I'm just landing back on earth after a fabulous few days exhibiting at The Contemporary Craft Festival. I met so many lovely people who bought my pieces and so many lovely makers selling their own beautiful things. Everyone was full of encouragement and Freya from The Great Pottery Throw down came on to my stand for a chat about making and lustres too! This world of makers is such a great community and this is such a special and fabulous event. I didn't want it to end but it did and now, on that field in Bovey, apart from the mud, you would never know it had happened. I loved it! Thanks to all my lovely friends who came to see me, bought me encouragement, water, tea and coffee and even a cream tea! And to everyone who bought something - whether it was gold or platinum I hope it brings you shine and light xxx
Meaning and Purpose
Because I hand build my pieces, no two are ever the same, they can have similarities in shape but each piece is truly unique in the same way that all of us are. I love the way that people seem drawn to a piece visually and then, when they hold it for the first time, they usually know immediately and instinctively if it's the one for them. Touch is an important part of the process and I have wondered if it is partly because every piece is made in my palm and I never make anything bigger than a size I can comfortably hold in my hand. As I'm selling more and more I have begun to think about what happens to my bowls as they land in their new homes. I know that some are used to hold jewellery, and others hold candles which makes the lustre dance. Recently I was told about a tiny bowl carefully placed on a bedroom windowsill in a house on Dartmoor, ready to capture the late afternoon sun. I love to hear these stories and it seems to me that the majority, just like these two sitting peacefully on a kitchen windowsill in a house in Devon, are enjoyed and celebrated just as they are, and that brings me much joy.
Unexpected Guest
Last weekend I went on a writers retreat in Sussex. We were 'dream writing', an astonishingly effective way of accessing the deep stuff very quickly and it's amazing what comes out. I was part of a small group of dream writers and it was an incredible privilege to listen to other people's writing and beautiful stories that appeared, as if by magic. I had arrived on Friday night after a long journey, quite jangled up and tired and with no preconceived idea about what might happen over the weekend, but after our first exercise on Saturday morning, as we all wandered off to find a quiet corner to write for a few hours, a character from a novel for children I wrote ten years ago that was never published took the opportunity to nudge her way back into my mind. I thought I was looking for new inspiration and I tried, very politely, to push her away but, like an unexpected guest at a party, she just wouldn't leave me alone. It was very clear she had a lot to say and by the time we broke for lunch I had written over 1,500 words about her, but she was no longer the young teenage girl in my original story, she was now a grandmother with children and grandchildren of her own. Sadly we had to leave our dream writers cocoon on Sunday afternoon and return to our normal lives, but I came away with so much; memories of a wonderful experience, renewed confidence in my writing, inspiration, energy, 7 new friends ... and one old friend who came to remind me she was still there ... it made me think about the power of writing and how the characters we conjure up in our minds are made of more than just pure imagination.
Keeping it in the Family
I've been incredibly busy getting ready for The Contemporary Craft Festival at Bovey Tracey, June 9 - 11. Do come along if you can - it's a brilliant day out with so many fabulous makers to meet, talk to and buy from, and I will be there too! It's even easier if you buy your tickets now in advance from www.craftsatboveytracey.co.uk - you can swan straight in, bypassing the queues! I have completely loved being in such an active making process and seeing what shapes emerge - the kiln is on almost constantly as my pieces transform from raw porcelain into gold and platinum, and a body of work is appearing that I'm very excited about. With many years of marketing expertise under my belt, I really shouldn't be at all surprised at the amount of things I have had to consider for the festival, but there are so many decisions to make! Apart from 'making' I have had to design my stand and think about my display, then there's posters, post cards, business cards, packaging, boxes, tissue, ribbon and photography ... the list goes on. Rather handily, my brother came for Easter and, as a photographer - he is never without with his camera - we had fun creating some new product pictures for postcards and posters and then, when I wasn't paying proper attention, he took some shots of me working. I like this picture because this sums up the joy of making for me - just a bright warm space, a chunk of porcelain and a pair of hands. Find my brother here at: www.jonathanlittle.co.uk
Unwanted Gift
My godmother is a larger than life character, kind, generous and always smiling. Once, when I was very young, she asked me what sort of tea service I would like if I had my own; "Would you choose a pattern with birds or flowers, or insects or butterflies" she asked, "or maybe a pattern that tells a story?" She had me there, stories were my thing, but not great at making decisions in those days, I said I liked everything she suggested. The first brown box arrived for Christmas. I ripped it open and inside was ... a teacup and saucer. I was only six and I'm ashamed to say that I didn't want it and I didn't really look at it. From then on, every birthday and Christmas, a disappointing brown cardboard box would arrive with yet another teacup and saucer, or a couple of tea plates, or a teapot or a milk jug. I was far more interested in Lego and Sindy, and a less interesting gift was almost impossible to imagine - but luckily these precious boxes were kept in a safe place for me. When I finally had my first home many years later, I opened them all and was entranced and delighted by their contents. She had given me a complete tea service from Herend, the world-renowned Hungarian porcelain manufacturer - what a wonderful gift - and when it came to the design, she had taken me at my six year old word. Created in 1860, the Rothschild pattern tells the magical story of a lost necklace and is exquisitely painted with everything I had asked for all those years before. I knew nothing about Hungary then but as so often happens in life, this 'unwanted' gift which had seemed so dull to me as a child, was the first piece in a bigger jigsaw that no one could have foreseen or imagined. The first time I made a cup of tea for my Hungarian mother-in-law I was able to use my beautiful porcelain, all the way from her precious homeland.
Making Magic
When my children were very little a family of tiny elves lived in the 'elf tree' in our minuscule London garden. They wrote letters to our daughter who was 5 at the time and left them for her in their 'letterbox', a small crevice in the trunk of their tree which was at the perfect height for her. She would almost burst with excitement when she discovered a new message from them and would sit down to write back straight away. She would tuck her 'elf-sized' note back into the letterbox, then check every morning before breakfast, and every afternoon after school, to see if they had replied. The elves loved a celebration - especially birthdays - they would cover their leaves and branches in glitter and all sorts of little things from their lives would appear; tiny bunting, stars, food, drawings and even jewels. When we moved to Devon, to everyone's delight, the elves came too, taking up residence in an old gnarled tree in the alleyway that led to our first rented flat. Through their notes and letters, they provided an important and comforting link with the home and life we had left behind and they brought their unique positive enthusiasm and understanding to the prospect of new schools, new friends and our new life. Today the old gnarled elf tree is gone, magic is found elsewhere, and I had almost forgotten about our tiny friends until I made these miniature gold bowls. I think our elf family would have loved them!
Memory
In my first ever blog, posted a year ago today, I wrote about how the first time I touched the clay it felt felt like a homecoming. I was instantly transported back to my childhood when I was 12, just a few weeks after my mother died. That September I returned to boarding school 200 miles away from home, ten days after everyone else had gone back, grieving and terribly homesick. One evening after supper, Louie, a girl in my year who I didn't know well, suggested we go to the art room; it was out of bounds of course and I was worried about being caught, but she was fearless. The room was deserted and she lifted the lid off the clay bin, dug out a lump of earthenware and gave it to me. Gradually, as I started to handle and shape it, something inside me shifted into a calmer place - my mother had been an artist and I'm sure that being in that warm space, making and creating, helped me to feel connected to her. Louie and I sneaked up there on our own whenever we could in our free time, and during those long autumn evenings before the bell rang for bed, we became best friends and made things out of clay until the light faded and we could no longer see our hands. We were never caught and it became such a sanctuary for me - I was able to forget for a while and in time, life became more bearable and hopeful. When I was 14 I left to go to a school nearer home, leaving Louie and the clay behind, but what she did for me then was an act of extraordinary compassion and understanding in one so young - she seemed to instinctively know that the clay would help me, and it did. And then, a whole lifetime later, I pull another chunk of clay out of another bag in another world, and I feel a jolt of recognition that moves me - I am momentarily 12 again, next to my new friend, my hands in the clay, making and creating. Today 'Louie' is a successful potter and artist and this blog is for her, louisedarby.co.uk
See you there!
Last June I went to The Contemporary Craft Festival at Bovey Tracey for the first time with a dear friend of mine. We toured the amazing stands, spoke to brilliant, friendly and enthusiastic makers, saw some wonderful work, bought things we couldn't resist and drank a lot of tea, watching the stars of The Great Pottery Throw Down share their skills with humour, aplomb and encouragement to all. We wandered into the StartUP tent full of new makers showing for the first time and then queued outside a converted Camper Van for our vegetarian salads which we ate in the sunshine, sitting on funny little primary coloured hexagonal stools, getting slightly overheated and extremely sun burned. It was a really great day out and I thought to myself, how wonderful would it be if, one day, I could show my porcelain and lustre in such a fabulous, exciting and inspiring setting. Well ... I'm thrilled to tell you that this June I WILL be there, in the StartUP tent myself! I am beyond excited to have been given this opportunity and I've got till June 9th to make, create, experiment and fine tune! I'm on it - watch this space - and come and see me!
Unadorned
Anyone who has known me since I started potting will know that I am totally passionate about the shine and glamour of lustres; they transform and uplift and I use them in my work all the time. I loved silver when I was younger but my husband and I chose gold for my wedding ring - something I would wear every day - and it seemed grown up and important at the time; perhaps this was when my love affair with beautiful, lustrous, precious gold began. This morning I opened the kiln after a white glaze firing and this sculptured bowl was waiting for me on the second shelf. The minute I lifted it out and held it I just knew it was finished; sometimes unadorned is best - we don't need gold or platinum or anything else - sometimes things are best left just as they are. It makes me very happy to be creating and making with my hands and heart, and for me, this piece is fine just as it is.
Full circle
My mother lived in Argentina until she was 18 when she came over to England by boat to go to art college in London. At a ball in Yorkshire, just days after she arrived, she met my dad and married him. Every couple of years they would go back to visit my grandmother in Buenos Aires, epic journeys that often lasted several weeks. More than once, my brothers and I were packed up and sent to stay with Beanie, an old friend of the family who lived in our village. Beanie's cottage was a magical place - a two up two down with a range in the kitchen, a little coal fire in the sitting room, a garden full of snap-dragons, huge red overblown poppies, wild flowers, dahlias, and a profusion of earwigs. We loved those times, and then we grew up. Over the years I lost touch with Beanie until one day, many years later, my husband and I drove to West Sussex to see her, and when she opened the door the years fell away. We had tea together in her garden as the red poppies she had always loved swung their heads in the breeze. She had made us tiny eggs sandwiches, fairy cakes with little sponge wings and buttercream icing and a childhood pudding she called 'Frizzy Lizzy' - a heady combination of evaporated milk and raspberry jelly - all served up on the very same china I remembered from my visits to her cottage thirty years before - the patterns and shapes of the bowls and jugs and cups and saucers, all so familiar and comforting to hold again in my hands. She was very elderly by then but we were so pleased to see one another and she knew I was expecting my daughter although she didn't live long enough to meet her. That sunny June afternoon she presented me with this little jug, a Susie Cooper piece that my mother, who adored her, had given her many years before. I use it every day.
Nature in a class of its own
My dad is a Yorkshireman with a lifelong passion for the countryside. He would pull on his flat cap and walking boots, grab one of the many walking sticks he whittled himself out of hazel, call the dogs to his side, and set off, striding through the heather so fast I'd have to half-run to keep up. He wasn't one for chatting but he would always point out landmarks of interest as he proudly surveyed his beloved North York Moors. Once he told me that his favourite time of year was very early Spring when brand new leaves first unfurl on the trees, "I love the colour" he explained, "it's a soft pale green that lets in the light and reminds us that Spring is coming." He is 92 now and his walking days are over but when I see the new leaves begin to unravel on the trees I always think of him. Since the Autumn I've had a pile of oak, horse chestnut and beech leaves lying on our hall windowsill. I gathered them up on my walks in October and they have laid there drying out and curling around each other into beautiful shapes. They survived Christmas and the bin (narrowly!) and I didn't spray them with gold (although I did think about it for a nanosecond!). Now I'm looking at them again and once more marvelling at their beauty, individuality and fragility; these are leaves at the end of their life and, as organic shapes go, they really are in a class of their own ... irresistible and inspirational.
Gratitude
I have been asked a couple of times recently what inspired me to put solid gold inside my work. To my surprise I found it a really hard question to answer. I thought back to when I first started out and I was experimenting with gold leaf. Conscious of its fragility, I tried to find a way to successfully protect it with sealants, only to discover that when it dried, the gold had lost some of its shine and although still beautiful, I felt it had become slightly diminished. I realised I wanted proper unashamed shiny brightness, hope, optimism and light from my gold. I wanted it to lift my heart, and other's hearts when they saw it. Sometimes doors just fling themselves open in an amazing way when you least expect it, especially after a spell in a dark corridor when you can't find the right door to go through, and this was the way it was for me. First came the clay itself - I was in the right place at the right time when someone dropped out of the clay group, and, on a whim I asked if I could take her place. Then came the kiln; a gift beyond price as it gave me the freedom and opportunity to experiment with different clays and glazes, including lustres. But most important of all are the people, friends old and new, who have helped me with their endless enthusiasm, patience, encouragement, advice and kindness and to all of them I say a big golden thank you. So that is why I put gold in my work. I did it for myself and for everyone else who is looking for light. Happy New Year.
Above the parapet
My first commission in January this year to make 10 gold lined bowls for a friend of a friend in Winchester, was really the beginning. As I made the bowls for her my clever son designed and made my website for me and I decided how to package my work and created a business card; it was exciting and I suddenly had a reason to apply all my business and PR skills (from another life!) to the process. It has been a busy year; working in platinum was next and these lustres are notoriously tricky to handle. There is a lot of trial and error and it's very hard when a piece I particularly love doesn't make it to the end of the line - perhaps it will crack in one of its three firings or the glaze won't take properly - it's always hard to accept, but I move on quickly now. A few days ago I really did put my head above the parapet by taking a stand at Kite Studios Christmas Fair in West London. As I carefully unwrapped my bowls and sculptures for the display, I was struck by the familiarity of their individual shapes, curves and idiosyncrasies. It was as if I had made them that morning, and as people chose and bought them, and I packaged them carefully in their boxes, I found myself saying a silent goodbye to each piece as if it was an old friend. This time last year I was just beginning to work with porcelain and lustres and now, 12 months later, complete strangers will be receiving my gold and platinum bowls on Christmas morning, chosen just for them. I honesty could not be more amazed or proud.
Sharing inspiration
Just before October half term, with my children's author hat on, I spent a day at Christow Primary School in the Teign Valley. Over the summer holidays, an amazing team of builders, parents, teachers and helpers had built a fabulous new library from scratch for these lucky children. I was very honoured to be invited to run a day of creative writing workshops with each year group; we made books, read stories and created characters, and then they asked me to open the library, packed with parents, teachers and excited children, at the end of the school day, it was a really special occasion. When I got home there was a parcel waiting for me from America - inside was a second-hand pottery book published in 1986 that I hadn't been able to find here, and as soon as I opened it, I saw it was an ex-library book from a public library in Michigan. I was touched by the synchronicity and it felt wonderfully apt that I had spent the day with a brave school determined to keep the magic of creativity, imagination and words alive against the odds for all their children, only to find myself, standing in my hall, still with my coat on, holding an old out of print library book that had just arrived in the post. It's scuffed and well worn which tells me that it has been read by many people. It has been chosen, taken home to be poured over and then returned for others to enjoy. Perhaps because of its history it feels as if I am just a custodian of this well travelled book, and not its owner, and when the time is right I know I will pass it on. Inspiration is more than doubled when shared.
Lucky in love
Recently we were visiting some old friends in London and, as they were asking me about my porcelain, I felt the palms of my hands change and I just yearned to hold some clay. This isn't the first time this has happened and it makes me realise how much I love this stuff and how important it has become to me. Porcelain is quite cold and lifeless when you first pull it out of its bag but as soon as you begin to work it it comes alive, becomes warm and pliable and smooth and feels just beautiful; the result of a sort of alchemy between the earth and human touch. Maybe it's because it comes from the earth that it makes me feel grounded but, whatever is happening in my life, within minutes of holding it, I feel back on course. I'm a hand-builder and I usually start by holding a ball of clay in the palm of my left hand. I press my right thumb or index finger into the middle of this ball and begin to pull the clay up into a bowl shape. I never know what will appear but therein lies the joy of the whole thing. I'm passionate about working with clay and I feel very lucky to be doing something I love so much.
Old friends
Bunnykins
Perhaps it's because my daughter has just gone back to university for her final year that I sense change is really coming now and I can't slow it down; it's the end of something and the beginning of something new. Trying to keep myself busy I decided to sort through some old boxes in the garage, but I didn't get further than the first box which was full of my children's drawings; each one as familiar today as if it had been handed to me for the first time only minutes ago. So special. I'm so glad I kept them. Next came little fat painty hand-prints on card with tiny swinging calendars hanging beneath, first stabs at writing, 'golden gang' certificates, a scruffy cub sweatshirt, covered in very badly sewn on badges (I never could sew), and primary school reports, predicting with uncanny accuracy, each child's passion and possible future direction - they were so little then, how could they have known? At the very bottom of the box was a familiar shape wrapped in newspaper. I was so happy to see it again. This worn and faded old friend was with us through every minute of those early years - and my husband's early years as well. As I held this precious bowl in my hands the memories flooded back, all our homes in London and Devon, teatimes, highchairs, broccoli wars, birthdays, tears, giggles, tantrums, joy - it holds all the stories. Old and scuffed it may be but we will never part with it.
Dancing with colour and light
My little piece of Murano
I'm not usually one for the "tourist trail" but recently we visited the tiny island of Murano near Venice and, as we got off the ferry, we were accidentally caught up in a large group of other tourists and herded into the workshop of a glass factory. We soon realised there was no escape and as our eyes became accustomed to the darkness, a very elderly gentleman, who must have been in his eighties, stepped out of the shadows. He acknowledged us with a nod and went to choose a long hollow metal pole from a large selection leaning up against the wall. He dipped the end of it into the blazing furnace to gather up a lump of liquid glass and then began to turn the pole in his hands. Dancing on light feet, like a man half his age, he began to rotate the pole, back and forth, back and forth, blowing down it for a moment to create the shape he wanted from the glowing molten orb, which expanded with his breath as he swung it about, but always moving and swaying as if to music only he could hear. As it grew he dipped it into trays of tiny coloured glass pieces which dissolved instantly, adding swirls of vibrant colour, then he sat for a moment and lifted his ancient pear wood tools out of a bucket of water. They hissed and smoked as he held them to the glass ball he had created, cooling and shaping it by hand now but still moving the pole to keep everything fluid before expertly blowing one last time to expand it into the exact size he wanted. He pulled out a short stem with callipers before clamping it delicately with another tool, marking it with a knife and breaking it off the pole in exactly the right place. Then he added another piece of molten glass to create the base and suddenly there it was, an exquisite Murano Vase dancing with colour and light. It had taken him less than five minutes from start to finish to make something utterly beguiling from a lump of molten glass. How thrilled I was to have unexpectedly seen this magical act of brilliant craftsmanship. We clapped and cheered and he gave us a small humble bow as the furnaces spat curls of orange fire, inviting him to do it again.
Hide and seek
So ... and this is quite a big thing ... I've changed my name. Well not really! I'm just being myself now. I was too scared to call myself Penny Little Ceramics when I set up my website at the beginning of this year so I chose 'Little Earth' to hide behind. I told myself it had 'Little' in it so I was half way there but if I had started out as me I might not have been brave enough to try Facebook or Instagram or write my blog. I was entering a whole new world and 'Little Earth' allowed me to experiment freely with my work, pictures and words, and to find my voice. But now I need to stand up and be counted amongst all the other artists, painters, sculptors, potters and creatives out there who are brave enough to say, 'this is me, and this is what I make' and so that means using my own name from now on. It's who I am after all, and porcelain is what I do. www.pennylittleceramics.com
Softness and weight
Living in South Devon with so many beautiful beaches to choose from, I have always been amazed by the vast differences in types of stone or pebble on each one. The beaches might only be a few miles apart but they all have their own signature. Bending down to pick up a pebble that then fits perfectly into my palm, or running thousands of tiny stones through my fingers, as I sit and chat with family and friends, has never lost its appeal; the colours, textures, shapes and sizes still delight. The wide, long and endlessly sandy beaches of my childhood in Yorkshire were washed by the freezing North Sea. Stones were thin on the ground there unless you were into collecting granite slabs - my brothers and I became experts in digging holes and burying each other up to the neck in sand instead, largely to keep warm, if I remember rightly. Later, the craggy dark stones on the Jurassic Coast took on a different and more urgent purpose - we never considered their shape or size or beauty, in fact we never gave them a second glance, we cracked them open mindlessly hoping they would share their hidden secrets with us. Then, one summer on the island of Ithaka in Greece when my own children were small, we stumbled upon a tiny beach covered in large, perfectly round, snowy white pebbles rubbed smooth by the Ionian Sea. I found them exquisitely beautiful and I have never forgotten the way they felt in my hands, a strange combination of softness and weight. I'm sure that if we could have seen inside them they would have been full of gold.
Face to face
I love very old family photographs and I'm always on the lookout for individual characteristics that I might see in my own family; the particular tilt of my grandfather's head that I see in my son or the way my great grandmother's hands rest in her lap like mine do. These personal attributes link all of us together across the generations. But old photographic portraits can only tell part of a story, they cannot convey the shape or size of a person or the sense of them as they stood on the earth. Last year I signed up for a course to learn how to make portraits out of clay. It was run by the brilliant Portrait Sculptor, Luke Shepherd, and I was amazed at the process. Luke is immensely skilled and we all learned incredibly quickly that it is a huge undertaking to create a head that is even remotely accurate. The key is to measure, measure and measure again and not to be too precious about building up the clay - the fine tuning can come later. When we arrived for the course on the Friday evening there was nothing in the room except six stands - one for each of us - and, piled dauntingly on a table in the corner, 10 large plastic bags full of white stoneware clay. When we left on the Sunday afternoon the bags of clay were empty and in their place were six heads; all slightly different interpretations of our young male model, but all beautiful, and all capturing the essence of him far more interestingly than a photograph ever could. The whole process felt ancient and important to me and I felt very moved and honoured to have had this experience; to have had the opportunity to create a portrait of a person in clay! How wonderful is that?