Clay Pottery Quotes

I thought clay must feel happy in the good potter's hand.

...failure with clay was more complete and more spectacular than with other forms of art. You are subject to the elements... Any one of the old four - earth, air, fire, water - can betray you and melt, or burst, or shatter - months of work into dust and ashes and spitting steam. You need to be a precise scientist, and you need to know how to play with what chance will do to your lovingly constructed surfaces in the heat of the kiln.

Once he told me that the hard part is finding the clay, the raw material of the story. It takes work to harvest clay. You have to go to a stream and grab a bucket of mud, mix it with water, sift out the rougher sediment, pour off the water, allow the moisture to seep through a cloth for days. That’s your first draft. After that you get to flop the clay onto the pottery wheel and turn it into something better than mud, hopefully something both useful and beautiful. That’s revision. Whether you’re writing a song or a story, you have to shape it and reshape it, scrap it and start over, always working it as close as it can get to the thing it wants to become. But first you need that muddy lump, the first draft.

But God is never limited by our limitations. In fact, he enjoys putting his great power into ordinary containers. The Bible says, “We are like clay jars in which this treasure is stored. The real power comes from God and not from us.”5 Like common pottery, we are fragile and flawed and break easily.

Later, Maester Luwin built a little pottery boy and dressed him in Bran’s clothes and flung him off the wall into the yard below, to demonstrate what would happen to Bran if he fell. That had been fun, but afterward Bran just looked at the maester and said, “I’m not made of clay. And anyhow, I never fall.

Another is pottery, which may have arisen from observations of the behavior of clay, a very widespread natural material, when dried or heated. Pottery appeared in Japan around 14,000 years ago, in the Fertile Crescent and China by around 10,000 years ago, and in Amazonia, Africa’s Sahel zone, the U.S. Southeast, and Mexico thereafter.

Writing a novel is like pottery. Your initial draft of your story is like a lump of clay. Editing is like shaping that piece of clay into something interesting and beautiful.

Centering, however, is easier said than done. This I learned from a ceramics class I once took. The teacher made throwing a pot look easy, but the thing is, it takes lots of precision and skill. You slam the ball of clay down in the absolute center of the pottery wheel, and with steady hands you push your thumb into the middle of it, spreading it wider a fraction of an inch at a time. But every single time I tried to do it, I only got so far before my pot warped out of balance, and every attempt to fix it just made it worse, until the lip shredded, the sides collapsed, and I was left with what the teacher called “a mystery ashtray,” which got hurled back into the clay bucket. So what happens when your universe begins to get off balance, and you don’t have any experience with bringing it back to center? All you can do is fight a losing battle, waiting for those walls to collapse, and your life to become one huge mystery ashtray.

Weak sunlight slanted across the table, flecked with glimmering, floating dust motes, some of them swirling around the light blue petals. Confusion spread through her as she saw the inflorescence of glowing blooms. The broad ovoid leaves were clan and glossy, and the roots anchored among the crushed clay pottery shards had been carefully trimmed and kept damped. The Blue Vanda hadn't sickened in Winterborne's care... it had thrived. Helen leaned over the orchid, touching the beautiful arc of its stem with a single fingertip. Shaking her head in wonder, she felt a tickle at the edge of her chin, and didn't realize it was a tear until she saw it drop onto one of the Vanda's leaves. "Oh, Mr. Winterborne," she whispered, and reached up to wipe at her wet cheeks. "Rhys. There's been a mistake.

How is Life Full of Choices? When we eat too much, we make a choice to be overweight. When we drink too much, we make a choice to have a headache the next day. If we drink and drive, we choose to risk being killed or killing someone in an accident. When we ill-treat people, we choose to be ill-treated in return. When we don’t care about other people, we choose not to be cared for by them. When we light up a cigarette, we choose to invite cancer. Choices have consequences. The most important thing to understand is that we are all free to the point of making choices. but, after we make a choice, the choice controls the chooser. We have no more choices. What is success? Series of positive choices is called success and series of negative choices is called failure. We have an equal opportunity to be unequal. The choice is ours. Life can be compared to a pottery maker who shapes clay in any form he wants. Similarly we can mould our lives into any shape we want.

Her eyes widened as she realized it was the potted Blue Vanda she had given him. The orchid he hadn’t wanted but had taken anyway. He had sent it back. Helen hurried to the orchid, wondering what condition it was in. Weak sunlight slanted across the table, flecked with glimmering, floating dust motes, some of them swirling around the light blue petals. Confusion spread through her as she saw the inflorescence of glowing blooms. The broad ovoid leaves were clean and glossy, and the roots anchored among the crushed clay pottery shards had been carefully trimmed and kept damp. The Blue Vanda hadn’t sickened in Winterborne’s care...it had thrived.

Why do we care about measurements at all? There are just three reasons. The first reason—and the focus of this book—is that we should care about a measurement because it informs key decisions. Second, a measurement might also be taken because it has its own market value (e.g., results of a consumer survey) and could be sold to other parties for a profit. Third, perhaps a measurement is simply meant to entertain or satisfy a curiosity (e.g., academic research about the evolution of clay pottery). But the methods we discuss in this decision-focused approach to measurement should be useful on those occasions, too. If a measurement is not informing your decisions, it could still be informing the decisions of others who are willing to pay for the information.

The figure, made by the woman standing in front of him, had not been manufactured by modifying—carving or shaping or polishing—a material that occurred naturally. It was made of ceramic, fired clay, and it was the first material ever created by human hand and human intelligence. The heating chamber was not a cooking oven, it was a kiln. And the first kiln ever devised was not invented for the purpose of making useful waterproof containers. Long before pottery, small ceramic sculptures were fired into impermeable hardness. The figures they had seen on the shelves resembled animals and humans, but the images of women—no men were made, only women—and other living creatures were not considered actual portrayals. They were symbols, metaphors, meant to represent more than they showed, to suggest an analogy, a spiritual similarity. They were art; art came before utility.

It is not enough to live here and now. Not enough for me, anyway. I need those imaginative leaps out of my own time frame and into other places - places where things were done differently. Reading has provided me with that, for the most part, but it is objects, things like these scraps of pottery, that have most keenly conjured up all those elsewheres - inaccessible but eerily available to the imagination. The past is irretrievable, but it lurks. It sends out tantalizing messages, coded signals in the form of a clay pipe stem, a smashed wine bottle. Two leaping fish from twelfth-century Cairo. I can't begin to understand what that time was like, or how the men who made them lived, but I can know that it all happened - that old Cairo existed, and a particular potter. To have the leaping fish sherd on my mantelpiece - and all those other sherds in the cake tin - expands my concept of time. There is a further dimension to memory; it is not just a private asset, but something vast, collective, resonant. And all because fragments of detritus survive, and I can consider them.

Does not the potter have the right to make out of the same lump of clay some pottery for noble purposes and some for common use?

This is why museums are so wonderful: walking around, observing mankind's joyride from slime to WiFi, you see incredible ironwork, inspirational pottery, fabulous vellums, and exquisite paintings, and - across these disciplines- tons of fruity historical humping. Men fucking men, men fucking women, men going down on women, women pleasuring themselves - it's all there. Every conceivable manifestation of human sexuality, in clay and stone and ocher and gold.

My lie was getting more and more elaborate. You didn’t just play with that kind of thing. You had to work it like a blob of clay on a pottery wheel, shaping and molding it gently until it turned into a vase or something in the end. You couldn’t just go and slap it around. If you did, the whole thing was likely to blow up in your face.

But who are you, O man, to talk back to God? "Shall what is formed say to him who formed it, 'Why did you make me like this?'" Does not the potter have the right to make out of the same lump of clay some pottery for noble purposes and some for common use?   What if God, choosing to show his wrath and make his power known, bore with great patience the objects of his wrath – prepared for destruction? What if he did this to make the riches of his glory known to the objects of his mercy, whom he prepared in advance for glory – even us, whom he also called, not only from the Jews but also from the Gentiles? (Romans 9:20-24)[28]

In December of 2007 human bones including skulls, which have been radiocarbon dated back to between 1304 and 1424, were found in a museum in Concepción, Chile. These skulls were originally discovered on Isla Mocha, which is located 25 miles off the south-central coast of Chile. Since some of them have definite telltale signs of being Polynesian, the strong suggestion is that there was a pre-Columbian interaction between the local Mapuche people and the Polynesian seafarers. This contact is further supported by forensic evidence found near the Chilean site of “El Arenal,” which is a sandy dune approximately 3 miles inland from the coast. Pottery found in Ecuador, predating the arrival of Columbus in America, have markings similar to pottery found on the southernmost island of Kyushu, Japan. Radiocarbon dating has determined the date of organics in the clay that survived the firing, or from food or liquids stored in the pottery, to be 4500 years old with a possible variance of 200 to 500 years, thus predating Columbus by a wide margin. There is no reason to doubt these findings, which indicate that Asians and Polynesians sailed to all parts of the Pacific Ocean, including the vast continents of North and South America that border it on its far eastern side. It was always assumed that Spaniards introduced Chickens to the new continent; however the chicken bones found at the site also dated back to this era, proving that it was the Polynesians that first brought this edible bird with them! The proof is conclusive…. America was discovered prior to Columbus!

Wilhelm Rau has compiled the Vedic references to pottery from the oldest strands of the Black Yajurveda and found that although the potter’s wheel was known, it was hand made pottery that was prescribed for the ritual sphere. This suggests to him that “the more primitive technique persisted in the ritual sphere while in secular life more advanced methods of potting had already been adopted.” Should this assumption be correct, “we can pin down the transition from hand-made to wheel-thrown pottery, as far as the Aryans are concerned, (down) to the earlier phases of Vedic times” (Rau 1974, 141).12 Of relevance to this line of argument is a verse from the Taittīrlya Samhitā (4, 5, 4), stating that what is turned on the wheel is Āsuric and what is made without the wheel is godly (e.g., Kuzmina 1983, 21). According to Rau’s philological investigations, the characteristic of this oldest pottery was that it was made of clay mixed with various materials, some of them organic, resulting in porous pots. These pots were poorly-fired and ranged in size from about 0.24 m to 1.0 m in diameter at the opening and from 0.24 m to 0.40 m in height. Furthermore, they showed a lack of plastic decoration and were unpainted (Rau 1974, 142). Of further relevance is the fact that firing was accomplished by the covered baking method between two layers of raw bricks in a simple open pit. In later times this was done with materials producing red color. Rau advises excavators to be “on the lookout for ceramics of this description among their finds” (142).

Do you know why that silly piece of pottery managed to survive?” Mariko asked. “Because you did not throw it hard enough.” “No.” She sighed. “In order for it to be hard enough to survive, it had to become strong. It had to be stepped on as clay. Shaped beneath the dutiful hand of a potter. And after all that, it had to live through a fire.” Raiden listened to her speak, his gaze piercing. Mariko continued. “You have lived through fire, Minamoto Raiden. You are stronger than you know. Everyone sees it but you.

Pottery. The Sumerians created the potter’s wheel and refined the art of creating air and watertight vessels made of clay.

Here was light, and flowers, and colours in profusion. There was a loom in the corner, and baskets of fine, thin thread in bright, bright hues. The woven coverlet on the bed, and the drapings on the open windows were unlike anything I had ever seen, woven in geometric patterns that somehow suggested fields of flowers beneath a blue sky. A wide pottery bowl held floating flowers and a slim silver fingerling swam about the stems and above the bright pebbles that floored it. I tried to imagine the pale cynical Fool in the midst of all this colour and art. I took a step further into the room, and saw something that moved my heart aside in my chest. A baby. That was what I took it for at first, and without thinking, I took the next two steps and knelt beside the basket that cradled it. But it was not a living child, but a doll, crafted with such incredible art that almost I expected to see the small chest move with breath. I reached a hand to the pale, delicate face, but dared not touch it. The curve of the brow, the closed eyelids, the faint rose that suffused the tiny cheeks, even the small hand that rested on top of the coverlets were more perfect that I supposed a made thing could be. Of what delicate clay it had been crafted, I could not guess, nor what hand had inked the tiny eyelashes that curled on the infant’s cheek. The tiny coverlet was embroidered all over with pansies, and the pillow was of satin. I don’t know how long I knelt there, as silent as if it were truly a sleeping babe. But eventually I rose, and backed out of the Fool’s room, and then drew the door silently closed behind me.” - Robin Hobb | Farseer Trilogy Book 1 | Assassin’s Apprentice Chapter Nineteen | Journey

Here was light, and flowers, and colours in profusion. There was a loom in the corner, and baskets of fine, thin thread in bright, bright hues. The woven coverlet on the bed, and the drapings on the open windows were unlike anything I had ever seen, woven in geometric patterns that somehow suggested fields of flowers beneath a blue sky. A wide pottery bowl held floating flowers and a slim silver fingerling swam about the stems and above the bright pebbles that floored it. I tried to imagine the pale cynical Fool in the midst of all this colour and art. I took a step further into the room, and saw something that moved my heart aside in my chest. A baby. That was what I took it for at first, and without thinking, I took the next two steps and knelt beside the basket that cradled it. But it was not a living child, but a doll, crafted with such incredible art that almost I expected to see the small chest move with breath. I reached a hand to the pale, delicate face, but dared not touch it. The curve of the brow, the closed eyelids, the faint rose that suffused the tiny cheeks, even the small hand that rested on top of the coverlets were more perfect that I supposed a made thing could be. Of what delicate clay it had been crafted, I could not guess, nor what hand had inked the tiny eyelashes that curled on the infant’s cheek. The tiny coverlet was embroidered all over with pansies, and the pillow was of satin. I don’t know how long I knelt there, as silent as if it were truly a sleeping babe. But eventually I rose, and backed out of the Fool’s room, and then drew the door silently closed behind me.” - Robin Hobb | Farseer Trilogy Book 1 | Assassin’s Apprentice Chapter Nineteen | Journey

God created His first human being-Adam-from clay! We are made from the earth and connected to it.

Like the clay that has been recycled and reclaimed, our lives have the capacity for change spiritually.

Just like the artist chooses the clay, God chose you specifically to do the purpose He has in mind for you.

Like the clay on the wheel, we must be willing to change, sometimes drastically, in order to remain centered in Christ.

Similar to the clay on the wheel, if we are not centered in God's truth, we will be "off-centered" Christians.

The potter must do the work, but the clay must be at a soft enough state to be receptive to it.

We are only human and clay is only clay.

God has given us such a unique relationship with Him that can be better understood through clay.

The clay doesn't know what temperature it needs to be fired to; that is the potter's job. We don't know what kinds of trials we need to undergo to become the person God wants us to be, but He does!

Without realizing it, they’re like clay telling the potter that they know more about pottery than he does and that they can form themselves into pots on their own (Is 29:16).

IT has been said that pottery is not a medium that can express any very significant concept; that the technical processes which necessarily follow the artist’s work blur his line and color, destroying fine differences and taking away from the immediacy of his touch; that it is at its best when it is anonymous form and color; that in “personal” ceramics gaiety, decorativeness, and fantasy can survive but not much else; and that quite apart from the limitations of size and surface the ceramic equivalent of a “Guernica” is unthinkable. And in this particular case it has also been said that in the course of years the dispersion of Picasso’s energy over some thousands of minor objects encouraged his facility and, by sapping his concentration, did lasting damage to his creative power. This seems to me to overstate the case: but although I love many of the Picasso vases, figurines, and dishes I have seen I think few people would place his ceramics on the same level as his drawing, painting, or sculpture. It may be that he did not intend to express more than in fact he did express: or it may be that Picasso was no more able to perform the impossible than another man—that neither he nor anyone else could do away with the inherent nature of baked clay. Yet even if one were to admit that pottery cannot rise much above gaiety, fantasy, and decoration (and there are Sung bottles by the thousand as evidence to the contrary, to say nothing of the Greek vases), what a range is there! Picasso certainly thought it wide enough, and he worked on and on, learning and innovating among the wheels, the various kilns, and the damp mounds of clay in the Ramiés’ Madoura pottery, taking little time off for anything except some studies of young Claude, a certain number of lithographs and illustrations, particularly for Reverdy’s Le Chant des Morts, and for Góngora. He had always valued Góngora and this selection

For this was Jingdezhen, porcelain capital of China, where the pottery made from local clay was shaped, painted, glazed, and fired in the town’s kilns—of which, if one counted even the smallest, there were more than nine thousand. The potters of Jingdezhen had been making porcelain since the Han dynasty, more than fifteen hundred years ago. There were many varieties, but the most famous was the blue and white.

But who are you, O man, to talk back to God? "Shall what is formed say to him who formed it, 'Why did you make me like this?'" Does not the potter have the right to make out of the same lump of clay some pottery for noble purposes and some for common use?

The large bedroom was crammed to overflowing with family relics, and examples of the various arts in which Lady Emily had brilliantly dabbled at one time or another. Part of one wall was decorated with a romantic landscape painted on the plaster, the fourpost bed was hung with her own skilful embroidery, watercolour drawings in which a touch of genius fought and worsted an entire want of technique hung on the walls. Pottery, woodcarving, enamels, all bore witness to their owner’s insatiable desire to create. From their earliest days the Leslie children had thought of their mother as doing or making something, handling brush, pencil, needle with equal enthusiasm, coming in late to lunch with clay in her hair, devastating the drawing-room with her far-flung painting materials, taking cumbersome pieces of embroidery on picnics, disgracing everyone by a determination to paint the village cricket pavilion with scenes from the life of St Francis for which she made the gardeners pose. What Mr Leslie thought no one actually knew, for Mr Leslie had his own ways of life and rarely interfered. Once only had he been known to make a protest. In the fever of an enamelling craze, Lady Emily had a furnace put up in the service-room, thus making it extremely difficult for Gudgeon and the footman to get past, and moreover pressing the footman as her assistant when he should have been laying lunch.

MacKenzie still throws clay on the wheel every day, and with effort his skill has improved: “I think back to some of the pots we made when we first started our pottery, and they were pretty awful pots. We thought at the time they were good; they were the best we could make, but our thinking was so elemental that the pots had that quality also, and so they don’t have a richness about them which I look for in my work today.” “The first 10,000 pots are difficult,” he has said, “and then it gets a little bit easier.

If Bagel's face was a lump of clay on a pottery wheel, it'd been rapidly thrown from an angry grey blob to a rather enthusiastic vase.

And now that it's reached 1660 degrees, I can salt glaze it." "What's that?" Aiden held up the bowl. "Watch." He pinched a small amount of salt between his fingers and deposited it through a hole at the top of the kiln. There were actually many holes along the rim, tiny rectangular openings, and Aiden moved from one to the next, sprinkling fingerfuls of salt through them. "Salt does amazing things to clay," he said. "The crystals actually explode when they hit the heat, and then turn into a vapor. It's the vapor that transforms the look of the clay." "How?" I asked. "What's it do?" "It makes the clay glossy, and the surface gets this sort of orange-peel texture. But the really cool thing about salt glazing is that no two pieces ever look the same. Each one is completely unique, depending on how much or how little salt you use.

And now indeed this substance with its precious humility becomes, through its indestructibility, the most faithful bearer of man's message. As far back as one goes in time, the works of humanity from prehistoric times have reached us not through stone which crumbles and wears away, or through metal which oxidizes and becomes like powder, but through slabs of pottery, the writing on which is as clear today as it was under the stiletto of the scribe who traced it.

As she fretted and paced around the room, Helen’s gaze happened to stray across an object on the table near the parlor window. Her eyes widened as she realized it was the potted Blue Vanda she had given him. The orchid he hadn’t wanted but had taken anyway. He had sent it back. Helen hurried to the orchid, wondering what condition it was in. Weak sunlight slanted across the table, flecked with glimmering, floating dust motes, some of them swirling around the light blue petals. Confusion spread through her as she saw the inflorescence of glowing blooms. The broad ovoid leaves were clean and glossy, and the roots anchored among the crushed clay pottery shards had been carefully trimmed and kept damp. The Blue Vanda hadn’t sickened in Winterborne’s care...it had thrived. Helen leaned over the orchid, touching the beautiful arc of its stem with a single fingertip. Shaking her head in wonder, she felt a tickle at the edge of her chin, and didn’t realize it was a tear until she saw it drop onto one of the Vanda’s leaves. “Oh, Mr. Winterborne,” she whispered, and reached up to wipe at her wet cheeks. “Rhys. There’s been a mistake.