A Little Tableau

When Robb and I were on our honeymoon, we decided to leave the confines of our Caribbean resort and go across the street to an establishment called Tequila Joe's. I donned a faux denim romper, Robb put on his nicest cargo shorts, and we sat in the shade of the patio, sipping terrible margaritas. It should be known that the logo for Tequila Joe's is a cactus (that looks not unlike a pickle) wearing a sombrero and playing a saxophone. Lucky for you, I attempted to ride the mechanical bull at Tequila Joe's later that evening and this photo managed to capture the sign in the background.

While we were sitting on the porch of Tequila Joe's, a man by the name of Pierre approached us and asked if we wanted to buy any of his art. He had many pieces of art, this Pierre, most of which were painted with tempera paints in primary colors. I'm afraid Pierre didn't have much finesse. But then, as we were about to turn him away, he showed us this painting of an epic waterfall splashing down into a cool lagoon. There were the twin Pitons peeking above the clouds, actual palm trees with real color blending, and everything rendered to scale. That is, except for the two little primary color sailboats floating through the water. (Were they un-manned toy boats? Or was it just a very large jungle?) Pierre, I'm afraid, had taken someone else's work and painted his little boats over it, which was just pathetic enough that we gave him a twenty and declared it our first marital art acquisition. (It even came with a real plastic frame!)

Pierre's fine artwork now hangs in our living room against a dramatic red wall. Beneath the art is one of my great grandmother's Spanish dolls, and to the left is an old photograph of my great grandmother's brother, Pauly, who I learned recently had his heart broken as a young man in the 1930s. (He was a Protestant, but he married a Catholic woman and they had a child together. Their families, however, were not happy with the intermingling of the religions, so her parents convinced her to take the child and leave him; he never saw them again.)

Right in the middle of it all is a bowl I made in pottery class. It has no other purpose than to catch the errant pocket change and leftover skeins of yarn that pile up on the coffee table, but I like the way that it ties the corner together. The ridiculous painting, the stoic doll, the sadness of Pauly, and a little something I made.

So often these days I see little tableaus arranged in people's homes, and I know they mean something--at least I'd like to think they mean something--but I'm not sure what. In my home, anyway, every little thing has a story. And this was one of them.

Glaze Changes Everything

Dear Friends,
A lot has happened since we last discussed pottery! Remember how I decided to take a pottery class because I've been editing a pottery book and I needed to discover with my own two hands how the heck you make a pot? Well, somehow or other, my ten week class has come and gone. I seem to recall that there was a period in the beginning when I was making very good pots, and then I was making REALLY BAD pots, and then Aimee re-taught me how to center the clay on the wheel and things started looking good again. On one epic pottery day, I decided to have a mimosa on my way to class after a rotten day at work, and let me tell you, that was the best class of my life (so relaxed!). But even after all the fun I had coming to class and throwing pots each week, nothing really compares to the day you show up and your glazed pots are waiting for you on the "just fired" shelf. 

These were two of the first pots I ever glazed, and I could not get over how cheerful they were! And deliciously imperfect! The little yellow one in back has a chip in its lip, and the blue one is nine kinds of wonky, but just look at how the glaze reflects the light from the window. (Oh, little blue finger bowl, I could totally get lost in your eyes...)

But all blues are not the same, and in the case of this particular little blue finger bowl, I used a matte turquoise glaze. I love how the drips from the glaze create these areas of depth, almost like navy blue asphalt.

 

This little creamer is my absolute pride and joy. It was created on the day of the mimosa in a moment of extreme bravery. (When you throw a lovely little bud vase, it takes a lot of courage to convince yourself it's a good idea to crease the rim and turn it into a spout. Thank God Aimee was there to walk me through it!)

There were, of course, some not-so great pieces. That little cherry-red pot on the bottom left is, well, not exactly the most symmetrical pot I've ever seen in my life. And the cream-colored pot above it is a miserable little receptacle...the stepchild of the bunch. But all of my little pots--even the ugly ones--fall perfectly into my theme of "Mediterranean Finger Foods," which is a dinner party I must now host in celebration of completing my class. I have a few more pots to finish up this weekend--and a few of them I have already declared "the ugliest pottery anyone has ever seen in their life"--but I couldn't resist sharing a selection of my glazed pots with you now.