Why I Make Pretty Things

Sunflowers Vase

I read a blog post by another ceramicist a little over a year ago entitled "The Problem With Pretty". If I get her permission I'll link to it, but for now I'll just summarize. The basic idea is that pretty is too easy. That it doesn't really say enough. Now this woman makes beautiful things and lots of people like them. They've brought her success from what I can tell, and rightfully so. But I can see what she's saying. In a world where so much is going on all the time, pretty can seem flat, depth-less, shallow. I had additional thoughts on the subject and I had considered leaving a comment on her post. 


But she's big time. And I'm chicken. So I'll just blog about it now.


I followed an art curriculum in college. And instead of writing some big paper as seniors, our thesis was to create a body of work to exhibit at the end of the year. This is kind of a big deal. In previous years we'd been producing work for specific assignments. Now we were given free creative reign.  But this can be tricky with ceramics. 


Here you've been making cups and bowls, cups and bowls, bowls and cups and you're just starting to feel like you maybe know what you're doing. Now you've got this show looming over you and there's this incredible urge to say something important. Several of your teachers have waisted time in class discussing all of that Art vs. Craft garbage and you have said to yourself "I am not a craftsman, I am a fucking artist". So you stop thinking about cups and bowls, bowls and cups -even though you just started getting good at them -and you start thinking about something to say.


Oooooh, but I was ready. Because as a matter of fact, I had a lot to say. And I started filling my sketchbook  full of ideas about child abuse, domestic violence, religion, patriarchal societies -every kind of injustice- hurt, pain, rage, all cleverly expressed through the quiet domesticity of the teapot. I was armed and I was eager, and at the end of the year I was gonna bitch-slap the status quo. Meanwhile, as I continued to develop my indignation on paper I kept myself busy in the studio making cups and bowls, bowls and cups, vases, piling them up on my shelves. 


And a friend and teacher of mine came by. And commented on how much joy there was in my work. Joy? Huh. Well......wait a minute here. Joy?

Dragonfly Bowl

And there was plenty of reason for there to be joy in my work. I had just gotten married the summer before to the most amazing man. I had started working a job that I really liked doing, for a person who's company I enjoyed equally well. And in a year I was going to graduate with a degree in a field that I was excited about. Why shouldn't there be joy in my work? And then it struck me.


Joy is fucking important.


Bliss is important. Beauty is important. Comfort is important. Wonder, love, and discovery are important. Pretty is important. And if all of this Joy was present in my life, why in hell would I want to focus on anything else?


Now I'm not saying that these other things don't need our attention. They do. Art can be a powerful vehicle for both bringing attention to those things that need it and processing something yourself. One of the women in my class that year changed everything she was doing when her father fell ill. By the end of the year she had produced a show of beautiful paintings centered around her family. And there are endless examples of artists helping to bring about social change with their work. But I don't need to be one of them.


Because life, in the end, is all about where your focus is. And in order to make art about atrocity, you have to focus on atrocity. In order to make art about grief and pain, you have to focus on grief and pain. And that's not what I want my life to be about. I want to celebrate.


And there's just so much out there to celebrate.