High school ceramics class. Ceramics II. We were asked to make some goals for the class. One of the things I wrote was that I wanted to develop a sense of style. What was I thinking?

At the time, I think that I thought style was something one adopted, like the way one dresses. Some kids dressed preppy, some sporty, some goth, some skater, and it goes on. (Apparently I dress like Colorado, these days.)

I’m not sure I found any style back then, but I did find a surface texture that I enjoyed. At the time, I didn’t realize that working from models or photos wasn’t cheating; I used my memory of the proportions of a face. I don’t remember what the assignment was, but I remember that the teacher asked if it was a self-portrait. I know it wasn’t – but I said that it was because I didn’t know how to explain what I’d made. Looking back, I was making something that described what I wished I was, what I wanted to be. Part of the piece broke on its way to a show of high school work. I was going to break it today; it’s too thick, it’s heavy, and I don’t want to move yet-another-piece-of-fired-clay. Even damaged, I think I’d regret breaking it. One more piece, spared the hammer. Sigh. One more piece to pack.

Another piece spared the hammer. I know I was still obsessed with flight, at the time. Maybe I’d just read Richard Bach’s book “One,” as well. I used to want to be a pilot. My senior year of high school, I did a science fair project in which I investigated how changing the center of gravity affected the flight characteristics of a lightweight aircraft. (I used a wood-and-foam glider, with rubber band propeller).

I made a mountain, too. I don’t remember what the assignment might have been. There were stairs winding up the mountain, but nobody at the top. It was a reference to the guru at the top of the mountain (like in the comic strip B.C.)… and my conclusion that there wasn’t one. No guru, no answers. Pretty heavy for a high school kid. That piece resides on my parents’ mantle. It has a similar surface treatment, with the ridges.

(Not my photo.)

Looking at them, I think of ripples in beach sand. The other day I was at the beach, wading and looking at the waves, sand ridges, the light on and through the water. (Inland Illinois is not a land of lakes, so I’m getting it while I can.) There are a bunch of sorts of sand ripples, different profiles, sizes, patterns. The ripples reminded me of fingerprints, too. There were bits of sandbar; the water was low (it does happen, even on Lake Michigan), with a different pattern. I didn’t have my camera. I thought of bringing back big sheets of paper, maybe 30×40, of pulling prints from the sand, somehow. I haven’t worked with that texture in more than ten years. Funny that it comes to mind now.

(Again, not my photo.)

It seems appropriate to conclude with a few reflections on where I am now. I think style is more a matter of exploration than adoption. I think I still want to be the person in the sculpture; I’m closer now than I was then. I no longer want to be a pilot. I am thankful to be a sailor. I suspect I was right about the guru. And I do love the water.

(A photo at Montrose Beach, Chicago. October, 2009.)