Just got the cash for my help last week: 200 clams for 20 hours. I tried to work hard and smart both but I have a big twinge in my low back, and my shoulder is off. I was a beast of burden, was it worth it? no. (I framed in skylights tho!) But it does illustrate my shifting relationship to money. Soon after college I moved to the woods of mostly rural minnesota and tried my hand at being a studio potter. my rent was 125/mo, because there was no incoming water, no insulation, no easy heating. I accepted money from my parents for a few months to get started and then I didn't anymore, finding instead a job first in a cabinetry shop and then as a carpenter. For a variety of reasons, I didn't want their money. I needed to see my spine, know what I could do alone. Those became the best three years of my life. I left MN not knowing the full breath of all my accomplishments or the depth of my love. But they were not years characterized by gallery-hopping, expensive travel, or partying with other young people in or out of the arts/ crafts scene. sixty-hour weeks were common. and then there was the winter wood to split.
I worked through grad school, of course. Utah is not as generous to its grads as many others, so my parents paid the room and board if not tuition. And I worked as best I could when I got here. 11/hour doing teck work at a community college, 11 dollars worth of gas to drive each day. easier work than roofing, but where are we going, kids? it's not that helping the ceramics department at a sweet community college is beneath me or some shit, it's this: I was a lively thirty, thoroughly educated, in a vibrant city, and ready to get a move on. I talk to friends whose parents do not have the ability to help them get established the way mine do, and they don't hold it against me. Why should I hold it against myself to still keep a low overhead but accept the aide so lovingly given? a sense of hyper-equality? the remaining shackles of a socialized money-based measurement of worth? because my Pop is such a successful entrepreneur, that I too should be able to live up to his example? or is it more oblique: in a twisted hypocrisy, I labor to create and propagate objects that fit into lifestyles only the affluent can maintain in this strained economy/cultural mentality. I refuse this paradigm! I refuse to think that my work is relegated to luxury! would it have helped to have moved to Holland when I was still semi-portable? who knows, now I must doggedly create the world I have in my dreams, and possibly die a frustrated visionary.
look at what Rachel Maddow says about it
my battery is dying, I know this post was a frustrated ramble, I'm going to go make pots now. I don't know what else to do with myself. bye.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
high summer
with the garden tomatoes, fresh mozzarela and basil. yumma!
so this is what's going on in my little world:
I was raised to be a refined lady. But I prefer dirt. So for a while there was some conflict. A friend pointed out that I can act the part in a surprising variety of social situations. That's a step up from many years of reshaping myself to belong somewhere. That might mislead; lets say many years of exploring different facets of my personality. (Assuming there is a core Self, which is a notion I can neither shake nor fathom). Well, so there I am writing informal essays about sustainability, and here I am helping the roofers. Both of these disparate worlds are comfortable now, and I'm figuring out how they inform each other. through the writing process. so here you go. this has not much to do with pots. It has to do with assumptions because it all got twisted one afternoon, and then straightened out again.
One morning, two weeks after I thought it would happen, I woke up to this. Soon after, this was my garden:
wa- BAM! I knew what to expect in terms of mess. the big unknown was the nature of the crew- I would be joining them for this job and I was a little nervous about it. The two gentlemen I had worked with in Minnesota were exceptional, I knew I had been spoiled by their respect. But respect is earned, and I got to work. On the ground, slogging bins with me, was an attractive young man who sort of smiled once or twice. Cutting plywood and laughing easily was a grizzled and snaggletoothed older man with looong grey hair. Up above was an agile ripped little monkey of a dude who handled full sheets of plywood like some people handle flying pizza dough. He had a sort of vocal tag, "brrrra-ta-TA!" that he's call out every once in a while, mixed in with the jokes flying around with similar agility. He had a side-kick, much slower on the uptake, but kind to me also. And then the boss, another gnarl-knuckled grandpa who moves slowly and deliberately, careful in his decisions and very considerate in his manner. The back of his neck was oddly pale from where he had just recently cut the blond braid that he had worn for twenty years. Probably when it got to be 108 degrees recently and even I gave up and just lay in a hammock (detangling dread-locks but that's another hair story). Later, we were joined by the contractor's son, described as flakey. Small and energetic, with a very large red truck with tinted windows and a monogrammed tires. To his credit, he did not chafe when I called it "fancy-ass", leaning as I was upon my own dear beater (perhaps more to support him than me). So that's the crew, and me. motley.
Perhaps it's excessive to compare it to ballet, but there were moments when I was moved by the fluidity of motion that is achieved when it is repeated so many times that the body becomes tuned to the subtle shifts of weight that occur when, say, a 2x6 spins on the shoulder, or a sheet of ply balances in the crook of a hammer as it is set into place. In the shorthand of terminology and focus, quick work was made of a difficult task. Without word or eye contact, one dancer transfers a sail-shaped weight, another sallies through with a wheelbarrow, another launches a 2x6 ten feet away to the perfect spot, another hoists a bin that must have been fourty pounds over his head and onto his shoulder. again. I found my stride within it very easily, mostly listened to the fish tales at lunch break, it was all good. On the fourth day, they tore off the largest section of my landlady Susan's roof. there were two layers of shingles and three layers of composite and this is what it looked like when half of it had already been cleaned up:
At this point, we had a lunch break. I ate in the garden and quietly joined the others after a while. A question came up about a ho, and I swear I heard a joke in the corner about how she was waiting in the garage. (this being where I live). and I was not necessarily pretending to be asleep, but I was resting with my eyes closed, and I did not react, though I heard the side-kick snort a little. someone was talking on their phone and lost his train of thought. A silence fell over the group, the cell-phone conversation faltered and resumed, and a few moments later, we resumed work. I put on the noise-cancelling headphones and bent my head to the rest of the rubble. Yes, I know that some men can be grade A dickheads just like some women can become raving bitches. We are only human, after all. But what threw me off was to have another reminder of just how tenuous is the connection between my judgement of someone's basic character and their judgement of mine.. How amazing it is that we navigate this crazy world by leaping from one assumption to the next, constantly, one shifting log, one sinking ship, one fickle friend, a flick of the eye, one hug, two words, an omitted fact, a house of cards- how can we build trust at all? But we do. We are pack animals, we need each other.
So I thought about it, eyes smarting at the injustice, I wondered what to do, I imagined confronting him, oh the way my words would cut! and then I realized that the best thing would be simply to ask him why, and then I realized that I was going to let it go. The rest of the guys were being nice to me, extra-nice, it seemed. Fine, in two hours and three days they'd be gone, and everything would be quiet again. and then at the dwindling end of the day I asked the gentle old dude if I had heard right and he had no idea to what I was referring, walked off mumbling about how he didn't go in for that stuff. A minute later the boss comes to me and said he was referring to a pneumatic tool that helps remove shingles, and that if anyone on the job were indecent in that way, they'd be fired immediately. I was relieved. But between you and me, it didn't answer the question. Was I just stoned and misheard a joke? Or did I hear right, and through well-meaning but misplaced explanation, all offense was ironed out and we'll just finish your roof now, m'am, thanks for the help, how badly do you want the extra cash? The ballet is now suddenly some fucked-up mating dance between a monkey and a crazy bird. I'm going to know what I don't know, politely ignore him for the remaining day of this job, and decline the numerous job offers.
I took the opportunity to frame in some sunlight: these windows are nothing short of magic in the space!
(and then I got to clean my room with a leaf-blower!)
so this is what's going on in my little world:
I was raised to be a refined lady. But I prefer dirt. So for a while there was some conflict. A friend pointed out that I can act the part in a surprising variety of social situations. That's a step up from many years of reshaping myself to belong somewhere. That might mislead; lets say many years of exploring different facets of my personality. (Assuming there is a core Self, which is a notion I can neither shake nor fathom). Well, so there I am writing informal essays about sustainability, and here I am helping the roofers. Both of these disparate worlds are comfortable now, and I'm figuring out how they inform each other. through the writing process. so here you go. this has not much to do with pots. It has to do with assumptions because it all got twisted one afternoon, and then straightened out again.
One morning, two weeks after I thought it would happen, I woke up to this. Soon after, this was my garden:
wa- BAM! I knew what to expect in terms of mess. the big unknown was the nature of the crew- I would be joining them for this job and I was a little nervous about it. The two gentlemen I had worked with in Minnesota were exceptional, I knew I had been spoiled by their respect. But respect is earned, and I got to work. On the ground, slogging bins with me, was an attractive young man who sort of smiled once or twice. Cutting plywood and laughing easily was a grizzled and snaggletoothed older man with looong grey hair. Up above was an agile ripped little monkey of a dude who handled full sheets of plywood like some people handle flying pizza dough. He had a sort of vocal tag, "brrrra-ta-TA!" that he's call out every once in a while, mixed in with the jokes flying around with similar agility. He had a side-kick, much slower on the uptake, but kind to me also. And then the boss, another gnarl-knuckled grandpa who moves slowly and deliberately, careful in his decisions and very considerate in his manner. The back of his neck was oddly pale from where he had just recently cut the blond braid that he had worn for twenty years. Probably when it got to be 108 degrees recently and even I gave up and just lay in a hammock (detangling dread-locks but that's another hair story). Later, we were joined by the contractor's son, described as flakey. Small and energetic, with a very large red truck with tinted windows and a monogrammed tires. To his credit, he did not chafe when I called it "fancy-ass", leaning as I was upon my own dear beater (perhaps more to support him than me). So that's the crew, and me. motley.Perhaps it's excessive to compare it to ballet, but there were moments when I was moved by the fluidity of motion that is achieved when it is repeated so many times that the body becomes tuned to the subtle shifts of weight that occur when, say, a 2x6 spins on the shoulder, or a sheet of ply balances in the crook of a hammer as it is set into place. In the shorthand of terminology and focus, quick work was made of a difficult task. Without word or eye contact, one dancer transfers a sail-shaped weight, another sallies through with a wheelbarrow, another launches a 2x6 ten feet away to the perfect spot, another hoists a bin that must have been fourty pounds over his head and onto his shoulder. again. I found my stride within it very easily, mostly listened to the fish tales at lunch break, it was all good. On the fourth day, they tore off the largest section of my landlady Susan's roof. there were two layers of shingles and three layers of composite and this is what it looked like when half of it had already been cleaned up:
At this point, we had a lunch break. I ate in the garden and quietly joined the others after a while. A question came up about a ho, and I swear I heard a joke in the corner about how she was waiting in the garage. (this being where I live). and I was not necessarily pretending to be asleep, but I was resting with my eyes closed, and I did not react, though I heard the side-kick snort a little. someone was talking on their phone and lost his train of thought. A silence fell over the group, the cell-phone conversation faltered and resumed, and a few moments later, we resumed work. I put on the noise-cancelling headphones and bent my head to the rest of the rubble. Yes, I know that some men can be grade A dickheads just like some women can become raving bitches. We are only human, after all. But what threw me off was to have another reminder of just how tenuous is the connection between my judgement of someone's basic character and their judgement of mine.. How amazing it is that we navigate this crazy world by leaping from one assumption to the next, constantly, one shifting log, one sinking ship, one fickle friend, a flick of the eye, one hug, two words, an omitted fact, a house of cards- how can we build trust at all? But we do. We are pack animals, we need each other.
So I thought about it, eyes smarting at the injustice, I wondered what to do, I imagined confronting him, oh the way my words would cut! and then I realized that the best thing would be simply to ask him why, and then I realized that I was going to let it go. The rest of the guys were being nice to me, extra-nice, it seemed. Fine, in two hours and three days they'd be gone, and everything would be quiet again. and then at the dwindling end of the day I asked the gentle old dude if I had heard right and he had no idea to what I was referring, walked off mumbling about how he didn't go in for that stuff. A minute later the boss comes to me and said he was referring to a pneumatic tool that helps remove shingles, and that if anyone on the job were indecent in that way, they'd be fired immediately. I was relieved. But between you and me, it didn't answer the question. Was I just stoned and misheard a joke? Or did I hear right, and through well-meaning but misplaced explanation, all offense was ironed out and we'll just finish your roof now, m'am, thanks for the help, how badly do you want the extra cash? The ballet is now suddenly some fucked-up mating dance between a monkey and a crazy bird. I'm going to know what I don't know, politely ignore him for the remaining day of this job, and decline the numerous job offers.
I took the opportunity to frame in some sunlight: these windows are nothing short of magic in the space!
(and then I got to clean my room with a leaf-blower!)
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