It would behoove me, and one's impression of my work and me, if in this statement, I could purport a connection to clay, the universe and me, a dust-to-dust sort of thing, perhaps. Or if I could claim that my art portrays a cry for humanity, devastation of war, starving children, poverty; that each woven coil or strip of clay represents the complexities of relationships, entangling, strangling, or not...
But, alas, unlike my artistic friends and colleagues, depth to my art wanes. There was that one time; however, when I was struck by an art history course flashback. The result was a woven piece resembling a primal, tribal monstrosity that might, with great imagination, remind one of a topless, elongated stupa, one that tilts to the left or right, depending on the angle of view.
Truth be told, I weave stoneware clay because I am cursed---some say "blessed"--by too many ideas and the compulsivity to produce the designs drawn and written in my sketchbook and crowding portions of my brain. (If one looks closely, there, on the right side of my head is a slight bulge. Most of the time, my hair covers it.)
Sometimes my designs seek lofty heights. (Figuratively speaking. My kiln is only so big.) Other times designs appear bland, making one wonder if the bulge collapsed. Those woven pieces are just as motivating as the ones where I cry, "Yes! I have conquered you, you wet, floppy pieces of clay. Newton would be proud. I defied your tendency to gravitate, flop into a woven mess, unrecognizable even as a topless, elongated stupa."