Thank You for Your Feedback: taking a shit for a walk
Laurie,
Nobody gives a fuck how making pots makes you feel.
Your pots are shit.
Simon
Dear Simon,
After months of fishing I’ve finally got a bite.
Although I enjoyed your spirited rebuttal to my earlier response* I must point out a tiny flaw in your otherwise powerful supposition. I give a fuck. Me. The potter known as Laurie Steer cares about how potting makes him feel. It may be true that nobody else shares this sentiment but that's not really my problem. I’ve always been a bit of an outlier. Not in a cool James Dean way but more of a fox in the bins. I should thank you really. It’s quite good to be put on the spot and have to defend my position without reverting to a slanging match, which I’d ordinarily welcome. I acknowledge that I’m standing on a teetering, fragile collection of my own biases rather than any universal high ground. So I welcome your critique and the opportunity to test my footing.
‘Feeling’ falls into the unscientific camp of consciousness. The unmeasurable other. The flaky, fruity stuff of religion and fairies. ‘Feelings’ are like an opinion piece in a science journal. Frowned upon by sceptics and middle aged men who still live with their mums. But I’m a believer. Too dumb to understand the details but smart enough to enjoy the benefits. I accept that my personal creative fulfilment may not result in anything of artistic merit in the eyes of others but them’s the breaks. I admit to being a first class masturbator in my pursuit of life's intangible pleasures. For me clay is a conduit to a broader, holistic explanation of life. It’s a finger pointing at the moon but not the moon itself. Can you dig it?
Simon, when you said my pots were shit, it really broke the matrix. I felt waves of euphoria. I belly laughed so hard that I had to catch a fart for fear of a breakthrough. It’s a good cracking rant. You haven't been very objective in your criticism, but that's ok. I prefer a strong, firm position and I love that you have an opinion. You may be startled to learn that not only do I have feelings but that you, my newest pen pal, are the latest spark in the tinder. The ignition point of a newborn feeling bursting into life. So here we are. Two huggy feely types rubbing together. You feel like my pots are shit and I feel grateful for your engagement.
In reality many of my pots are shit. I accept it. I made one just yesterday that was pure faeces. I had too many other things on and was trying to whip something out between jobs. I had no time, no tea, no music and a mind full of boring, real life distractions. I wasn't feeling it. Fortunately, I could recognise the stench and its causation, so instead of plummeting into despair, I was just a bit irritable for five minutes. Writing these letters really helps me understand what I think I know. They force me to articulate strategies for success that I already have but can’t seem to access myself until I’ve shared them with others. I couldn't do it without you, Simon. You're Goose in my own personal Top Gun. So thank you and… pity about the ending.
Logic and aesthetics have their ceilings and I have a taste for the blue sky ephemeral. When I work with clay, I’m not simply using what I know to make something. I’m using making to discover what I don’t yet understand. The pot takes shape, but so does my thinking. I’d argue that clay has an intelligence to it, or more likely, the ability to activate alternative streams of reasoning. I'm not necessarily saying that clay has a mind, more that my mind + clay increases my comprehension. Clay lets me investigate ideas before I can articulate them without being bound to a predetermined outcome. Feeling my way through making develops both the pot and my mind. It is non verbal. Language might arrive afterwards or not at all. I can’t tell what clay does for others. But I can tell what it does for me, and perhaps others will recognise something of themselves in that.
XL
*This letter continues my correspondence with Simon following last week’s The Fizz #22: I Have Feelings.
Image: Still from Top Gun. 1986