Capriccio

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Ceramics is more than just playing with mud, as has been discussed on this site before. It ranges from the functional and commercial to the personal and expressive, from pieces that demand no attention because they exist to hold a pile of sandwiches to pots that require effort from the viewer as you move around the object, examining details and angles that provide an emotional connection with the maker.

Tabu teapot by Angus Suttie at the Sunday Painter gallery

In London recently, and on a visit to The Sunday Painter gallery, the work of Angus Suttie (1946 – 1993) was on display. His approach was described as “tapping the subconscious to see what happens”, and he turned out work that is humorous, direct and engaged. Strong vertical or horizontal shapes, with twisted forms, holes and conduits, piled-up different forms from smaller parts, playful and probably unplanned from the start, they are “awkward and beautiful” as he himself described the work. The exhibition is on until 26th October – click here for the link, if you’re anywhere near the South Lambeth Rd, drop in.

Red and Green dancing vase – Peter Arscott Ceramics

That element of play is important. Starting out without a clear plan or design in mind can lead to all sorts of interesting outcomes, specially with hand-building when you can cut the clay and shape it as you build your piece. At Peter Arscott Ceramics the vessel is still king, and is the basis for all work, but sometimes functionality is not obvious, or, rather, not relevant, as the personality of the piece takes shape – often in a whimsical direction.

Poseur vase

“Whimsical” is such a strange-sounding word. “Whimsical derives from whim-wham, a noun from the early 16th century that originally referred to an ornamental object or trinket. Later whim-wham, with its fun sound, came to refer to a fantastic notion or odd fancy” (Merriam-Webster dictionary). So that explains it: whimsical, quirky, capricious.

Lone goat

There is nothing capricious about setting off to walk up to Bradlow Knoll – it is a serious undertaking for two-legged beings of a certain age whose gamboling days are long behind them. However, this latest walk led to an encounter which put a spring in the step, as the recent fencing layout on the hill was eventually explained by the number of goats grazing. As all walkers know “When setting out upon an important journey, it’s good luck to meet a goat.”

Apologies for my lexicographical meanderings – it’s probably a phase. There are two theories as to how the word “capricious” is derived.  It comes via French from the Italian word capriccio, which originally referred not to a sudden desire but to a sudden shiver of fear. It probably comes from the Italian capo, meaning “head,” and riccio, the word for “hedgehog” – anyone who shuddered in fear was said to have a “hedgehog head,” meaning that the person’s hair stood on end like the spines of a hedgehog.

Capriccio vase, or St Sebastian vase.

My preferred theory is the possible link to Italian word “capra”, meaning “goat,” because of the animal’s perceived whimsical nature. Anyway, they are sociable animals, intelligent and curious, and, thanks to them, coffee was first discovered when Ethiopian goat herders noticed the animals acting energetically after nibbling coffee beans, though I prefer the version where the abbot of a monastery full of lazy monks saw the effect on his goats and fed the beans to his brethren.

Cockerel vase

St Spyridon, patron saint of potters and former goat herd, known by the PAC team in the studio simply as Spiro (in charge of Marketing) is keen that we know that goats are one of the cleanest animals, though they dislike water and would rather leap over streams and puddles than step in them. They also use the sneeze sound to warn each other of danger. Fact: the pharaoh Cephranes thought that so much of his goats that he had 2,234 buried with him. Spiro also says that goat yoghurt is the best – that’s all he eats.

Autumnal vase

As you can see from the image at the start of this blog, the view from Bradlow Knoll in early October gives every appearance that summer is still with us. The only tree that is turning autumnal is the horse chestnut, and there are not many in the neighbourhood: ash, hawthorn, hazel, blackthorn, sycamore and apple are more common in Herefordshire. This time of year is all about apples and cider-making, and in the cluster of villages around Much Marcle, the Big Apple Harvest festival takes place on 12th and 13thOctober. You can visit the local orchards, see, hear and smell cider and perry being made and taste and buy many different varieties of apples, local ciders, perries and apple juices. Click here.

Michaelmas daisies

Michaelmas daisies are all out now. They are a sure sign of Autumn and are so called because they reach their peak on or around the 29 September, Michaelmas Day, or The Feast of Michael and All Angels, signifying the end of the harvest, the start of autumn and the beginning of the shorter days.

A couple invited the local vicar for Sunday dinner. While they were in the kitchen preparing the meal, the minister asked their son what they were having.
“Goat,” the little boy replied.
“Goat?” replied the vicar, “Are you sure about that?”
“Yes,” said the youngster. “I heard Dad say to Mom, ‘Today is just as good as any to have the old goat for dinner.’

The call of the cicada

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View of the Ter, from the monastery

No slog up to Bradlow Knoll this month. Instead, a walk in the countryside outside Vic in Catalunya, to visit the ancient monastery of Sant Pere de Casserres perched high above a bend in the river Ter. Challenging because of the heat (about 34° centigrade) but rewarding for the view, and for the architecture of this 11th century Benedictine building – plus there’s a café where you can get a drink.

The nave of Sant Pere

Vic itself is an attractive city with a welcoming central square with shops and bars, and a Saturday market that beats most others into a cocked hat. There is a beautifully laid-out museum of medieval art in the old part of the city, with a collection saved from churches and monasteries in the region, including a painting of Christ’s circumcision – a rather concerned Mary looks on, unsure about the priest’s competence, while the infant Jesus seems to be rather laid back about it.

Vic is also famous for its sausages. Of course we were not there for the sausages, though many were eaten. Luckily, we were on holiday in a small coastal town, so the sea was there for cooling off, although, possibly encouraged by the heat, the cicadas were particularly noisy throughout, singing their little hearts out, high up in the pine trees, in the hope that a lady cicada might fall for their tune and, after mating, might deposit her eggs in the bark.

Cicada. Watercolour by Lisa Dearling

Never having seen a cicada before, here is what I found out about them: both male and female cicadas die within a few weeks after emerging from the soil, where they spend most of their lives at depths down to about 2.5 m (8 ft). The “singing” of male cicadas is produced principally using a special structure called a tymbal, a pair of which lies below each side of the abdominal region. The structure is buckled by muscular action and unbuckles rapidly on muscle relaxation, so quickly that to the human ear it is almost one continuous sound. Most cicadas go through a life cycle that lasts 2–5 years. Some species have much longer life cycles, such as the North American cicadas that go through either a 17-year or a 13-year life cycle. But the point is, they must be the loudest insects on the planet and once the sun sets everything seems too quiet.

Click here to listen to the cicadas

So, if you’re looking for “quiet”, then nighttime is good, or very early morning, before the sun hits the trees. Yours truly, in search of oneness with Nature and Zen-like tranquillity, walked down to a small cove at 6.30 in the morning while the cicadas were still snoring and swam accompanied only by a cormorant. Even the iPhone camera’s click seemed intrusive.

Cala Xelida at 6.30 am

Perhaps inspired by the cormorant’s ceaseless search for fish, a drive to nearby Palafrugell’s fish market followed. Once the centre of the Catalan cork industry, it now serves as a summer holiday town for residents of cities such as Barcelona and Girona. Many narrow streets emanate from Plaça Nova – a large square with bars, restaurants and boutiques, and not far is a ceramics gallery called Tejemaneje on Carrer Sant Antoni next to the market.

Tejemaneje entrance

Stepping into its cool and elegant interior is a pleasure. It is run by Jordi Tejedor, designer, artist, ceramicist and businessman, whose work is exhibited along with that of others. His is the large neanderthal figure that greets customers as they walk in, by which I mean the sculpture on display, and not Jordi.

Jumping figure copper oxide on white clay by Jordi Tejedor

.It all seemed a very long way from Peter Arscott Ceramics and the studio with the rest of the team resentful at their exclusion from a holiday in the sun – but then, as I explained to them, getting a heavy Japanese pug machine, a 200 AD Bishop of Tremithus (and patron saint of potters), as well as a spider onto an EasyJet flight would be a challenge. Furthermore, they should pity me, since a machine, a figment and an arachnid can cope with heat, whereas I, a human, am not designed for such temperatures. And the mosquitos would undoubtedly attack me too. As proof here is a drawing of my right leg after a night’s vampiric assault.

Previous mention of sausages reminds me that a  slab potter will find that there is usually a great deal of unused clay or cut-offs when making a piece. To recycle this clay, these lumps are thrown into a large bucket and soaked with water until enough is amassed to lay out on a surface to harden to the right consistency. At this point, as the clay is cut up into sections with a cheese wire, one discovers the wooden sculpting tool and the metal needle tool that disappeared so long ago. The clay cannot be too soft that it squirts out of the mill, or too hard that it impedes the action of wedging and removing any bubbles. When it is extruded as a long sausage, it is ready for use again. Not an ounce of clay is wasted, thanks to Shinto the Pugmill.

waiting to be pugged

Because patience and persistence are necessary for making pottery, given that every stage requires concentration and patience, from preparing the clay (as above) to moulding and finishing it, accepting the occasional flaw may add to the overall authenticity of the piece. It’s important to strike a balance between maintaining control and letting go – sometimes failures and setbacks are not the ends but often occasions for development.

Waving Yoohoo vase

Why am I telling you this? Well, I just want to come clean and show you two examples of what I’m talking about, from the Yoohoo series. The one above shows clearly that there is a gap between the top of the right arm and the body of the vase, caused probably by my allowing the arm to dry more quickly than the body. This was already apparent at bisque stage, but I decided to paint it and glaze fire at 1200℃ and I think the gap adds something to the piece, and gives it more movement.

Saluting Yoohoo vase

The second one  (above) has its blue arm dipping away from the rim of the vase at an angle, instead of being perpendicular – probably because its own weight dragged it one way with the extreme heat – but again, it gives the vase a certain quirkiness which makes me think of American sailors’ salutes in those Hollywood movies of the 50s. Anyway, you’re perfectly entitled to tell me I’m wrong and deluded.

Sausages in Oxford market. Photo by Kaihsu Tai

Just as you are with my constant references to sausages. Does every culture have its own sausage? The Spanish have the chorizo, the Catalans their fuet, the Germans their bratwurst, the USA their hotdog, the UK their banger, the boerewors comes from South Africa, the gyulai is Hungarian, the linguiça is Brazilian. Surely this shows that we all have more in common than not, and wouldn’t it be wonderful if the world’s problems were fixed by annual international sausage conventions?

Keep well and stay cool.

All the King’s horses

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This is going to be a very equine blog. As one gets older, the more challenging the climb up Bradlow Hill becomes, and the more one wishes for a horse. The weather was breezy, and there was a lot of Red Campion about in the wood, having taken over from the Bluebells – the moment when both overlap would have been a month ago: a sea of blue and pink.

Red Campion

Recently I took up the birthday gift by my children of a riding lesson in the Western style, not far from Ledbury, in a place called Ullingswick. It was more fun than expected, given that the last time I sat on an animal was in 1967, and the tolerance of April (my horse) was impressive, as is the fact that I did not fall off. The Western style encourages the rider and horse to become one, with the former using his or her body to guide the horse, who responds to pressure from a knee or a shift in weight.

April carrying a sack of potatoes

April had all the qualities of a ceramicist: patience, perseverance, stoicism, and equanimity (a habit of mind that is only rarely disturbed under great strain). If she had fingers rather than hooves, she would make a good potter.

Juggler vase at Cecilia Colman Gallery

Earlier in the week I was in St John’s Wood to deliver some ceramics to the Cecilia Colman Gallery, which you may remember from a previous blog, has been operating for forty-five years. It’s an established star in the ceramics firmament.

Streaky bacon

Regent’s Park and Zoo are nearby, lots of shops, but also some fine residential buildings built in the late 19th century Streaky Bacon style, or ‘Constructional Polychromy’ – alternating bands of brick and marble, which was popular with British architects. I mention architecture in order to show you a recent piece from the kiln called Construct. There is an affinity between ceramicists and architects in that both vessels and buildings are ways of filling space (discuss).

Construct

I was a little early, so I went to a café. A morning coffee isn’t always accompanied by the unexpected thrill of a seemingly endless column of beautiful chestnut horses clip-clopping their way past the large windows of a London café on its way to Regent’s Park. There must have been over forty, twenty riderless, that passed by with an air of disdainful boredom, as if the gawping pedestrians confirmed all their prejudices about two-legged beings.

All the King’s horses

The barista confirmed that this was a regular occurrence. Based in St Johns Wood, the King’s Troop Royal Horse Artillery is responsible for firing royal and ceremonial salutes as part of the sovereign’s birthday parade in April, the state opening of parliament, state visits and Remembrance Day. The barista was a talented joker. When I said I thought they were beautiful thoroughbreds, he told me he had once I put a bet on a horse that had excellent breeding, and that after it left the starting gate, it stopped and closed it behind him.

Red ochre vase at the Cecilia Colman Gallery

Unable to get horses out of my mind, I inevitably resorted to finding out a bit more about them. So, did you know that horses can sleep both lying down and standing up, thanks to a special locking system in their legs? You’ll like this: when foals are born their hooves are covered with soft tissue which stops their mothers’ birth canal and uterus from being damaged – they are called fairy slippers.

Cuckoo spit

Horses produce 10 gallons of saliva a day – saliva has very important functions because it wets feed material and begins to break it down. It also has an important buffering effect in the stomach, reducing acidity. Since we are talking of these matters, above is a picture I took in Bradlow Knoll of some Cockoo Spit, which has nothing to do with horses’ saliva.  Inside each mass of cuckoo spit is a juvenile yellow-green froghopper.

Frog hopper

The adult froghoppers or spittlebugs  are 6mm long and bright green, with large eyes and a blunt-shaped head, but they’re rarely seen because they hop away on their strong back legs at the first sign of danger. We all know people like that – excepting the “bright green” bit, I assume.

Tall pink ochre vase at Cecilia Colman gallery

With the excuse that a froghopper looks like a plump cricket, here in St John’s Wood is the home of the sport. Lord’s  has been  the birthplace of cricket since 1787, but looking at the grounds from outside one has to admit that they’ve moved on with the times, and their roofscape is nice mixture of the old and the new. They say that if cricket wasn’t so difficult to understand, most of its obsessives and followers might never have bothered with it at all. Here are some of the fielding positions players take up: Deep point, Backward point, Deep backward point, Short third, Deep third, Short leg, Square leg, Deep square leg, Backward square leg, Long leg, Short fine leg, Deep fine leg, etc.

Lord’s cricket ground

Most people have some sort of obsession, major or minor, though cricket is not one shared by the team here at Peter Arscott Ceramics (PAC). Spiro (Marketing) has a passion for goat yoghurt, Ziggy (fly-catching) is forever pondering the significance of  Proust’s “A la Recherche du temps Perdu” and Shinto (the pugmill) goes on and on about sushi. In my case it’s Picasso’s Demoiselles d’Avignon that has always bothered me – it’s the elbow sticking out at the top, centre, of the painting, which the vase below always reminds me of.

Demoiselles vase at the Cecilia Colman Gallery

Les Demoiselles d”Avignon by Pablo Picasso

A horse walks into a bar. “Hey,” says the barman. “Yes please,” says the horse.

Sign in Frith Wood

Potter Pete’s foggy day

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The view down to Ledbury

This time I groped my way up Bradlow Hill – forget the mud, the rain and the general swampy state of the countryside at present – this was different because I could not see anything in front of me. Fog shrouded everything, as you can see from the picture of the “view” above.

entrance to Frith Wood

Faced with the entrance into Frith Wood, I chickened out of groping any further and blindly banging my head on tree trunks, so turned back and walked along Green Lane in Dog Hill Wood until I reached Ledbury, an easy flat route into town, and the original pack horse trail connecting Worcester to Hereford. There are fragments of  yellowish sandstone on and around the path, formed millennia ago by sand brought by nearby rivers which settled around the tide line in layers (as it does in beaches today) when this area was a coastal stretch.

Green Lane

A great deal of Queen Anne’s Lace and alkanet, unfairly deemed a weed by gardeners, grew along the path, which was, of course, slimy with mud and is specially tricky as it leads downhill into town, but once you are near St Michael’s parish church you are safely back on dry and even surface.

alkanet

A useful angel to have on your side, St Michael the Archangel, patron saint of grocers, soldiers, doctors, mariners, paratroopers and police, and conqueror of Satan.

St Michael’s

Satan is so often depicted as a monstruous three-headed entity, or as a horned beast, half human half goat, or as a squirming dragon, but I believe he is the personification of mud. I promise that this is the last blog where I complain about mud – after all, I am a potter, and it is my source material. By the way, never buy a wig from the Devil, there will be Hell toupee.

And what about ceramics? Well, I have little to show you right now, as the big pieces I am now making take such a long time to dry before they can go into the kiln for bisque firing – and it is no good speeding up the drying process as this will cause the more exposed parts of a piece to dry more quickly that the body, thus creating tension leading to cracks. So, it is always wise to wrap the pieces in plastic to encourage uniform drying, and not to, say, expose it to the sun.

However, here is another experimental piece, not the usual vessel, more an architectural exercise. To remind yourselves of  PAC’s vessel-based work, do visit the website: https://www.peterarscott.co.uk

If you would like to read something that combines waitresses, xenophobia, the Pope and a café, here is a link to a short story of mine called Mysteron (2600 words) on Fiction on the Web. Please read it if you’re in the mood, if it is unread, then it does not exist. Click here.

stumped

On my way up to Bradlow Hill I walked past the tree stumps along Knapp Lane. The trees had been felled as they were a potential danger to traffic. I noticed that each stump had a ring of blue studs inserted evenly around the inside of the edges. What is this? One of you out there will know – please tell us.

Queen Anne’s lace

We often hear mist and fog mentioned alongside each other, but the difference is a simple matter of how far you can see through it. If you can see more than 1,000 metres it’s called mist, but if it is thicker and the visibility drops below 1,000 metres it’s called fog.

What’s a bigamist?

It’s what Italians call a thick fog.

April showers bring more than flowers.

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The art of walking on sludge requires you to walk bow-legged and on bent knees, leaning forward if going uphill, so that by the time you reach CJ’s bench at the top of Bradlow Hill your thighs ache like a ballerina’s after five consecutive performances of Swan Lake.  By the way, someone has left a nice pair of gloves that are now wedged between the slats waiting for their owner.

England’s sewage system

The rain has been relentless in this part of the world, making the ground as soft as chocolate fondant, delaying planting and seeding by farmers, flooding many areas, reducing oxygen in the soil (think of the poor worms) and forcing water companies to allow sewage into the rivers – this last revolting image the direct result of the privatisation of water and the neglect of any control over “market forces” in the guise of hedge funds. The result is priority for shareholders’ dividends over proper investment in upgrading an outdated system that can no longer cope with the zillion turds we produce daily. Enough moaning.

Bluebells in Frith Wood

Despite the muddy pathway into Frith wood, I ventured in, knowing that you would want proof that at least some things are still as they should be. What with Ukraine, Gaza, climate change, polarized politics, and all the rest of the present gloom fest, it’s good to know that the bluebells are with us, and the wood anemones.

Anemones

On my way out of the woods I passed by a large patch of forget-me-nots. The Greek name Myosotis is a combination of “mus” and “otis” and means “mouse ear”, referring to the shape of the leaves. I’m posting the image because they are beautiful delicate blue flowers with a yellow eye and grey-green velvety leaves, and they are vibrant, heart-warming and make one smile – a reminder of a friend who is no longer with us.

Ceramics: the good news is that the new kiln is now up and running, and a first batch of vases has been glaze-fired successfully.

Big Yoohoo vase just out of the new kiln

The kiln is a Rohde front-loader called Helmut – very efficient and accurate, with a good work ethic.

Introducing Helmut.

He is extremely heavy and here I must give thanks to Steve whose knowledge of cantilevered engineering worked a treat when we moved H into position. He deserves a medal and should any of you be interested in acquiring or finding out about medals of the Great War then Steve, professional military history researcher that he is, is your man. Click here to visit his sight. So far, Helmut seems to get along with the rest of the team – it’s all change here with the introduction of Shinto the Pugmill too.

Thelonious undone.

Spiro and Ziggy are very sad that Thelonious (the old pugmill) is no longer here, and were upset to see him being loaded onto the back of a lorry by a forklift truck to be taken to the (gulp) scrapyard.

Spiro and Ziggy making a scene

It seems that nobody wants anything requiring three-phase power. If anybody is looking for an inverter designed to drive a three-phase induction motor, please get in touch – this one is an IMO iDrive2 XKL.

While writing this blog, news arrived from local MP Jesse Norman that the government has published the River Wye action plan, with up to £35 million in new funding, setting out a wide range of measures to address phosphate pollution and other environmental impacts on the Wye. It has also appointed a new River Champion for the river. All this could lead to a properly funded single collective long-term effort bringing all groups together. That’s a good result and, who knows, it may even be the first step towards the eventual re-nationalization of water.

Back to ceramics.

Stockpiling at PAC.

Here is an architectural piece made from left-overs from the slab roller. It would look better if it were 10ft high.

And before I finally abandon the issue of what can be found bobbing on the surface of our rivers:

  • What is brown and sticky?
  • A stick.

Have a good Spring.

Wet blanket weather

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The slog up Bradlow Hill was not as exhausting this time because it had to be done very slowly and carefully to avoid any slippage and loss of dignity. It’s been raining non-stop here and the ground is saturated – so much so that every footstep has to be judged, specially going uphill, if one is to avoid the mud bath fracas of last month (see January blog). Consequently, one’s eyes are always on the ground and there is no time to look around. This meant the walk, which is 4.8 klms long and takes 7800 steps (yes, my new smartphone has the app – more about that later) was tedious, wet, and uninteresting. I did find a patch of snowdrops.

Galanthus

I had so wanted this to be about my trip to Holland to visit the Kröller-Müller Museum located in the Hoge Veluwe National Park in Otterlo and to look around the European Ceramic Workcentre (EKWC) in Oisterwijk, and to bring you lots of fabulous images of the trip. However, in the haste to get off the ferry, the smartphone was left on the car roof and slipped off at some point along the route leading out of the port. Contact with the port authorities has proved fruitless, so if any of you are heading for the Hook of Holland, please keep an eye out for a sad and probably very flat iphone on the tarmac of Prinses Maximaweg, where, according to my Find My app, it is still located, though the area indicated includes the sea, so it could be underwater.

pappekak path

As I trod warily in the mud in Frith Wood I was thinking of Holland, and the word “poppycock” came to mind, no doubt because the consistency of what I was avoiding falling into was indeed soft dung or pappekak. What other words in English derive from Dutch? My research reveals the following: yatch, booze, coleslaw, wildebeest, blunderbuss and hustle.

Wildebeest Photo by Muhammad Mahdi Karim

But then, what with the rainfall and general flooding, I realized that Holland’s relationship with water is special; they have been living below sea level quite comfortably for centuries now and have learned to take advantage of it. Water percolates through the lives of the Dutch, and it runs through the land itself. A fifth of the total surface area of the country consists of water. Nearly a third of the country lies below sea level, and without its landscape of ditches, canals, lakes, rivers, windmills, and dikes, half would be flooded.

wet and bedraggled – Frith Wood

So, no pictures of Holland, though I have used a few that are in the public domain and are not covered by copyright. The trip was enjoyable however, and the Dutch are as polite, direct, but considerate as always, except perhaps when they are driving. Being a small country, the road system too is compact and requires quick decision-making before turning off or getting in the right lane – there isn’t the distance that allows a driver to consider the options, but the Dutch are used to it and zip about with great alacrity. They are also quite tall, in fact, they claim to be the tallest people in the world, and they did invent gin. They eat more liquorice and drink more coffee than any other people …. (that’s enough. How about mentioning ceramics? – Spiro).

Entrance to Kröller-Müller Museum. – photo by Gerardus

The exhibition The Love of Art Comes First. Art & Project at the Kröller-Müller Museum (until 25 February) highlights the significance of Art & Project based on works from the collection by artists such as Barry Flanagan, Richard Long and Nicholas Pope, of this parish, one of whose ceramic pieces stood alone surrounded by the beautiful paintings of Vincent Van Gogh. I wish I had a picture. The museum, founded by art collector Helene Kröller-Müller within the extensive grounds of her and her husband’s former estate (now the national park), opened in 1938. It has the second-largest collection of paintings by Vincent Van Gogh, after the Vincent Van Gogh Museum.

Road with cypress and star. Vincent Van Gogh

What a painter Vincent was. Up close you get to experience the wristy application of paint on canvas that makes his images move and writhe.

Caféterras bij nacht. photo by Paul Hermans

The EKWC in Oisterwijk is housed in a vast warehouse-like building, and is an international artist-in-residence and research centre for ceramics. Artists, designers and architects from all over the world have worked here to experiment with clay. Artists are invited whether they have worked with clay before or not, to participate in their twelve-week residencies. In a year they have about 60 different residencies out of something like 600 applications, and during their time there residents stay in the EKWC accommodation with other artists and share kitchen, studios, facilities, experience and networks. It is a welcoming and friendly set-up, and if you want to find out more, here is the link. The huge walk-in kilns make the new PAC kiln look tiny in comparison. And the coffee in the café is not bad either.

Inside the EKWC

They say you learn a lot about a culture through its humour. Dutch jokes about neighbours are good-natured if crude, because, in practice, neighbours need to get along quite well. The Dutch actually don’t hate the Belgians at all. On the contrary, they find them their most sympathetic neighbours, but nevertheless, ripe for teasing:

Hoe houd je een Belg bezig?

(How do you keep a Belgian busy?)

Zet een man in een ronde kamer en zeg dat er een zak friet in de hoek ligt.

(Put the man in a round room and say there’s a bag of chips in a corner.)

After the rain pot, with tulips from Amsterdam

On the other hand, and for the sake of balance, in the eyes of the Belgians, the Dutch are mean and stingy:

Een Nederlander werd gevraagd voor een donatie voor een verzorgingshuis.

(A Dutchman was asked to make a donation to an old people’s home.)

Hij gaf zijn vader en zijn moeder.

(He gave his father and his mother.)

Moonpot with daffodils

The new kiln is about to be installed, and nothing has been fired now for some time, but Spring should see a renewal of activity and some interesting pieces being made. These images of ceramics are of old pieces which have not been shown for a long time or not at all. The latest news on Thelonious the pug mill is that nobody wants him because he is old and requires a three-phase connection, so sadly he is going to be sold for scrap iron – unless there is a last-minute reprieve . Thank you all, and see you next month.

Someone asked me the other day, “What’s with those clogs you keep wearing?” I replied,”Wooden shoe like to know.”

 

Anatomy of a fall

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The view from Bradlow Knoll at 10 am New Year’s Day

Pottery is just an excuse to play with mud. The material used is really nothing more than soil clay that has been mined. Mud is wet soil. Roll a ball of moist sediment into a thin string – if you can, it’s clay. It’s generally accepted now that playing with mud allows children to connect with the natural world around them, and helps develop tactile skills, boosts creativity and imagination. And it’s fun and therapeutic. And I think this applies to adults too. Using your hands to shape clay into a vessel is an ancient practice that is fulfilling, and whole cultures are identified by their pottery, after all it is one of the oldest and most widespread of artforms. Pots say a lot about people.

New Year’s Day, old moon.

But as you well know, when it’s been raining a lot in the countryside, mud becomes an enemy not a friend, and you have to take it into account when you go for a walk, specially up and down a hill like Bradlow Knoll. In the early morning of the first day of the New Year, the sky was clear after the rainfall of a few days – weighing the pros and cons, and mindful of my duty to my faithful blog readers and seeing a pale waning moon beckoning in a blue sky, I decided the omens were good for a climb up the hill and a first photo of this year’s view.

Walk in the woods vase

However, the problem with walking on claggy mud is that you have to keep your eyes on your feet the whole time. One small lapse of concentration and can send your legs into the air, so you try to step on the least wet bits along the edge of the path, head down and unable to appreciate the surrounding landscape. Which is tiring and frustrating, specially deep into Frith Wood where the dark tree cover keeps everything as damp as possible, though there was a wintry sun low in the sky that you could glimpse through the trees.

I was not really enjoying my New Year’s walk. The mud was not fun and therapeutic, though maybe the worms were enjoying it; in one acre of lands there can be more than a million worms, so I imagined them partying underfoot. There is a stretch towards the end of the walk that is surrounded on both sides by brambles so it’s difficult to use the drier edges of the path. It was here that my concentration strayed because the birdsong was so unexpected and loud. I was trying to identify all the various songs (mainly blackbird, robin and bluetit) when it happened.

Some doctors  believe that one of the biggest benefits of mud baths is that they can provide stress relief. Sitting in warm, soft mud can relax the muscles and soothe the mind. They are also thought to relieve stress, joint pain, rheumatoid arthritis and certain skin ailments. Some people use mud baths simply to chill out. What I found myself in face down was not a warm bath of mud but an unrelaxing cold and slimy one that did nothing for my self-esteem.

It was a slow-motion experience in three stages. First the right foot slid backwards, and I thought I’d land on my right knee (no big deal, I thought, just a muddy knee). Second, because it was slightly downhill, my upper body was leaning forward enough to propel me further, so I stuck out my right hand to stop things getting any worse (no big deal, just a muddy hand, as well as knee). Third, my right hand made contact with the mud and slid forward all the way until the whole right side of my body lay obligingly in the quagmire. This happened in less than a second, but it felt very gradual – it’s amazing what your brain can be doing in such a short time: surprise (this cannot be happening!), anger (I showered and put on clean clothes an hour ago in honour of this New Year, and now look!), indignity (God, I hope nobody’s looking!), curiosity (all the birds have suddenly stopped singing, are they having a quiet laugh? Do birds laugh? I must find out), and finally disappointment and petulance (I was being so careful all the way, it’s just not fair).

I met two dog walkers further on, at a fork in their path, and wondered whether they’d heard my expletives. They looked vaguely concerned at my state, and I had two choices: either I let them go along my path to see if they too slipped in the mud or I recommended the alternative path ahead of them. The Devil in me lost and I told them how to best avoid my fate – it was my first good deed of the year. By the time I got home the sun was out again low in the sky and cast a long shadow, reminding me that we’ve already had our shortest day (22 Dec), and that seemed to put things in proportion, so I blamed my shoes, which have no grip and are inappropriate for walks.

guilty shoes

Somewhere in the Frith Wood is the mud imprint of yours truly. It will last until the next rainfall, then dissolve back to its natural muddiness. Mud is the stuff of creation, used to create Adam, so how come it’s used to tarnish people? Mud is thrown at people in accusation, a name is dragged through it, anything dark and confusing is clear as mud, a person who resists change is a stick in the mud. But we potters know better, which is why I hold nothing against it, other than, occasionally, my body.

architectural pieces drying.

And ceramics? (It’s about time you mentioned them, says Spiro). Well, yes, the new kiln is yet to be connected, so I have been making pieces that have not been bisque fired and sit around waiting in the studio, like the ones in the image above, and the set of Yoohoo vases below.

Yoohoo vases waiting for a bisque firing

Also waiting for kiln connection and bisque firing are various figures and pieces made by visitors to the studio. The lynx pictured is a favourite.

Lynx by Lisa Dearling

And finally, and given that these blogs always seem to refer to woods and trees: a man walks into Frith Wood and tries to cut down a talking tree. “You can’t cut me down,” the tree exclaims, “I’m a talking tree!” The man responds, “You may be a talking tree, but you will dialogue.”

Goodbye 2023

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Possibly because it was a cold, grey, miserable day, my walk up Bradlow Hill and into Frith Wood was a lonely one. Not a single walker passed by, nor did I even see a squirrel, and there was no birdsong, except for the distant cawing of the resident raven. It was an unusually silent trudge along the woodland track, the whole atmosphere was brooding, possibly reinforced by the inactivity in the ceramics studio due to delays in connecting the new kiln – creative juices with no outlet can make a person very gloomy – and by the realization that the familiar whiff in our sitting room indicates a dead rat in the skirting boards. The smell is faint now, but building up to its peak for Christmas day.

Crouch vase at Cecilia Colman Gallery, London

Feeling uninspired, I turned a rock over with my foot to find what I expected to see: bugs scuttling away, mainly woodlice. “Aha!” I thought to myself, “here are the true companions of my walk today.” Just because they are not visible and make no sound does not mean they should not be respected as denizens of the wood, as much as the charismatic squirrels, foxes and birds, who have not bothered to make their presence felt; lethargic, pampered and entitled as they lie in their nests, dreys, lairs and setts for the day.

In praise of the woodlouse, the species is found across the UK in almost any habitat. They are flat, oval and grey with a thick exoskeleton and have seven body segments, each with a pair of legs. They are actually crustaceans, related to shrimps and crabs. Like their aquatic relatives they easily dry out, which is why they hide away in cool, damp places during the day and come out at night. To recycle copper in their diet (as their blood is copper based like all marine crustaceans) they eat their own poo, but they also munch away at decaying wood, leaf litter, fungi, fruit, dead animals, as well as other animals’ poo. By the way, eating your own poo is not recommended – do not do it at home.

Granny grunter

If you collect a few woodlice and keep them in a jar, try sniffing it after a while. They excrete ammonia through their exoskeletons, so it’s unpleasant, which is why they are called ‘stinky pigs’ in parts of the UK. They are also known as ‘chiggy pig’ (Devon), ‘gramersow’ (Cornwall), ‘sow bug’ and ‘woodpig’.

Flower vase at Cecilia Colman Gallery

They have 250 recorded names in the UK, including Billy Baker, Monkey pea, Parson’s pig, Cheese log, Daddy granfer, Granny grunter, Damper, Slate cutter, Hardy back, Penny sow, Cheesy bug and Nut bug. Probably names given by children, who are after all the ones closest to these things that crawl around on the ground, it’s children who find them under stones and under sticks, and who play with them.

Segment vase at Cecilia Colman Gallery, London

One insect I did not see was the mythical caterpillar, a beast so rare that only my granddaughter knows about it. It is half caterpillar and half cat – notice the sharp claws at the end of its many feet, the long tail and the feline head.

Cat/erpillar. Erin Arscott Richards

In an effort to be as fair as possible about bugs in general, I include images of two studio residents, a spider and a slug. Both are ceramic portraits, the spider a very accurate one of Ziggy, who as regular readers of this blog know, is in charge of fly-catching in the studio.

Ceramic portrait of Ziggy

Vases have been made in the studio, but they are not even bisque fired yet, until the new kiln is set up. Until then, pieces are available at various outlets, the most recent delivery being at the Cecilia Colman Gallery in London, where you can see the ceramics displayed here on the blog (At last, says Spiro, at least a gesture towards marketing).

Sam Slug

We wish you all a happy Christmas and a prosperous 2024. Here’s hoping it’s a better year for humanity than ’23. Celebrate properly, don’t waste time making mulled wine and other aberrations, go for the classic Dry Martini: Put your martini glass in the freezer, pour a good gin into a shaker, add a drop of Dry Vermouth (only a drop!) and put it in the freezer. After at least 3 hours you can take it out and pour it into the frozen glass and add an olive. The first sip is the best, hold it by the stem so your fingers won’t warm it up. Here endeth the lesson.

Blue dot vase at Cecilia Colman Gallery

A man and his pet slug walk into a bar. They start drinking beer, then as the night goes on they move to cocktails, and then to brandy.  Finally, the bartender says: “Last orders.” So, the man says, “One more for me… and one more for my slug.” The bartender sets them up and they gulp them down. Suddenly the slug falls over dead. The man puts on his coat and starts to leave. The bartender says angrily: “Hey, you can’t just leave that lyin’ there.” The man replies: “That’s not a lion, that’s a slug.

Cheers, and a Happy 2024

Want to know what Nasocarpia is?

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November view

Sometimes, when having to make a great physical effort, it helps to have a mantra echoing in your head. Rutile is a good word to pronounce, like, say, elbow or helicopter. The sort of word that comes into your head for no apparent reason when you’re trudging up Bradlow Hill. Anything to take your mind off the increasingly challenging gradient and the pain in your lungs.

Shallow roots

When I finally made it into Frith Wood I saw a fallen tree. I was surprised at how shallow its roots seemed. I suspected that this is due to the trees being tightly packed in a small area and thus competing for light by concentrating on shooting up as high as possible and not wasting time with root depth. But a little research showed that when life gets tough, the roots take the easy option, staying close to the surface and spreading out a long way from the tree. A common misconception is that the root system is a mirror image of the trunk and branches. It turns out a tree’s root system is surprisingly shallow, dominated by long, lateral roots spreading out close to the soil surface and outwards and beyond the branch spread. So, trees are much like us – given to taking the easy option.

Oyster mushroom

The trunks of older trees were hosts to all sorts of fungi, and here’s an image of an oyster mushroom. Mushrooms do not have roots; they have mycelium— a root system that is a mass of filaments called hyphae. I expect you know that. These web-like structures spread into the substrate the fungus is growing on – wood, soil, dead squirrels or compost, and the purpose of the mycelium is to find food sources and collect nutrients for the final creation of its bloom or flower: the mushroom.

Large rutile serving dish (50 cms diam)

There was a reason for the word rutile popping into my head during the hill climb. Rutile (its name is derived from the Latin rutilus meaning “shining, golden-red”) is an oxide mineral composed of titanium dioxide which produces many surprising effects in glazes during cooling in the kiln and is used to enhance the surface character of ceramics.

Rutile spot vase

In other words, you do not know exactly what you’re going to get when you open the kiln, specially if you pour an iron oxide glaze over a bisque surface that has been painted with rutile – it’s all in the lap of the God of Pottery, Khnum, who was depicted by the ancient Egyptians with a ram’s head. He was the creator of the bodies of human children which he made at a potter’s wheel, from clay, and placed in their mothers’ womb. His title was the “Divine Potter”.

Small rutile signal vase

Back to the subject of roots and uprooting, it’s sad saying goodbye to an old friend, specially one that has worked hard in the studio over the years, but the advantages of the new style of pugmill outweigh Thelonious’s steady workhorse qualities and he is shortly going to make way for his replacement.

Thelonious – uprooted

Needless to say, it was difficult breaking the news to him and he is refusing to speak to me (as are Ziggy and Spiro) and goes around the studio with a deeply hurt look. “You’re certainly no Divine Potter”, I heard him mutter under his breath. The indignity of being sold on Ebay was also mentioned. Even the promise of a farewell party has been shrugged off with a sigh, despite the complexities involved in finding exactly the right delicacies for my strange little team: goat yoghurt, spiders and engine oil. I suspect Shimpo, the new pugmill, will be just as fastidious and will only contemplate cheeseburgers (he was born in the USA).

Shimpo – the Jimmy Cagney of pugmills

And cheeseburgers were part of the reason I drove all the way to Stoke-on-Trent, cradle of pottery in the UK. I was there to inspect and then buy Shimpo and bring him back, with the reward of a cheeseburger at one of the motorway service stations on the way back. Somehow, they taste better in a car park when you’re sitting in the car listening to the radio – there’s something vaguely illicit about it if you are not a regular burger eater.

Large rutile planter

I shall miss Thelonious and his whimsical nature. Shimpo, I can tell, is more the James Cagney of pugmills – robust, stocky, slightly aggressive, and “no nonsense”.  He just wants to get down to work, with no pussy-footing – I just hope he gets along with the others.

And finally, a plea to you all. Just as a burger is nothing unless it is eaten, a ceramic cup meaningless unless drunk from, or a song unless heard, so a story unless somebody reads it. If you have ten minutes to spare (and the inclination) please read my short story published online.

Illustrator: Evgenia Barsheva

 It is called A Summary of A Brief History of Nasocarpia, the links with Grietta Ingar and the epidemic of 2049. It is published by Lazuli Literary Group who promote otherworld realism: a genre that represents the known, often mundane world in an elevated or defamiliarizing way through the use of linguistic craft, innovative language, or experimental structure. CLICK HERE.

Marmite explained

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The view from CJ’s bench on Bradlow Knoll was appropriate for the day, after all it was St Leger’s, the day of the famous horse race (Saturday 16th September) established by Colonel Barry Saint Leger in 1776 and named for him in 1778. An event for three-year-old colts and fillies, it is run annually at Doncaster, Yorkshire. The winner this year was Continuous, the last horse was Alexandroupolis. They say that Winter comes in on the tail of the last St. Leger horse, but global warming may have done for this old adage.

the last horse at the St Leger

The view was grey, misty and damp, and the leaves on the trees have yet to start turning, but the faint mulchy whiff of tired greenery was hinting at Autumn. Somebody had obviously felt the cold recently as they had left traces of a firepit in front of CJ’s bench. Or perhaps it was an impromptu BBQ. Whoever it was had also forgotten his or her disposable vape – I wonder if CJ would’ve approved of the cherry flavour.

BBQ

Given the weather, I don’t believe that a bonfire would have spread and caused a conflagration in Frith Wood. Apart from a few hot days earlier in the week, it’s been mild. Unhappily that’s not been the story in Greece or Libya, or even Canada, and tramping through the cool damp wood seemed so far removed from those weather extremes. However, even in this neck of the woods, manmade calamity lurks in the shape of the River Wye and its slow poisoning by nutrients leaching from livestock manure (about 70%) and sewage treatment works (20%). Most of the agricultural phosphate pollution is from intensive poultry production (from “What’s polluting the Wye?” – Herefordshire Wildlife Trust blog).

Wye pooper

In order to counter any black outlook that may be developing here, may we urge you to join the fight to save the river by subscribing or following Save the Wye on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter. Here is the link: https://savethewye.org/what-can-you-do-to-help/

Large black and white scrawl vase

Spiro is shouting in my ear that this blog is about marketing ceramics. I have pointed out to him that having unwittingly introduced the word “black” in the context of global warming, I will now exploit its presence in the blog in as measured and respectful a way possible, and with none of the in-your-face cynicism that he always advocates.

Black and white juggler vase at there Palais des Vaches

It is hard to believe Spiro is a 3rd century Bishop of Trimythous, as well as the patron saint of potters, and frankly I am not entirely convinced by his marketing skills. Last month he joined the Ledbury Bank Holiday Carnival Parade saying it was an opportunity to sell pots to the hundreds of Ledburians lining the High Street and was deeply insulted by the pennies people were throwing into the pots he held out, unaware that this the traditional way the parade gathers income for local charities. I had to drag him away when he started berating them in his local Archaic Greek dialect, much to everyone’s amusement who thought this was part of a comedy act.

Poseur vase (Vulcan clay)

Ahem, there is an exhibition at the Palais des Vaches Gallery in Exbury from 29th September, and the theme is “Black & White”. In response to this challenge, Peter Arscott Ceramics (PAC) have made a number of pieces for the show, some are black and white glazed stoneware, and some are made from a dark clay called Vulcan stoneware which comes out of the kiln in a rich dark chocolaty black if left unglazed.

My oh my vase (Palais des caches)

One piece in particular cannot be explained, and for some reason is called Buffoon Vase and wears a top in the shape of Napoleon’s hat. It looks even more inexplicable if you remove the top and insert a flower in it (it can only take one flower, and no water, as it has a leaky bottom). It’s a “marmite” piece – some people will simply like it without having to understand its impractical character, others will just think it’s strange.

Buffoon vase

For those of you unfamiliar with marmite, it is a dark brown yeast extract spread, much liked by half the UK population, and much disliked by the other half. It is used as a metaphor for something that is an acquired taste, or something that divides opinion, like, say, Elon Musk or Nigel Farage or morris dancing.

Buffoon vase with flower

In a neat bringing-together of various themes in this blog (fish, ceramics, rivers), a recent visit to Wales included a fly-fishing lesson with Mr Jones on the banks of the beautiful Dyfi river (unpolluted and very clean, thus salmon and sea trout are happy to swim in it).

Fly-fishing lessons on the Dyfi

The result was a brown trout fished from a smaller river nearby, which was cooked and served to fourteen people on a PAC dish. Thank you Mr J.

Sacrifishal?

A man walks into a fish and chip shop with a happy trout under his arm.
“Excuse me, do you sell fish cakes?” he asks.
The owner replies, “Yes, of course we do”
“Great” the man responds, smiling at his trout, “It’s his birthday.”

With apologies for that old chestnut, farewell and goodbye.

Unhappy trout