Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Bowl 26: David He's reading as I approach -- it's book about how we're all connected . . .
thoroughly researched, including interviews with numerous physicists and other scientists . . .
it sounded interesting, but I've already forgotten the title and the author.
He wants to know if the shape of the tea bowl has a functional purpose
and why I call them tea bowls and not cups . . .
interesting questions.
I reply that the shape is serendipitous, there only to make the hand feel comfortable . . .
and that for me bowls have gravitas -  evoking ceremony and offering,
whereas tea cups seem flighty, somewhat lightweight, frivolous even.

I find myself explaining the process of inscribing the lines and inlaying the slip
. . .  he tells me that he's writing a play.
. . . and he is trying to devise a way for someone to put a secret message on the back of the Rosetta Stone . . . a message that could be revealed at a crucial moment . . .
we speculate about clay and glue and tar and acid . . .
and what would stick to stone and what would look like it belonged.

Then we talk of making art for the love of it--
plays to be seen by friends and family,
tea bowls to be given away
sharing a joy in the process
then sharing the process with the world.
I walk away, embraced by the warm sun and the brilliant colors of the day,
filled with the contentment of a shared moment in time and space --
feeling connection.
Posted by Joan Schwartz at 7:54 PM No comments: Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Bowl 25: David It's a circus of sound, color, movement.
The steady beat of Brazilian drummers holds the space.
Onlookers bounce in rhythm with the band.
Even the Tai chi players seem somehow in sync.
Children running, trailing brilliant streamers.
While overhead a giant kite/banner/origami thing snakes its way through the space
defining it. . . sheltering it . . .without really enclosing it.

He is drawing bowls as I approach -- with black charcoal on white paper.
But he is sitting on a blanket with three colorful paintings arrayed beside him.
$15 each, he tells me.

He's studying fashion at MassArt,
the child of Columbian immigrants who came here to build a better life,
and he is grateful for the opportunity to study art, to live among museums,
and to draw inspiration from artists both living and dead.

I offer him a bowl. Not for a painting, just for his photo.
Hands smeared with charcoal against the pale glazed surface.
the drawing of his bowls behind.
The image, and the trade, are just right.
perfectly in sync with the rhythm of the drums
and the spirit of the day.
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