Ceramic Arts Daily

Professionally, I make teapots because they embrace the complexity of parts coming together as a whole. This form comes with more design parameters than most traditional forms, and each decision in the process shapes the way the following decisions will be made. In some ways, they are like choose-your-own-adventure books - simply (or complicatedly) life.

Personally, I am interested in the teapot form because it exemplifies taking time. Each morning, I drink a full pot of tea, and do so in slow time. This may be the only slow time of that day, and I take it first, not last, in preparation for the business that will almost inevitably occur. I like a brisk pace overall (my students comment that I even walk fast), but it cannot be relished without the contrast of slow. This is my special time with myself and my husband, talking and drinking tea.

The minimum qualities for the teapot format are: appropriate containment, hand-handle position, spout pourability, lid sit, knob grip (the pure utility issues); integration of the parts into a cohesive visual whole (the visual issues); excellent assembly (construction issues). There are just too many attachments and form joins that can become a distraction if construction is not sound. As are most parameters, these are simply a starting point, the fundamentals without which one cannot effectively approach this next arena of “making special.”

I can imagine a teapot that was utility-effective and visually cohesive, yet bored me to tears and I would never ever want to use. The pot must be compelling on some level, either by visual content (in a Modernist sense), emotional-material content (in an Expressionist sense), narrative content (in, well, a narrative sense), and cognitive content (in a Postmodern sense). Work that focuses on one of these categories still benefits greatly from the presence of at least some amount of the others. The visual may be the initial powerhouse, otherwise the viewer may never access the other intended content layers; yet it also requires some amount of the others or the viewer may never linger. If the layers are never uncovered, do they actually exist? Entice. Deliver. Allow space for rumination.

There is not a perfect handle, or spout, or any part. All things depend on each other for their success. The spout has to be right for that body. The knob for all things that have come before it. The great handle from one form can fail miserably if placed on another pot. The decisions have to be made in some kind of sequence, and that sequence can exaggerate or obliterate pre-existing strengths. The handle may adjust a slight mismatch of body to spout, or exaggerate it into serious visual problems.

The pot isn’t fully alive when at rest, yet it must also be enjoyed when it is still. It’s like sleep, which is good, but in doses between other activities. It does disappoint me when my pots are not used for their generally intended function, but if a user prefers something other than tea from the teapot, I would not complain. At least they are pouring something from it. Just please don’t put flowers in it - my skin may crawl off.

I consider the ceremony and ritual of others before and after making or designing (drawing), never during. That would actually interfere with my own ritual in making.

When I make, I am fully with that pot, that group of pots. Nothing else exists. I am connected in a quiet intensity to my hands, and my hands to those forms. Part of my mind is not allowed to wake until I step back. Then I am in a different gear, one of brisk analysis of the parts, the balance, tension of a line, flow of a curve. There I decide a conscious, basic course of action, of reframing or redirecting, and then I jump back in and make simultaneous, half-conscious, micro-decisions to make it do what it needs to do.

I think of marketing strategies as design strategies. In this case, it may not be simply “Build it and they will come” but “Build it and then go find them.” If the work is good, get it where it needs to be to be seen by the people who will buy it.

I believe that good sales mechanics can probably sell just about anything, even if it is low quality. In my heart of hearts, I cannot imagine getting up in the morning with the intent to make something half well. Make it well, or consider not bothering with it at all. A quality product is worth the extra effort in making and in buying, and it can sell itself to a degree.

I have a Prada backpack that is a hand-me-down. I would have never bought one of these, but now I know why people do. It isn’t just the name. This thing has been through the wringer; I lug thirty pounds around in it, flinging it over my shoulder by one strap, and not a single seam is starting to come apart even after years of abuse. It will last longer than ten cheap backpacks and be less expensive in the end. It does its job and does it well.

For professional studio making; if it’s not good, don’t keep making it. Change something, anything that might improve things. The world does not need another poorly-made, low-quality, throw-it-away thing. Investing in quality is cheaper in the long run, and investing in our personal existence (or that of our customers and collectors) is worth every penny and every hour. And figure out how to make it well while making it briskly, or you may break the bank.

For learning-focused making, we have to go through a few tons of pots (a likely equivalent to the 10,000 practice hours of a skilled activity which are necessary to be a virtuoso) to get to the good ones, so accept making lots of bad pots. Every tenth one may be somewhat good, or even every fifth one. Eventually, nearly every pot coming out of our hands may be at least good, even great, or maybe even quite excellent. Don’t loose sight of this, ever, or you may never get there.

I propose that function isn’t; function does. It is defined by its action, instead of its being. The functional pot invokes action on our parts, both as makers and users, and acts in its own right. By being engaged, we and it continue to more fully exist. We do, therefore we are. It does, therefore it is. It earns its existence by serving us, giving us time, showing us time, and making that time more noticed, more special, more true.

In a world of fast, instantaneous change of state and engagement—in cell phone/Facebook/Google/microwave land—time is existence, and celebrating time reminds us that we are.

To learn more about Tina Gebhart and see more images of her work, visit www.tinagebhart.com