroom throughout October and I'd always be the first one to find it–probably because Mom insisted on being at school at 7am so I was usually the first one in the classroom.

So after that first year of school I started Saturday art class with Mrs. McHugh. I have no idea how it all started, so thank you Mom and Dad for arranging that. We worked primarily in tempera paints and water colors painting animals and flowers. It was a very technical, step-by-step process. She hung each step–draw, outline, paint–on the wall of her "studio" and I would follow each step and come out with a very interesting version of a horse or sunflowers or whatever was painted that day. And every painting I did was hung up in the hallway. Thank you for boosting my artistic confidence, Mom.

This isn't to say that I have learned everything about art from those Saturday mornings. In fact, my teaching philosophy is quite opposite. However, I was surrounded and inspired by the creativity Mrs. McHugh had in her life. My favorite thing to do was look at her bookshelves that held little trinkets or works of art she made. I was especially drawn to her mini collages she made with old National Geographic magazines. When I saw those I had to make some. So she showed me the stacks and stacks of National Geographic issues she had collected over the years. I was amazed by not only the amount and dates of the issues, but the ability to create something beautiful out of them.

I'm still inspired by the beautiful photography in national geographic magazines. And I get so excited when I find old issues of National Geographic. I am immediately transported back to those Saturday mornings and think of all the different things I can create. So while I was volunteering at an old school building my eyes lit up when I found stacks of National Geographic dating from the early 1970s through the 2000s. I saw stacks and stacks of potential works of art.

I have no idea what I'm going to do with them but a huge window just opened for me. And I can't help but think of Mrs. McHugh when I look at these National Geographic issues. If anything, these magazines are a reminder of the continuous inspiration and support I received when I was younger. It is amazing how the smallest things can trigger a memory. And as a visual learner, my memories are very vivid. 

It's not about the final product; it's about the fact that I had the push from others to continue on these paths. And that is why I'm here today, in a graduate program for art education. I'm not sure what I'll do with an master's degree in art education. I'm not even sure if I'll use it at all. But the opportunity to deeper explore these paths have made my past so much more clear. I hope that Mrs. McHugh knows what she did for me. I hope she knows how much I appreciate her guidance. 

Turns out I'm still not good at throwing. But I keep on trying! Here is what has come out so far...

The peacock guarding the door to the ceramics studio. I think it is mocking me. 

Last week's cylinder turned bowl. 

This week's cylinders that were supposed to be mug shaped. (Mine are the red clay in the front)

It may not look like much but I am starting to understand the full experience of throwing. It is as much of a physical practice as it is mental. It is all about controlling the breath, movement, pressure, time, and speed. I think I may have to start meditating before hand to get into the zen of throwing. 

Throwing Things

Life requires infinite amounts of patience. Life is a constant waiting game. I feel like I'm always waiting for something–a light to change, the weekend to come, a phone call, an email.

Time forces patience.

There have been several experiences that have taught me patience (or at least how to deal with it) in the last year or so. I won't go through a list of all of them but I can say with complete confidence that every experience in the recent past has enabled me to positively grow exponentially in an almost unbelievably short amount of time. I know that everything in my life up until now has "made me who I am today", if I may be slightly cliche. But this is the first time in my entire quarter-century of living that I have consciously recognized the growth and change within myself. 

The most meaningful lesson I've learned is to live almost completely in the present. As difficult as it is, I try not think about the past or the future too often. Or perhaps I should say, I try not to LIVE in the past or the future. The only time that I have is the current moment and looking at the past or towards future is to feel regret (past) or worry (future). This acceptance of time and not fighting how slow or fast it is brings a new sense of peace to my life–a heightened sense of my present surroundings, if you will. I may not know what went wrong in the past (or maybe I do in some cases) and I may not know what I will be doing in the future (career, love, location, etc.), but not thinking about those has calmed my mind. The tune in my head shifted harmoniously from the ominous minor chords to the joyous major chords and everything sounds sweeter. Just like in the beautiful symphonies of Beethoven and Mozart, the chords shift and it becomes more than just a sounds. It becomes an inexplicable sensation throughout the entire self.

What does your symphony sound like?

Naturally, what goes up must come down as Sir Newton so cynically pointed out to those of us who love to think we can fly. I think I've seen the farthest down I can go (I hope) and I think, because of my new found appreciation for patience in the world around me, my symphony has pages and pages of beautifully orchestrated notes with a just few minor chords thrown in just for good measure. Those minor dips are now met with acceptance and an understanding that it is part of the natural flow of how life works.

A tangible lesson in patience is throwing pottery. I'll even admit for the longest time I had no idea what "throwing" was. Well, throwing is that cool thing Demi Moore does on the wheel with Patrick Swayze behind her in Ghost. And no, I don't mean the sexual stuff. I mean the ceramic stuff. Using the momentum of the wheel and the malleability of the clay to create beautiful pottery.

I started taking a class called "Wheel Throwing and Beyond" at the local museum and the first class was this week. The few of us that are in the class were able to begin our first lesson on the wheel. If I can say one thing about throwing it is this: It is A LOT harder than Demi Moore makes it out to be. It is one hard medium to work with!

Our first class assignment was to make three cylinders on the wheel–your basic vase shape. We learned the technique step by step and then had the opportunity to get on the wheel and try it ourselves.

My final product: 0 cylinders, 1 bowl. FAIL

Throwing is TOUGH. It is all about touch and pressure and breath and moving with the clay and feeling the material. Apparently I don't have correct any of those things. Two of my cylinders flopped off because I applied too much pressure and the clay got too thin. And the last one that turned out as a bowl ended up like the because I pulled the clay too far out.

I think it is safe to say that I am no good at "wheel throwing and beyond". But this is where patience comes in. I have come to appreciate the challenge this medium has presented to me. This is yet another test of my patience. I know I will have to try and try and try over and over again to get what I want out of the clay. Then again, maybe I'll learn to love the "misshapen ball of clay" (to steal a line from Zoolander) that I create over the next few weeks.

It is like swimming for me. I know I can swim but I can't do it well. So I have to work on breathing and stroke and form and speed. All of these things will take incalculable amounts of time to perfect. However, it is the process and patience throughout this process that is teaching the lesson.

It's funny how this can relate to my teaching philosophy. This ceramics class is not about creating masterpieces. Rather, it is about learning and experiencing and exploring a new process of expression. In the end, I may not learn how to create a perfect cylinder ceramic vase, but I will learn how to step into a very zen-like state with the material I am working with and adapt my approach to make it work for me.

I'm not trying to say that a throwing class has become my metaphor for a new approach to life. Instead, I am trying to exemplify a perceptible experience as one way I am appreciating my present self and not regretting the past or worrying about the future.

Happy throwing!

Mas Doodlitos

Thanks for the fun painting day Alex.