I didn’t feel comfortable calling myself an artist until I was 40. Partially because I was shocked by the number of people that did call themselves that—even though they weren’t. I had a colorful but limited early life, with no idea that people chose art as a life’s work or god forbid studied it in school. But even when I look back now, I know I was always an artist. I just didn’t realize it.
I was visually stimulated by color and pattern as a child, enough for me to be declared “extremely odd” by my small town Oklahoma family (a sentiment that holds to this day). This love of visuals played out in an obvious way as a young adult. There wasn’t enough outrageous fashion in the world for me. It was a drug. At first I was influenced by the funky colors and patterns of the 1950s, and then it was the visual and social revolution of the 60s that formed my aesthetic sensibilities. I have vivid memories of discovering Ken Price and Ron Nagel. I recall initially finding Adrian Saxe’s work ridiculous and overworked. Then at some point he became one of my ceramic idols too. My aesthetic is a living thing, something that is always growing and changing, just as my work does.
I am a color whore. It’s what makes me who I am as an artist.
You might think I would have become a painter. But clay is a seductive Svengali. It entices you and you don’t want to leave it. I found ceramics during a time in my life when I wasn’t sure where I was headed. I had left the fashion industry, left an apartment in San Francisco, and returned to Houston’s humidity. In just a matter of weeks, I was so involved with the clay I couldn’t leave the studio. I went early in the morning and stayed until late at night. I thought about it when I wasn’t there. It was an affair that seemed to stick. I had arrived only knowing round, taupe-colored functional objects, but there I discovered a world full colors, angles, and stories. I worked very hard to make things that were really mine, unlike anything else. I still remember opening that kiln and seeing something I was really proud of the first time. That was 38 years ago.
Like all art, sometimes it’s really hard. When you start getting to the end of one body of work and making that transition to the next, you can feel lost at sea. But then you realize it’s all part of the practice. Having confidence in knowing that, although you might not be there yet, you are on the way. Allowing yourself to navigate and explore a new path is what gets you there. Then the real question presents itself: Where’s there, and do I really want to get there, and what happens when I get there? But shhhh, don’t tell anyone: THERE doesn’t exist.