Stoneware; glazed with a thin coat of Celadon and a splash of Stormy Blue: Fall 2009.A friend has said, ruefully, that what you love most, you do second. He was talking of teaching and making music. His comment has had me thinking, Can I even say what I love most? The water? the classroom? books? clay? And what about the fatalistic or even cynical logic in his saying? How do I feel about that? Do I recognize a truth there?
"What you love most, you do second." Really? Always? And, why? Or, why not?
I like to spin out questions in postcards, probably to the dismay of my correspondents, much like that old Romantic spider, Coleridge. But I'll pause from questioning, and attempt some assertions, using my friendly fish above as a guide.
He is friendly, isn't he? Despite the teeth, yes? Is he art? I haven't a clue. I enjoyed the making, and I enjoyed seeing him come out of the kiln, just as he is, even more. I love how the fire of the kiln has that last word beyond any of my expressing, my intending, my making, and yet what does that say about me, as a maker? Is he art? Is it art? Sure, why not?
I couldn't begin to say what I love most--teaching, reading, learning, making with clay, diving and swimming and kayaking--though I know I love all of those activities. (I don't spend enough time working with clay to say I love it most.) Still, that saying from my friend makes me wonder, and wonder may lead to knowledge and, better yet, to wisdom. I have a fondness for rephrasing questions and statements, not liking to be subject to much of anything, frankly, but I haven't yet decided on how to rephrase that saying to my liking. Yet. I'm letting everything stew in the cauldron of my mind for now.
I like this fish a lot. He's worth liking, don't you think?
