While i promised myself that i'd get back to work on finishing Part 2 of the Potter Heroes , it became necessary to take a bit of a detour, and, with all due respect to Arlo Guthrie, get out of town on a motorcyyy.......cle
last weekend.
We had been invited out to Lafayette, Louisiana, this past weekend by my friend John Gargano. John is the ceramics professor at the University of Louisiana Lafayette (ULALA for short, or.."Ooooh La La"), a terrific sculptor, musician, and all around good guy who joined me in Maine this past summer for an Artists Invite Artists session at the Watershed Center for Ceramic Arts. He and his wife, Holly, were hosting a Halloween party featuring his band, The Cones of Uncertainty, and a big pot of Holly's Mom's gumbo.
Lafayette is a 2 1/2 hour drive due east of New Orleans, if you take Interstate 10, and the decision to go was a no- brainer: "Hmmm..get out of the city, ....rock out to some Bauhaus and Misfits covers (as well as the Ghostbuster's theme song) from a friend's band, ...AND get to eat food cooked in a big black pot?!"......What could possibly make this any better? Well, they for starters, they played "Godzilla" by the B.O.C. Even better?
Motorcycle.
I don't own many things, let alone many nice things. I've always thought it to be a bit ironic that, as a maker of objects, i had become a person with very little "stuff". (Actually, this is a topic that i'd really be interested in discussing with some other potters sometime) While i'd partly, and most pretentiously, like to attribute this to some philosophical renunciation of material possessions, that would be a lie. It's mostly due to the fact that i've never made too much money and the things that i really want tend to be ...well, ...very expensive.
Let's be real: the cool stuff (which you want) usually costs more. Yes, you could be reading this on any number of affordable PC laptops but, chances are, you're not. We're (meaning: You and I) are both sitting in front of a Mac of some sort. I like using them, they're generally well made, and they look good. And, yeah, admit it, ..they're cool. You also could be drinking your coffee out of that Walmart Christmas mug with your name on it ($12) or a hand made cup from one of any number of studio potters in the world (for, say, $40)....Given the choice, take the hand made cup. It will look better, it will feel better in your hand, and if, nothing else, it will have more "soul".
...and, while it shouldn't ever be your primary consideration when purchasing hand made pottery, .. you'll certainly be able to out-cool even the most angst- ridden, hipster Starbucks barista if you bring your Lorna Meaden or Linda Christianson mug with you when you order your latte'.
For the past 2 years, I have been spending (read: wasting) time (and money) with a 1975 BMW R90/6 motorcycle. It's not the fastest, or best handling, or badassed- est(?) motorcycle in the world, but it's black with a white pinstripe and BMW hard touring bags on each side. Aside from the fact it's a large machine that makes me look shorter than I already am , i think it's pretty cool and it suits me well. Also, the BMW is renowned for its almost indestructible reliability which is perfect for someone like myself, with little to no mechanical skills. I firmly believe that it's not that i couldn't fix something if it broke, i just wouldn't have the faintest idea how to diagnose the problem:
(Step 1: Turn off bike -which the Universe has probably done for you since, after all, something is broken. Step 2: Swear loudly and kick things. Step 3: Drink a beer. Step 4: Throw tool.).....Repeat.
This machine has also, and almost single handedly, saved my relationship on more than one occasion. Simply put, I become a better, more compassionate human being at 60mph on a country two lane highway with a passenger on the back. It's hard to stay mad at one another over a simple misunderstanding or trivial spat when your senses are being overwhelmed with the sights, sounds and smells of the surroundings. The sensory input is spread like butter- cream frosting over the underlying, but ever present, notion of your own mortality. Even after the road has wrapped you in a daydream, the little reminders that you're always, at that moment, on a motorcycle, are very clear. Often this comes in the form of some large bug who, unwisely, decides to change course mid- flight, directly into your face. Or, in New Orleans...a pothole large enough to swallow a small Volkswagen.
And there's no talking. At least, not much of it, anyway, save for an occasional tap on the knee or a point and shout at a particularly fat cow. This has become one of my favorite parts and it's a very unique way to experience the unexplored with a fellow passenger. In a car, sometimes things are missed because we're too busy chatting or foolin' with the radio or iPod. And then, when you do pass something beautiful or interesting, you're inclined to point it out or talk about it...in a sense, change the experience and reframe it within the context of verbal communication. Not that that's such a bad thing, in and of itself, but it does alter the experience. On the back of a bike, your forced to be reflective. You have little other choice. It's kind of beautiful to know that the other person is seeing the exact same thing that you are, smelling the same hint of cut lawn or magnolia, feeling a change in the temperature, ...at the same time, ...and that you can experience this together without words getting in the way of personal interpretation. Everything suddenly becomes very real.
Riders in the South (much more so than in the North) wave at each other from across the highway as they pass, which I like. And we've become pretty used to other people in cars pulling up next to us and mouthing, "nice bike" through the window. There's usually at least one other rider who wants to stop and talk motorcycles (which i know very little about) at every gas station or bar, but it's usually concerning the year and model, or something easy that I can pretend to understand for a few minutes. While this camaraderie is pleasant, it reveals a side of my true nature, for better or worse.
Simply put:
1). I bought this machine because I like to be by myself. Or with another person who i really like, and trust, and don't feel uncomfortable having their hands on my waist for long periods of time.
2). I find that I like to be in control of a given situation, at least, to the best of my ability. If you happen to be one of those people on an airplane who sits, jaw clenched, with one hand on your plastic cup of scotch and the other on the armrest, knowing that if...for just one second..you relax from willing the plane to stay in the air with your own mind...........If you have a general distrust of (or contempt for) everyone around you because you secretly believe that they can, at any time be capable and probably will (.... any second now),...do something stupid that could hurt or kill you. .....I'd be happy to ride with you.
3). And, the weird one is, while I own a motorcycle, I have little interest in other people's motorcycles, unless they happen to be like mine (or some other interesting, probably European, make). I imagine it's like if I had a child, I would probably only really like my own kid, and not really like or care too much about what cute stuff your kid is doing (provided that you're all safe and happy, of course). Sure, we can talk about them from time to time as we strive to find a common bond during soccer practice or something, but....don't Facebook me every time they lose a tooth.
Self centered? Big time, for sure. Immature? Possibly (definitely). True?....Well, some of the time. Not always.
We decide to avoid Interstate 10, both there and back, instead dipping south on US90, formerly the only major route connecting east to west in Louisiana. This is a much more beautiful and relaxing ride, a two lane divided highway through the bayou country of southern Louisiana. On each side, the cypress knees stretch out of the swamp and the golden algae covers the waterways and inlets only accessible by small, flat bottomed boats. I like to think that there are alligators hiding in the mud just below the surface, and there probably are. We've been riding for an hour and a half and the thought of alligator, as in, alligator sausage, makes me hungry, but there's no place to stop and the places we do see are closed on Sunday, as it's the day of the Lord and all. A 2 1/2 hour drive can easily be turned into a 5 hour ride if your careful to avoid main roads. No matter, we've got gumbo in our future.
Crossing from water to land, we pass through cattle fields and into the sugar cane. Miles and miles of sugar cane, broken up by the occasional Antebellum Southern plantation home and signs for the Shrimp and Petroleum Festival. You know you're in Cajun country now, for sure. Originally, we had intended to pass through the town of Catahoula, but got comfortably lost and ended up back where we started on 86. That's fine with me. I mostly wanted to visit because I like the word "catahoula", and i like the dog (catahoula), and i like the fact that Louisiana has a "state dog" (catahoula). Instead, the town of Franklin, Louisiana, presents a welcome alternative. With a canopy of huge live oaks draped in Spanish moss over the main street, Franklin looks like a Sunday Southern town, complete with the smell of frying chicken. It sounds cliche',... but i'm leaving it in because it's the truth.
Tomorrow, back to ceramics. With the holidays coming, this is a good time of year to make pots.
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