Summer Storms

This morning we sat in the hot tub at sunrise, watching billowy clouds rise up in the distance as rays of sunlight kissed their marshmallow tops. I was overcome with a need to touch them, so I said, “Lets go fly,” and we headed to the hangar. As Alec got the plane out, the clouds were draping the western horizon in a grey gauze. We took off but only flew for a few minutes. From the air we could see that the storm was moving in fast, and agreed that it looked ominous.

Ominous comes from the Latin word "omen," a sign or portent. Usually it’s used in a negative context, but I don’t always experience it that way. All morning I felt like the sky was trying to talk to me. Something that I needed was rising up. I can’t explain with words what the prairie feels like when the green earth whispers to the vitalizing sky, and it quivers and responds.

And how can I explain how it feels when the storm moves in, skies turning a dark gunmetal grey in the distance but the sun still shining on emerald fields? What can you do when you’re overwhelmed by it all? You stand out there in the open air, waiting for it, somewhere in your soul secretly begging for annihilation. Then the gust front hits at 40 miles an hour, taking your breath away as you run for cover from the rain and hail, laughing and crying at the same time.

There are no words, only emotions that have to be evoked through pure pigments and brush strokes. I don’t know any other way to express this. And so, this summer I’ll come back to painting my prairie skyscapes, because they’ve once again filled me up to bursting and I’m called to translate what they are saying to me.

Feral Flowers

I love photographing the late spring flowers that are abundant here. Sometimes they’re the only thing left where old farmhouses used to stand. The women who planted these flowers lived here long ago, raising families and doing backbreaking work in an often extreme environment.

The flowers are their legacies, still blooming years after they grew old and died, after the families moved away and the farmsteads turned to dust.

Wild Clay

I’ve been on a mission to learn from the clay that I find on our farm. When we dig anywhere here, we often run into deposits of yellow clay. I know nothing about its properties but am fascinated by the possibilities. Last year, I started by making a few small testers and added them to other pots I was firing in my kiln. The low fire (cone 04) resulted in the clay turning red. The next firing was at cone 1, and it turned a dark brown and became shiny. At cone 4 it melted into a nasty looking puddle.

The clay felt gritty and was difficult to work with, cracking if it was too dry and becoming wobbly and almost unworkable when I added water. I was very surprised to find that it behaved beautifully on the wheel when I gave it a try last week. I’ve made a few small pieces so far and plan on going bigger, pushing to see what the clay’s thresholds are.

Last winter, on my travels, I hiked to a mica mine in Colorado. I crumbled some of the mica and added it to the clay body. The shiny flakes are beautiful, especially against the black markings from the fire. I’ve also crushed and added some eggshells from our chickens, hoping that the calcium adds a little more stability to the clay and if nothing else, some texture.

I recently pit fired a few small pieces by digging a hole and lining it with rocks in our campfire ring. The pots barely began to vitrify, but they did become solid. The carbon from the wood added beautiful black markings. The little pots held up well to the thermal shock of the unregulated temps of the fire. I’ve decided to not take chances with the larger, more delicate thrown pieces which I’ll fire in the kiln. (Well, who am I kidding, of course I’ll throw one into the fire to see what happens. I can’t help it.)

adding mica to the clay

pit firing small pots

clay on the wheel with mica and eggshell inclusions

beautiful natural markings