My heart stopped for a second when I saw the email pop up. It was a reply from a gallery I had approached about stocking my work. Their website said to allow 12 weeks for a decision—it had only been 1 day.
I had sent a flurry of emails over the previous few days to a number of shops and galleries that I thought would be a good fit for my work. I wasn’t really expecting a response; I don’t normally get one.
With some trepidation, I opened the email, half excited and half expecting the usual “sorry, but we don’t feel your work is a good fit for our gallery” response. To my surprise, however, the email read: “We would be delighted to stock your ceramics.”
My heart began to race; I could barely believe it. This was not just any gallery—this was a large, well-known gallery that hosted some big-name artists, and now I was going to be one of them. I was over the moon—well, for all of 2 minutes anyway. You see, the realisation of what this actually meant then began to set in. They were asking for 12 specific pieces from my collection—I only had 4 of the ones they wanted available. I would need to make new pieces specifically for them. Okay, no problem. How hard can that be? I just make more of the same. Easy.
Well, let’s just say the universe had other plans.
Meltdown: Literal and Figurative
I have a little 16L kiln, which has served me well, but can only fit a few small items in at one time. So, firing my pieces takes forever. I usually only make small batches of small pieces, with the occasional larger piece of work. Of course, this order wanted the larger pieces.
I spent a couple of weeks getting the pieces ready and bisque-fired. All had gone well so far.
I put some pieces in for the final glaze firing, but noticed the temperature was not getting quite hot enough. It was a stoneware clay, and the glaze was a high-fire glaze. The temperature reading was just shy of the target temperature, so I crossed my fingers and toes, hoping it would be okay.
It was not okay.
I lifted the lid and peered inside to discover all my pieces covered in a solid, white, chalky substance—the classic telltale sign the clear glaze had not reached its required temperature. It was now fused to the pots and couldn’t be washed off. Okay, not to worry—I have some backup pieces.
I assumed the problem was the elements, as they were getting on a bit now. I ordered some new ones and patiently waited for them to arrive.
Deep breath, Laura. Carry on.
Once my nice, new, shiny elements were in place, I loaded up the kiln and did a test bisque fire. All appeared to be working great. Happy days! The next day, I loaded up the kiln with my precious gallery pieces and programmed it for the glaze fire. I checked it had reached the correct temperature and went on with my day.
Excitedly, the next morning, I opened the lid, expecting to see my gorgeous pieces shining back at me. As I lifted the lid, my heart sank—in fact, it fell out completely and smashed on the floor.
What the hell had happened this time?
One of my pots had melted down over the pots below, fusing 3 of them together, and my lovely new elements were all sticking out of the side of the kiln like rebar from a demolished building.
There was only one explanation for this… I was cursed!
The universe clearly didn’t want me to fulfil this order for my dream gallery. I had obviously upset the pottery gods in some way, and they were now raining down their vengeance upon me.
Oh, wait—let me just check the programming again. Oh, yep, that’ll do it. I may have accidentally set it to soak at 1200 degrees for 85 minutes instead of 5. Oops!
Okay, okay. This is a disaster. A very expensive disaster, but I can come back from this. I have more pieces still waiting to fire; I just need to replace the elements again. I mean, who needs money anyway, right?
When Your Big Break Turns Into a Existential Crisis
Right, so I’ve replaced the elements again, done another successful bisque fire to check I’ve wired everything up right, and I’m now ready to try another glaze fire.
I’m feeling positive. Let’s go.
I lift the lid, with a knot in my stomach the size of a football, and…
Oh, come on!!!
I stare motionless into the belly of the kiln, hardly believing what I’m looking at. A sea of thick, crusty white chalk stares back at me. I have no words—only tears. I am back where I started. Only this time, I’m all out of backups.
I close the lid and walk out of the studio. I go upstairs and sit on my bed, holding back my tears. These are more than just tears of disappointment. More than just tears of frustration. These are the tears of truth. The tears of realising what I knew all along but was trying to hide from myself.
I was fooling myself that I thought I could do this. Fooling myself if I thought I could seriously be good enough to produce work worthy of being in this gallery. Fooling myself that I could call myself a ceramic artist. Of course, I couldn’t do it. Of course, it all went horribly wrong. I’m crap at this. I’m rubbish. I’m a fraud.
Welcome to the spiral. Hold on tight—it’s going to be one hell of a ride!
After I had cursed myself for being me and scolded myself for being so delusional for quite a while, I realised I needed to find a solution to my current predicament. There appeared to be two main options open to me:
1. Give up ceramics—in fact, give up trying to do anything—and go live in a shack in the middle of the woods for the rest of my life, or
2. Stop having an existential crisis, realise that this is mainly a kiln issue and therefore has very little to do with you or your worth as a human being, and think of other ways to get your work fired.
After seriously considering option 1 for a good minute, I finally settled for option 2. After all, my kiln is small and cheap, and I have probably used it way more than it was originally intended to be used for. I realised I might be asking way too much of my kiln. I need to cut it some slack. Maybe my kiln just needs a little help. I looked online and found a local community studio that has a kiln that can be used for a small fee, with the added bonus of members being able to use the studio space, supplies and chat to other potters. It therefore makes more sense, in the future, to use my small kiln to do all the bisque firings in my home studio and do the glaze firings in the community kiln.
Maybe my kiln will benefit from having its load shared a little bit with others.
Laura x