The Other House
An informal collection of ideas.
It's time to do the thing I've been thinking about doing, and I guess it would be best to start at the beginning.
Art was always a part of my life.
I made my first piece in clay at the age of four. My mom's parents were art teachers and our house was never wanting of art supplies. I remember my grandma dropping off clay for my brother and me to play with; I made a lot of coil pots. We would then give the pieces back for her to fire and glaze. I was mystified by the shiny and colorful pots, it was magic!
They lived in a big old farmhouse in the finger lakes and I would pour through room after room of art supplies and projects. The house was massive and full of antiques and curiosities: a life-size porcelain bulldog, a human skeleton, endless antique glassware and uni-task utensils. I would marvel at oil paintings crafted by my grandpa, intricate renderings of engines and guts of cars. My grandma worked on commissions of people, pets and houses, in oil and ink. To this day the smell of a painting studio takes me back to that big house on Pre Emption Drive.
My dad's dad is a potter. When my brother and I were young, he would mail us clay whistles that looked like puppies. As I grew older I learned to appreciate the process behind the pots and clay fish he made. One summer, while I was visiting my family in Minnesota, my grandpa took me on a studio visit with Warren Mackenzie. At the time, I had no real idea just how important the man met was. I just knew I was impressed by the size of his kiln.