So, after a slight detour last time, today I got back on track with some research and decision-making. I decided, first of all, to make my next project a Peruvian whistling vessel.
These are pretty much exactly what they sound like (hee hee) - they are awesome. They were made by many different ancient civilizations in South America, and vary according to culture (see article listed below). Like stirrup vessels (the project I originally considered making) the vessels often have an arched, hollow handle at the top, which can be blown into; the air then moves through the main chamber of the vessel and out the spout, going across the opening of a whistle implanted in the vessel as it does so. -That's the idea, in any case! The article below outlines some tests performed on the vessels to relate tone produced to area of origin. Scans have also been done of these vessels to peer into how they work without actually breaking them apart - unfortunately, those pictures seem to exist only in books about the history of pottery, rather than online, or I would have included one.
To make this work, I realized quickly, I would need to be able to make working whistles. So, for two hours, I experimented. I tried out different ways to make the hollow sphere of the whistle - molding it over my thumb, for example, or the currently accepted method of making two halves and smooshing them together - and I tried out five different sizes of whistle, from walnut-size to just larger than a golf ball. I even picked a mid-range size and made a few extra, some with thick walls, some with thin, to see if that affected the sound produced. This was by no means exact science; but, I figured, the point of these projects is more the curiosity and the discovery than the exactness, per se. Results of this experiment will come in another post; when the whistles have dried out a bit, I plan to chop some of them in half (for curiosity's sake), as well as compare the sounds each size/variety makes once they are more solid. Stay tuned. :~)
Whistling vessels - research into cultural variance
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Something Relevant (Perhaps)
After finishing my first set of pots - well, my first two true pots, and my first multitude of misshapen attempts - I had to admit to myself that, for all my ideas, I wasn't really sure where to go next. Did I want to model a few figurines from early Europe? Or maybe one from the Nazca culture? Or maybe, I ought to build myself a foot-driven pottery wheel and try something from early Egypt . . .
Ah, the possibilities (some more likely than others). What, then, did I end up doing? Well, naturally, I went for creating a small dish with a pair of dolphins arched down to it on one side, exploring.
Admittedly, this had nothing to do with ancient pottery. Not on the surface, at least. This particular project represents simply the result of me throwing in some headphones, sitting down in front of some clay, and letting my hands do pretty much whatever occurred to them. But - call it passion, or obsession, or just plain weirdness - my thoughts did still trend, often, to potters and artists living thousands of years ago.
As I coerced the clay into forming fins and flippers, I thought about the effort required to make sediment and water look like a particular animal or figure. It's a rewarding process, definitely, especially when you're working with something as simple and streamlined as my little dolphins. But it also demands a lot of attention - and a lot of familiarity with what you're trying to represent. Questions come up that a casual observer of animals wouldn't think to ask - like, exactly how far along down the back is the dorsal fin of a dolphin? One quarter, two thirds, one half maybe? And precisely how deep do I make the median notch between these flukes? Some of these things inevitably end up decided by aesthetics rather than anatomical correctness, in my case today as well as, I imagine, in ancient figurines.
Even so, the fact remains that it's harder than I'd expected to make a truly realistic representation of something. There had, from time to time, been part of me that looked at slightly abstracted ancient art and wondered, "Why not make the darn thing look the way it really looked? I mean, they must have seen birds like that every day, right? That's a lot of opportunity to study." The assumption was that, given enough time and patience, anything lifelike could be created. However, especially in working with clay, an unlimited of time is not given to the artist; eventually, things begin drying out. And while things are wet, often one part of the piece will misbehave while you're trying to fix another part entirely. My final realization came down to this: anything that ancient potters took the time to shape by hand, to make instantly recognizable, must have been something important to themselves or to their culture. After all, why did I sit down and make a pair of dolphins, and struggle so to make them as perfect as I could? Not only because they're some of my favorite creatures, but because they hold a lot of meaning for me. Often I think people look at ancient artifacts and get lost in thinking about technology, resources, or high trends in art. We tend to forget that these things also may have held very personal meanings to those who made them; but in thinking about those meanings, we can establish deeper connections with the objects, and possibly with the shadows of the artists behind them.
Ah, the possibilities (some more likely than others). What, then, did I end up doing? Well, naturally, I went for creating a small dish with a pair of dolphins arched down to it on one side, exploring.
Admittedly, this had nothing to do with ancient pottery. Not on the surface, at least. This particular project represents simply the result of me throwing in some headphones, sitting down in front of some clay, and letting my hands do pretty much whatever occurred to them. But - call it passion, or obsession, or just plain weirdness - my thoughts did still trend, often, to potters and artists living thousands of years ago.
As I coerced the clay into forming fins and flippers, I thought about the effort required to make sediment and water look like a particular animal or figure. It's a rewarding process, definitely, especially when you're working with something as simple and streamlined as my little dolphins. But it also demands a lot of attention - and a lot of familiarity with what you're trying to represent. Questions come up that a casual observer of animals wouldn't think to ask - like, exactly how far along down the back is the dorsal fin of a dolphin? One quarter, two thirds, one half maybe? And precisely how deep do I make the median notch between these flukes? Some of these things inevitably end up decided by aesthetics rather than anatomical correctness, in my case today as well as, I imagine, in ancient figurines.
Even so, the fact remains that it's harder than I'd expected to make a truly realistic representation of something. There had, from time to time, been part of me that looked at slightly abstracted ancient art and wondered, "Why not make the darn thing look the way it really looked? I mean, they must have seen birds like that every day, right? That's a lot of opportunity to study." The assumption was that, given enough time and patience, anything lifelike could be created. However, especially in working with clay, an unlimited of time is not given to the artist; eventually, things begin drying out. And while things are wet, often one part of the piece will misbehave while you're trying to fix another part entirely. My final realization came down to this: anything that ancient potters took the time to shape by hand, to make instantly recognizable, must have been something important to themselves or to their culture. After all, why did I sit down and make a pair of dolphins, and struggle so to make them as perfect as I could? Not only because they're some of my favorite creatures, but because they hold a lot of meaning for me. Often I think people look at ancient artifacts and get lost in thinking about technology, resources, or high trends in art. We tend to forget that these things also may have held very personal meanings to those who made them; but in thinking about those meanings, we can establish deeper connections with the objects, and possibly with the shadows of the artists behind them.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Same as Last Time, but Different . . .
Well, I guess I just wasn't quite ready to leave the early Jomon yet. When I got to the pottery studio today, my mind remained stuck on round- and pointed-bottomed pots. I had made one of the two, and it turned out decently . . . But what about the other? After all, of the two types, the cone shape is less familiar to me; maybe I had been taking the easy way out by avoiding it.
So, I sat down and tried to figure out how to make a vessel with a pointed base. As it turned out, I had little trouble coiling a cone-shape at first - in fact, it seemed easier to me that trying to make a flattish base and then building up from there.
The main problem came as the pot grew. I hesitated to rest my pot on the table without first turning it upside down, because I didn't want it to fall over sideways. But for me, adding coils to the walls is generally a two-handed process, so I struggled to hold the pot up with one hand and blend with the other. From my research I have gathered that some archaeologists believe that the pointed pots were basically dug into the dirt/ashes of a cooking fire, which heated them and kept them stable. Perhaps they were built also partially submerged in dirt or sand? -My only other strong guess is that the original Jomon potters were just that much better than me, and could blend coils easily with one hand. :~) This gets back to tool use as well - perhaps they had a tool that made it easier to blend, or a partial stand/mold of some kind.
It must be admitted that I ran into one other problem with my new pot: the walls, predictably, were soon too stretched for their own good. Because my time at the pottery studio was winding down and, well, because I was curious, I did something that seemed a little like breaking the rules: in sewing terms, I put darts into the walls of the pot. In a few places roughly equidistant around the rim, I folded the extra material into itself and smoothed it together so that I ended up with a smaller circumference. Since I know that it is dangerous to fire a pot with uneven walls, I did my very best to work out all the traces of the deed (perhaps a little bit of guilt helped in that too?).
When I was done, I reassured myself with the thought that not everyone making pots during the early Jomon period was an expert - if you think about it, some of them at least must have been making it up as they went along, at the beginning. So maybe it's not so unlikely that I am the only person ever to get a little crafty, or a little impatient, with my clay vessel . . . And along that line, maybe soon I'll be joining the ranks of those whose pots did not survive the firing process.
So, I sat down and tried to figure out how to make a vessel with a pointed base. As it turned out, I had little trouble coiling a cone-shape at first - in fact, it seemed easier to me that trying to make a flattish base and then building up from there.
The main problem came as the pot grew. I hesitated to rest my pot on the table without first turning it upside down, because I didn't want it to fall over sideways. But for me, adding coils to the walls is generally a two-handed process, so I struggled to hold the pot up with one hand and blend with the other. From my research I have gathered that some archaeologists believe that the pointed pots were basically dug into the dirt/ashes of a cooking fire, which heated them and kept them stable. Perhaps they were built also partially submerged in dirt or sand? -My only other strong guess is that the original Jomon potters were just that much better than me, and could blend coils easily with one hand. :~) This gets back to tool use as well - perhaps they had a tool that made it easier to blend, or a partial stand/mold of some kind.
It must be admitted that I ran into one other problem with my new pot: the walls, predictably, were soon too stretched for their own good. Because my time at the pottery studio was winding down and, well, because I was curious, I did something that seemed a little like breaking the rules: in sewing terms, I put darts into the walls of the pot. In a few places roughly equidistant around the rim, I folded the extra material into itself and smoothed it together so that I ended up with a smaller circumference. Since I know that it is dangerous to fire a pot with uneven walls, I did my very best to work out all the traces of the deed (perhaps a little bit of guilt helped in that too?).
When I was done, I reassured myself with the thought that not everyone making pots during the early Jomon period was an expert - if you think about it, some of them at least must have been making it up as they went along, at the beginning. So maybe it's not so unlikely that I am the only person ever to get a little crafty, or a little impatient, with my clay vessel . . . And along that line, maybe soon I'll be joining the ranks of those whose pots did not survive the firing process.
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