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.

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.

Bowl 24: Miriam

I stop to help her with the parking meter.
It's the kind we all have trouble with.
And in the end her cards are unusable,
but it finally takes some bills
and spits out a receipt for her car.

As we begin to talk, she reveals that she is an artist --
a painter of icons.
It is something I know little about,
except what I've read in art history books
and what I've seen when I looked at them from time to time in museums.

I've heard that painting icons is a spiritual journey,
and she confirms this,
and she says that icons also reflect the culture of the country where the painter lives.
That people can tell from her images that her roots are here in the US,
rather than in Russia, or Bulgaria, or Greece.

And she tells me about some of her spiritual journey,
and of how she was drawn to the Eastern Church
a church that has maintained its connection to its mystical traditions, even in this modern age.
and she speaks of painting icons and how it keeps her in touch with the mystery.
and I can feel her groundedness both in the reality of this world and in its mystery.
And I walk away, lighter, happier, and feeling grounded as well
 in both the reality and the mystery of it all.

Bowl 23: Jose

He is looking at a bamboo sculpture when I approach.

What do you think, I ask.

It reminds me of a tree house, he replies . . . like those we used to build

when I was a boy in Puerto Rico . . .

we'd start them and then leave them partly finished.

Then move on and start another somewhere else.

Then he points to another sculpture . . .

and says how much he likes it . . .

 and tells me that it reminds him of nests that the tortolitos make . . .

he tells me that they're little birds that live on the island

and that hundreds of them live in a single nest.

Art is whatever you see in it, he tells me.

As an artist I sometimes think people will see what I want them to see.

But really, I think he's right.

And I love that he sees what he sees.

And that you see what you see,

no matter what I see

or what I think I've put out there.

It makes it all so much richer,

the coming together of different lives 

and different points of view.

Bowl 22: Paul

He is lying on a bench,
looking up at the trees.

that's an ancient one, he says.
not too many that old around here.
and this one,
I think it's sassafras. . .
and I learn that sassafras has three different kinds of leaves --
one oval, one mitten shaped, and one with three lobes.

then he tells me about a banyan tree where he grew up in Florida . . .
so big it spread across three yards!
we used to climb them and crawl along the branches
 to the mango trees in our neighbor's yards . . .
delicious! and we never needed to touch the ground.

we talk of clay, and of seeing contemporary ceramics in ancient settings --
he in Oaxaca, me in Certaldo,
and of a Chinese teacup he once held that was made for an emperor
so fine that when you held it to the light, the emperor's portrait was visible in the porcelain.

he talks on, about music and musical geniuses he's met,
about painting houses for billionaires
and at a certain point I begin to wonder how much he is making up
for my benefit
and how gullible I am for believing it all . . .

and then I decide
it doesn't matter in the least
the stories are fascinating
the day is beautiful
and I am totally enjoying our encounter.

Bowl 21: Chris

It's been a difficult few days. . . 

things that I thought were done and tied up neatly

have been unravelling,

falling apart,

plunging me back into uncertainty.

Feeling the sinking in the pit of my stomach

I begin walking,

breathing,

allowing myself to touch back into just this moment

just this step.

I see Chris fishing, his mom nearby.

Although he appears to be no more than 10 or 11

he is a surprisingly knowledgeable and competent fisherman,

Arcing the line far over the water

and pulling it in with adept flicks 

so that it truly seems that a live frog is on the end --

tempting bait for the large-mouthed bass that swim the pond.

"I always throw them back," he tells me. 

I'm very careful with them. Sometimes I have to cut the line and leave the hook,

but the acid in the fish's stomach will dissolve it," he says.

Then I give him the bowl and start to photograph..

"Wait," he says, "wouldn't it look great if I hold it up and you can see the water behind it."

He is absolutely right! Much better than the first few against his shirt.

Later, I encounter the shards of a goddess left three years before.

I walk home.

Things are still unraveling . . .

but I am more at peace with that . . . 

for this moment at least.

Bowl 20: Laurie

The space is huge, but intimate, 

perhaps because of the warm wood that surrounds me.

Wooden beams soar high above.

And looking up it's as if we are in a ship turned topsy-turvy.

She is leading a tour for two contractors who know a lot about buildings.

I join in. 

They talk of the curved beams, unnecessary from a structural point of view,

but beautiful nonetheless.

And how churches in England were built this way 

because they had used up all of the straight trees, 

and only curved ones remained.

 

After they leave she shows me the Victorian wallpaper 

installed during one of several renovations. 

And photos of the interior all dressed up in Victorian garb.

It is so different from the plain beauty of the wooden pews 

and simple walls that surround me now.

And she tells me that when they removed the box pews, 

some families took them home and stored them.

And when they decided to restore the church,

 families brought them back again . . . 

more than 100 years later!

I leave, and return, catching her as she heads out down the driveway.

Grateful that she has shared this bit of history with me.

I offer her a gift in return.