out of the ground
i steal a bucket of soil
from a previously dug grave
now a healed over wound
in the loamy earth
my theft is to make
a small amount of clay
not even a handful
an artistic experiment
(this is science)
extraction
solution
excitation
suspension
filtration
refinement
(this is magic)
ritual
burial
inspiration
reformation
resurrection
my breath is the breath
of my ancestors
and yours
my hands dig and mix and form
this clay
this body of our ancestors
what whitman has assumed
i have assumed
Tag: clay
The First Head
SO, I started taking a sculpture class two years ago. I had never worked in any kind of art medium besides drawing (no, you won’t see any of those) since I was a teenager. Writing had been my thang for as long as I can remember. My stepfather was an artist and painted and encouraged me to do so, but when it came time to decide on a future, art major was argued down by both of my parents. No money it it, apparently.
So, almost 30 years later, I find myself somewhat disillusioned with my writing (no one wants my YA novels) and while the poetry is a very important and necessary creative outlet, I itched to do something with my hands. My wife and my daughter are both very talented artists, but I didn’t want to paint or draw or do digital art. Those were their pursuits, and I would always feel like I was crashing the party or playing catch-up. and I liked play-doh and sculpey as a kid. Why not sculpture?
Below, you will see my first attempt at a human head. I have done more, and will post more later, but these things take a long time (for me) to do. If I put them all up now, I would have nothing else to talk about (who am I kidding? I never shut up).
The sculpture is not based on any one person. It is instead based on the ideal face, as my sculpture instructor puts it, the faces you see in mainstream advertising. The course I took was once a night for about three hours, for ten weeks. It took that long (plus a handful of weekends) to get this young man into shape. Maybe about 40-50 hours total.
Anyway, I was pretty proud when I finished. Looking at it now, though, I think, so many things I would change…
I may follow up with some process pictures of this piece if I can find them. Thanks for looking in!
fireborn (20170211)
the tip of an index
smooth it with your finger
make the seam disappear
make the seeming disappear
this struggling, squirming babe
birthed in this moment
how long did it wait in a belly
or did it spring
like a migraine
from your head
hide the evidence of your
fingerprints
and cast it in the fire
the origins of sculpture (20170128)
o, unlucky bastard who dug
uncovering wet sticky globs of clay
not for planting, but for
the first grave he ever had to dig
grimy and covered in filth
did he know the worth of those
handfuls of red earth that made it
impossible to grow his crops
did he have the capacity to
imagine or to indulge in idle
thought about that dense earth
that squeezed through his fingers
that kept the impression of his
thumbprint, his fingernails, his toes
did he make an image of a child lost
an image that baked in the sun
did he remember an old story
of life entering the earth
as breath or did he make that up
himself, and did he not
try to resurrect that child
did he not breathe into that clay
did he not rise with lips red and wet
his own lungs empty
clay cups (20161004)
how easy to alter shape
a little augmentation here
a little amputation there
slick fingers
smoothing rough hills
filling crevices
made uniform
yet
passing
through the fire
it shrinks
it cracks
it weeps
the moisture boils out
like a microwaved potato
if you’re lucky
it’s not trash
you may be left with
a vessel
that can be filled
knuckles (20160720)
these hands hurt
when the knuckles squeeze
together
like old, emaciated hobos
hugging
all bones and angles
but in the clay
they feel nothing
but the clay
Poem 20151006
you have to keep it wet
the clay
or you’re going to lose it
the surface dries like leather
it won’t respond to your touch
won’t move under your fingers
without moisture
it ceases to be alive
and no amount of prodding or scraping
will open those half-closed eyes
or part those supple lips
Poem 20150901
not so picky about the details
or where the clay flies
the artist
pulls with the fine metal loop
tears out a huge
iris-shaped blob of soft clay
from the eye creating
the illusion of depth
and drives the tapered tip
of a paintbrush in
to make the pupil
it’s like those busts
at the haunted mansion
that seem to follow you
concave depressions
made to look like stone
but with the afterimage
of life
as they track you
these sculpted eyes too
follow you as you walk around it
even though they gaze into a future
of fire in the kiln
and uncertain finishes
Poem 20150815
the face seems
not quite right
maybe the chin too soft
or the brow not strong enough
no
something insouciant
about the mouth
but the clay
–red on the hands
red on the fingers
red under the fingernails–
the clay forgives
and forgives
and forgives
while you can fix a
broken nose
with a thumb and your index
finger
and scrape away
the lips with
a wire loop
and start again
you can’t re-sculpt
any words that pass
those lips
Poem 20150804
the clay is pretty quiet
when you work it
it doesn’t talk
the mouth only opens
if you’ve taken the time
to make a mouth
even then
one side is higher
flatter
not quite
there’s no tongue
no teeth behind the facade
of lips
if you work the loop
fast enough
you can hear the clay
as it smooths out
and falls in curls
onto the table
that’s a kind
of subtractive talking
all goodbyes
all goodbyes
Words and Feathers 