Our life revolves around clay. We probably have a large percentage of clay in our cells by now. The rhythm of making shifts the seasons just enough to where we can claim it’s ours, even though it really claims us. It’s true. We are one with our clay.
We are surrounded by trees, frogs, snakes, leaves, apple orchards, the sounds of waves from nearby Green Bay, turkey buzzards, deer, turkeys, coyotes, sinking into the ground outhouses from the past and the wireless satellite towering in our orchard.
And in our studio, we can sink into the clay as our hands begin to find their words.