ANNE’S STUDIO WAS NO MORE than a cubbyhole in a former cannery warehouse along Ocean View Avenue. “It’s nothing fancy, I’m afraid,” she said as she unlocked the door and gave it a shove. “Studio space in Monterey is expensive, thus limited, but thanks to a friend, I was able to get a whopping 500 square feet, including a sink, without breaking the bank. Many artists are going the communal studio route these days, but, as long as I can afford it, I prefer to pay extra for a place of my own.”
I stepped into the neat and orderly studio and right off noticed an electric wheel fitted up against the wall in front of me. “You do wheel-thrown work?”
Anne’s lips twitched. “I do sculpture now and then, but ‘throwing’ gives me the greatest thrill.” She pointed out a series of adjustable shelves holding jugs, jars, and vases in a wild array of styles and colors. “I start with freshly thrown pieces, then stretch, pinch squash, even drop them.”
“Sounds violent,”
“Sometimes it is. At other times, it takes a gentle touch to bring a creation to birth.”
To the left of the wheel stood a long workbench with a storage area underneath for what appeared to be large containers of plaster and glazes. I saw a scale for weighing, a radio splotched with clay and paint, and a deep porcelain sink. The concrete floor sloped towards a drain as though the room were a giant shower stall. Anne drew my attention to the bank of fluorescent lighting mounted on the ceiling. “Full spectrum fluorescents mimic diffused daylight without the distraction of windows.”
“Makes me want to slap down a glob of clay and start doing some punching of my own,” I said. I’d only taken one art course in college as part of my GE requirements. We were assigned to mimic Pablo Picasso’s method of collage. Ha. I barely passed with a C.
Anne crossed her arms, her expression thoughtful. “Feel inspired, do you?”
The variety of objects and forms on the shelves made me wonder how it would feel to create something so original. “Hard not to be in this place.”
“Another place to bring out the artist in you,” Anne said, “is an art gallery, which I’m proud to say, we have plenty of in Monterey County. Budding craftsmen often start with something functional like a bowl, while others go hog wild.”
“Like you?”
Anne shrugged, though I knew my comment had pleased her. “More like Adam. He came as quite a surprise. I introduced him to a primitive form of clay sculpture, using the mud along the bank of the pond. A little art therapy, I decided, would do him good. He could use it as a symbolic language to express himself, like telling stories with his hands. He enjoyed touching the clay and manipulated it for hours. However, I had no idea he would have such great, untapped talent. It’s remarkable, really, to have such a command of the form without years of schooling and practice. On top of that, Alzheimer’s, even at the mild stage, robs one of the ability to perform complex tasks and to organize and express one’s thoughts. Something remarkable, something unexplainable is going on. It’s almost scary to watch.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “It’s beyond remarkable the way he reproduces with his hands the images he sees in his mind. It’s like he’s channeling into a collective unconsciousness most of us aren’t aware we’re privy to.” Out of the corner of my eye, I caught what appeared to be a stainless-steel refrigerator butted against the opposite studio wall. “What’s that?”
“A kiln,” Anne said. “Want to see what’s inside?”
“You bet.”
Anne’s bracelets jingled as she disengaged two latches on the outside of the kiln. “There are a variety of kiln styles. Mine happens to be the front-loading kind.” She blew out a breath and opened the door. “It’s like Christmas every time I open it. I never get over the thrill of seeing my pieces fired.”
The kiln was filled, side-to-side, bottom-to-top, with forms of all shapes and sizes. “You made all this?”
“When the mood strikes, I’m a regular assembly line. This happened to be a bisque firing, where the clay pieces can touch without fusing, so I was able to put smaller pieces inside of larger ones, even stack them, to get as much as possible into the kiln. But when the pieces are glazed” —Anne rolled her eyes— “it’s a different story. If glazed pieces make contact during firing, they’re stuck together for life, like a bad marriage.”
Anne pulled out what appeared to be a squirrel teapot, its tail the handle, its nose the spout. I laughed, a merry sound like the jingle of Anne’s bracelets. “Cute, cute, cute.”
She handed it to me. “Feel the texture.”
I cupped it in my hands as if it were a newborn, which in a way it was.
“It’s a bit fragile,” Anne said, “since it still needs to be glazed and fired.”
I ran my fingers over the teapot’s surface, appreciating every detail. “It’s rough, yet smooth.”
Anne lifted it from my hands and set it on the work surface. “At this point, it’s porous and strictly ornamental, until glazed and fired again.”
A thought struck me. “Why don’t you fire Adam’s pieces so they don’t dry out and crumble over time?”
“Because they’d self-destruct in the kiln. His pieces are made of pure mud, with nothing added to strengthen them and lessen the degree of stress during drying and firing. I wouldn’t know what temperature to fire them at or what color they’d turn on doing so. They could turn red, tan, brown, even gray or white.”
“All clay comes from the ground, right? So, what’s the big deal?”
Anne took an odd-shaped vessel out of the kiln and placed it on a shelf. “Clay, or in Adam’s case mud, can be dug from the ground and prepared by slaking, sieving, and returning it to its plastic state, but that’s very labor-intensive and needs special equipment, which I don’t have. I buy the ready-made clay in a moldable state and packaged in sealed bags. For hand building and modeling, I use ‘open clay’ favorable for limited shrinkage as well as safe drying and firing, which is different from the clay I use for throwing.”
“How about giving him some of your ready-made clay to work with?”
She waved her hand, dismissing my suggestion. “Believe me, I’ve thought of that, but it would be too much work to haul the clay and finished pieces back and forth. Adam rarely creates anything small...” She paused and appeared to think for a moment. “I guess I could try using clay with fiberglass in it. The glass fibers fuse with the clay during firing and give it greater tensile strength and resilience. But it would take a kiln larger than mine to fire some of his pieces.”
She turned back toward the work area and clapped her hands. “So, what would you like to do today?”
I picked up a chunk of clay wrapped in plastic. It reminded me of the Play Dough I played with as a kid, except this was a grayish brown instead of bright pink, yellow, green, and blue. “Working with this looks like fun.” Did I just say “fun?” When was the last time I’d really enjoyed doing something creative?
Anne appeared pleased with my answer. She tore a chunk of clay from a large block sealed in a bag and cut it into pieces with a wire, then lifted one piece of clay at a time to shoulder height and slammed it onto the pieces below.
“Wow,” I said, impressed with the violence of it.
“You can get rid of a lot of frustration this way,” she said.
“I guess so.”
She handed me a chunk of clay and kept a sizable portion for herself. “Frank Wilson, Professor of Neurology at Stanford School of Medicine, says that we are creatures identified by what we do with our hands. So, we need to free our hands from our keyboards once in a while and introduce them to play.”
She folded her piece of clay in on itself, using the heel of both of her hands and exerting a downward pressure. Then she rocked the clay up toward her body with her fingers, and down again with the heels of her hands. “This is called Ox-head kneading, where you coax the clay into a workable state.”
I thought back to another childhood memory, that of watching my mother make bread. The sensory pleasure she had derived from handling the fresh dough had manifested itself in the relaxed, almost meditative, expression on her face. This feeling of well-being—that everything was right with the world—had filled me with joy, equal to that of watching the bread rise and bloom in the oven. Later, my mother “upgraded” to a bread-making machine, which took care of the mixing, kneading, rising, and baking and, as a result, robbed the activity of much of its joy.
“Try it. You’ll like it,” Anne said.
And I did.
She left me to it, saying something about unloading the kiln. But she could’ve left the building for all I knew, so entranced was I with the effort and joy of this child-like play. I hadn’t played in years. Too many years. Apparently, I had some catching up to do.
“Good job,” Anne said, in what seemed like minutes. She handed me the wire she had used earlier. “Now cut the clay and check for lumps, air pockets, and foreign objects. If it’s still uneven, continue to knead.”
It was, and I did.
Anne hummed to herself, doing who knows what, until I finished preparing my clay.
Cut, push, pull, squeeze, like chewing gum with the hands.
“Enough!” Anne said finally. “Your clay’s ready for the next step. But before you go any further, I’m taking you to an art gallery for inspiration.”
This woman was leading me places I needed to go. I would be a fool to object.
~~~
“Few materials are as responsive to a sculptor’s hands and tools as clay,” Anne said as we walked into the Flowering Bloom Gallery on Highway 1 the following afternoon. “It’s plastic when moist and yields to the slightest pressure.”
Although we had come here to inspect the ceramic artwork, I was immediately attracted to a magnificent glass vase displayed on its own pedestal near the gallery entrance.
“Glazed ceramics are related to glass,” Anne said as we paused in front of the glass display. “Glazes are part glass, you know.”
I didn’t, but then again, there was a lot about art I didn’t know, illustrated by my barely passing grade in the subject while at school.
“I can’t begin to tell you how glass is sculptured,” Anne said, noticing my absorption with this particular piece. “Although I do know glass can be blown, cast, molded, pressed, rolled into sheets, and spun into threads.”
“This vase looks hand blown,” I said. It had an iridescent surface, shaded from gold to emerald to purple. I thought of Picasso’s three-dimensional collage technique, with its assembly of different forms. “Do you think it’s made of glass layers?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Anne said. “The light coming through the gallery’s floor-to-ceiling windows adds to its beauty, don’t you think?”
Forms appeared to float in the walls of the vase, implying motion. When I moved, the colors changed. “Look,” I said. “It even radiates color onto the surrounding surfaces.”
“It’s lovely,” Anne admitted. “But we came here to check out the ceramic pieces, so let’s get with it.”
I turned away from the vibrant piece of glass and noticed a man standing behind a counter. I smiled a greeting, and he smiled back, but graciously allowed us the freedom to roam without interruption.
Anne maneuvered me away from the glass display to a ceramic piece that was equally beautiful and absorbing. “Ceramics are made of clays that become plastic or fluid when mixed with water,” she said. “But once they’re fired, they can never become fluid again.”
There were several expressive ceramic sculptures that took on human form, some headless, some armless, some looking like Star Wars aliens, but none with the gut-level attraction of Adam’s. I regretted that his work would disintegrate over time.
“Is there a piece you particularly like?”
“Actually, yes.” I indicated the statue of a naked woman with no face, who appeared to be hugging herself protectively. “It reminds me of Antonia, though I don’t know why.”
“Maybe because she looks like she’s in pain.”
“Could be,” I said, then sighed—not a sigh of dejection, longing, or pain, but rather of deep contentment. “I love it here, Anne. It’s peaceful, yet full of energy.”
“There’s energy here all right, a life force that’s translated through each artist into action. It’s all about keeping the channel open and not worrying if it’s good or valuable or permanent.”
“Are you implying that anyone can do something like this?” I asked, incredulous.
“I’m saying it doesn’t matter. No one will ever think and respond the way you do. So tomorrow, I suggest you just go for it. Whatever you create will be beautiful.”
“My mother thinks I’m losing my soul,” I said, allowing a nagging worry to surface that I’d attempted to bury during my Medicine Wheel ritual.
“Which mother?”
“Truus. According to her, Antonia is the reason behind my spiritual downfall.”
“I don’t agree about the soul-losing and spiritual downfall part, but I can understand her concern. You’re taking a risk trying to express your truest self, and you’ll be misunderstood and condemned.”
“It’s reckless,” I said.
“Yes, and you may reach the point where you can never go back.”
“I feel like such a bitch, pushing my agenda to the point where it hurts my mother and Morgan and Joshua. I wonder if I’m being selfish seeking to discover myself in this way.”
“Well, there are bitches and then there are bitches,” Anne said. “Don’t let guilt hold you back. Prevail against it. Guilt is a sign that you’ve chosen what you think others expect of you as your standard of behavior and disavowed your own self-directed will. It’s the price you must pay for your freedom.”
“You remind me of my sister,” I said.
“That’s good, yes?”
I nodded. “She’s the good kind of bitch.”
“I like her already.”
“She wants to be a Drug Enforcement Agent and loves to wear red.”
“Does she have tattoos?”
The thought made me laugh. “I forgot to ask.”
“Probably a great big red one in the shape of a heart,” Anne said. “I hope to meet her someday.”
“I hope you do, too.” We were getting sidetracked, but I didn’t care. It felt good talking to someone who understood where I was coming from and where I hoped to go. The only other person I’d come across who did so was Morgan. Thank God for Morgan. “Anne, I’ve made so many mistakes.”
“Big, fat, hairy deal! If you want to follow rules to perfection, Big Sur isn’t the place for you. You can’t be self-conscious or afraid of doing something wrong. You want an authentic personal vision, girl, not hollow imitations. Speaking of which... Do you dance?”
I shook my head. “Too self-conscious.”
“Then I know just the place where you can frolic with your inner bitch.”
I groaned. “What are you getting me into?”
“Yourself.”
Ah, now things were getting really interesting. “If you expect me to get all dolled up, no deal. My tent may be big, but I didn’t bring many beauty supplies.”
Anne’s bracelets jingled as she patted me on the back with the confidence of a seasoned event planner. “Just leave it to me.”
“I’ve been doing a lot of that lately,” I said. “Following the leader.”
There was a moment of silence, and I thought I had offended her.
“Just tell me when I step out of line,” she said.
I smiled. “Actually, you’re good for me.”
“You’re good for me, too,” she said.