What makes a great kiln?

A friend asked me the other day, "What makes a kiln great?" I gave him a long-winded analysis of differences between kilns, based on my experience and my reading. I've only fired three wood kilns (two anagamas and a small wood-kiln), so I hope that other more experienced woodfirers will chime in with comments.

This was somewhat stream-of-consciousness, so it's a mix of differences in technical/aesthetic results, and the physical/emotional experience of firing different kilns with different people.

• Most wood kilns fire to about the same temperature range, which is Cone 10-14 (2300-2400F). They need to get at least to cone 10 to melt the ash, otherwise the pots come out gritty or dry (though some people like that). The top temperature, and length of time the kiln is held at that temperature depend on the objectives of the firing, and lots of random factors like wood quality, weather, length of firing, etc.


• There are visually obvious differences between kilns in terms of size and design. There are smallish arched kilns with a square footprint which fire with only a half-cord to a cord of wood in a day or so, and there are anagamas and noborigamas which are big and long, usually built into a hill and shaped like a whale. They take 4-6 or more cords and 2-10 days to fire. I'm currently getting ready to participate in a week-long firing in a two-chambered kiln, which will be a great learning experience for me (and hopefully a lot of fun!).


• Type of door is a biggy. The door is made up of a large part that fills the main opening (so you have easy access for loading pots into the kiln), and a smaller door that you stoke through. Some kilns have solid doors that you wheel in place (nice!), while others you have to brick up (sometimes hard!). The smaller stoke door can be covered by a little hinged door or a big swinging heavy piece of cement on a cable. I’ll let you guess which is better. Also, some kilns really blast the heat when you open the stoke-door, while others are not as fierce.

• Kilns definitely vary in terms of evenness. Most anagamas (the bigger wood kilns) are long and tend to be cooler in the back. It can sometimes be hard to get the back as hot as the front. Most people take advantage of that by putting porcelain in the back because it can be happier at slightly less high temperatures.


• Some kilns have good areas and bad areas. I don't have much experience with this, because all the kilns I've fired are good all the way through. That isn't to say there aren't differences--pots in the front get more ash, pots in the back might end up with more flashing. The shape of the kiln and the way it is loaded has a huge impact on how the flame travels through the space and what happens to pots placed in different regions. But I've heard stories about kilns with bad areas where no one wants to place a pot.


• The type of wood makes a big difference, and many potters harvest wood from their own property, so location is a factor here too. Fir is good for ramping up the heat, but you burn through it fast and don’t get much interesting ash. Maple, cherry, alder, etc. are good for building up a coal bed and maintaining higher temperatures. Also I've been told you get better ash from medium-hard woods (which becomes the glaze on the pots) and really hard woods like oak can stall the kiln with a too-dense coal bed. It's good to have a mix, but wood can be expensive, so you take what you can get.


• I’ve heard that kilns at the coast get interesting effects from the salt air and the salt in the wood.


• The length of the firing makes a big difference too. Longer=more ash buildup on the pots and more time to play with raising and lowering the temperature. I’ve never done a long firing, so this upcoming week long firing will teach me a lot.


• Also, the new-to-me kiln has two chambers (the others I’ve fired only have one). The second chamber is for soda, which means some kind of salt/soda solution is added at some point during the firing. That makes a big difference in the surface of the pots, and is another great learning opportunity for me. I've only done one soda firing and it was in a gas kiln.


• There is also the question of oxidation vs. reduction. Different clays and glazes react better with more of one or the other. The timing of reduction and oxidization cycles makes a difference (because the clay and glazes reach different stages of vitrification at different temperatures and react differently to the atmosphere depending on the stage). The shape of the kiln, how well sealed it is, the weather, etc. can make kilns want to reduce more or oxidize more. There can even be variation in different regions of the kiln. Check out this article by Owen Rye if you're interested--there is a really useful explanation and chart explaining the oxidation and reduction cycles during stoking. And a lot of other really great information.


• Different people want different results. The kiln owner (or workshop teacher or group leader) generally has the final say, but participants can sometimes weigh in. So if the group tends to be more into dark clays and rough surfaces (sculptural stuff), the kiln will be fired quite differently than if the group makes mostly light-colored, functional, heavily glazed work.


• The group of people make a big difference in the experience of the firing. Drama=bad. Good cooking=good. I like most everyone I’ve fired with so far, but conflicts can arise and make a firing a less good experience. Fortunately those are few and far between, and usually easily resolved. Potters are pretty nice people as a rule.


• Having somewhere warm and dry to hang out, and a comfortable place to sleep is nice. A shower is nice too. Glad I have a station-wagon, because sleeping in a tent in the early spring or late fall is not my cup of tea. I think I prefer kilns where we mostly stay on-site. I get a better understanding of the process if I'm there the whole time, rather than spending 8 hours stoking, then coming back to a completely different situation 16 hours later. But sleeping in my own bed is nice too. :)

So that's my analysis of what makes a kiln great. There isn't a simple answer--there are so many variables. Please, if you have something to add or if I'm completely wrong about something, add a comment! After April, I'll have a new kiln to add to my firing resume, and probably a few more bullet points to add to my list.

Winter is for finishing projects.

Finally I'm getting around to finishing up a few things. I had planned to get so much done over the holidays, but something came up at work so I didn't have as much time off as I'd expected. But the dark and rainy nights of January are pretty good for getting me to stay in and be crafty, so the past couple weeks have been productive.

This is the quilt I started last winter during Snowpocalypse 2008. One side is jackets and pants, the other is dress shirts, all from Goodwill and Salvation Army. The squares are finally all put together. Next step is to find some cool fabric to use for trim on the wool side (I'm thinking burgundy corduroy or velour), binding (charcoal gray?) and batting for in between, then sew them all together. I saved the buttons when I dissected the clothes and I think I'll use them to "quilt" it all together (like the toothpicks that keep everything from shifting around after the top, batting and bottom are sewn together like a sandwich).


The other project I've been sitting on is this laser printer transfer stuff. The idea is that laser printers use iron in the toner, so you print on these transfers, float them onto glazed pottery and bisque fire to set the iron onto the work. The transfer process went more easily than I expected, and they look great now. We'll see how well they survive the bisque. Hopefully I won't discover that my printer is one of the few that doesn't use iron. These are just tests--stay tuned for some actual pieces if everything works according to plan. Images are from David Attenborough's Amazing Rare Things.


I had planned to spend the winter making lots of cone 6 work, to put my electric kiln to good use. When I was in Tacoma over the holidays I went to the Clay Art Center (awesome!) and bought a bunch of clay and glaze. Since I found out that I'm going to be firing with Hiroshi in April, the cone 6 project has become somewhat lower priority (20 cubic feet is a lot of work!), but I've thrown test cups of the three clays (Grolleg, Oregon Red and Oregon Brown) and will bisque them probably next weekend. I'm also experimenting with more pendants (want to see how melted glass works in the electric kiln--hopefully not too boring) and some towel tags (like wine-glass charms, but for your towel). A little kitschy, but fun to make, and I need some.

I want to test the clay and glazes before I make a lot of work, but I also want to fill the kiln before I fire it to cone 6...so I might have to take a chance with some mugs or something and just hope for the best. I'd offer to fill in with other people's work, but since I haven't fired the kiln to cone 6 yet, and it's not the fanciest kiln ever, I'd hate to risk your stuff.

As for the work I'm making for Hiroshi's -- he recommended a clay called "Big White" for his kiln, so I bought some at the Clay Art Center. It's really gritty but it throws pretty easily, and the name inspired me to throw some big pieces. Big for me--8 lb vases mostly, but a couple of two part pieces that are a little bigger. One tall vase that had me measuring my kiln. Some are really tight, others are much more loose, with great swirly throwing marks. I like them all! Also some more bottle and cup sets--need to make some trays to go with those. And I'll probably make a few more footed vases and maybe another flailing feet piece or two.


That reminds me! The last thing on my list for the winter is to hurry up and post photos of my pieces from the two November firings. Not sure why it's taking me so long to get those done. They're all photographed and downloaded, just need to spruce up the photos and get them posted. I think it's some of my best work ever. I absolutely love the bottle sets, though none of them sold in the holiday sale...maybe because I price based on how much I like a piece... :)

A holiday wish for you.

I spent this Sunday morning working on photos for my portfolio and drinking tea out of this teapot and cup, both fired at Digger Mountain. I love how they both turned out -- I wouldn't change a thing about either. Drinking tea out of the cup is a pleasure to the eye, hand and lip. The blushing on the teapot sends shivers down my spine, and the pour is nice and strong without being splashy.

Reminds me of a moment, in middle school band camp (one time, at band camp...), we were practicing Pachelbel's Cannon -- playing the part where the 2nd clarinet has the melody line. I got this intense rush of wonder at being part of something so beautiful. I think that moment is why I stuck with music as long as I did, in spite of my lack of skill.

It is a very wonderful thing to be in awe of the beauty of something you've made with your own hands. So my holiday wish for you is that you create something this year that gives you shivers and makes you proud to be you.

They blinded me with Science!

As I've mentioned in previous posts, my undergrad degree is in biology, and I grew up in a very scientific household. My mom has degrees in science education and scientific and technical communication and my dad is a fish biologist. Plus they're nature nerds. Family vacations usually involved backpacking. According to my mom, one of my first words was "sand verbena." I grew up dissecting fish (martyrs to the cause of helping salmon survive the Columbia river dams), catching snakes and newts (not for dissection) and building robot-sculptures out of old coffee cans, broken machines and spare parts. Now I work in high-tech, and spend my work-days researching emerging technologies.

I'm pretty sure my science-nerdiness influences my artwork, though I wouldn't say there is always an obvious connection, beyond of course the name Volvox. But I'm really drawn to artists who are influenced by science and nature. So, after a long self-centered introduction, I'd like to share with you some artists whose work is highly influenced by science and nature, and whose work is really lovely.

Frank Boyden is a local (Oregon coast) artist whose work is very obviously influenced by the local environment. I love how fascinated he is with things like old gnarled trees and half-decomposed bird skeletons. In this OPB segment he talks about where he gets his inspiration (thanks to my mom for sending it to me). He and Tom Coleman built an anagama near Willamina, Oregon in the 1980s, and have done some really amazing collaborative pieces. Check out this article in Ceramics Monthly about their partnership, which has produced spectacularly beautiful work.

This next artist was brought to my attention by my dad. Luke Jerram creates a lot of science-inspired artwork. His microbiology-inspired glass pieces are pretty darn cool. I really like the comment that "These transparent glass sculptures were created to contemplate the global impact of each disease and to consider how the artificial colouring of scientific imagery affects our understanding of phenomena." He explains that scientific illustrators use color in their illustrations of viruses and bacteria, to explain different concepts or simply for aesthetics. The use of color might change the way the non-scientific public understands the diseases.

I find his rational interesting, because while he has, in his clear glass sculptures, stripped the diseases of their color, he has created an entirely new avenue for misunderstandings. His virus sculptures are based on the same partial-visualizations as the illustrations (microscopy simply is not yet good enough to give us a perfect understanding of the details of virus structures). They are stripped of artificial coloring, and are three-dimensional, but the beauty of the sculptures, the fluidity and delicacy of the glass, and the million-fold increase in scale all maintain the distance between the visualization and reality. But I like that about it. Because no matter how hard we try, I don't know if most humans have the capacity to fully grasp things on that scale--the smallness of the diseases or the largeness of the impacts they can make on our lives.

Jerram's Aeolus Acoustic Wind Pavilion is awesome--I'd really like to see it in person someday. It is inspired by wind and light, architecture and acoustics.

(Side note: Jerram designs his pieces, but most of them are actually constructed by other people--skilled craftsmen in whatever medium he is using. I have some feelings about this that I'll address in a future post.)

Jerram's light-related work reminds me of another artist, James Turrell. Turrell plays with light, and the way our eyes and brains process light. Turrell's pieces are really interesting. At first they appear boring--a square of light on a wall. But on closer inspection, you realize that the square of light is actually an opening into a room that is lit in such a way as to fool your eye into seeing a flat square of light. A box hanging in the corner turns out to be light projected from a lamp on the opposite side of the room.

I saw a show of his work in Seattle at UW's Henry Art Gallery. They have one of his skyspace pieces as a permanent installation. There is another one in San Francisco at the de Young. Turrell has been working on creating an enormous skyspace in the Roden Crater (outside of Flagstaff, AZ) since the late 1970s. It's supposed to be finished and open to the public in 2011, but many doubt whether it will ever be open.

Turrell's skyspaces are pretty amazing. They are rooms that you walk into, with openings in the ceiling. If you sit just so, and look up at just the right angle, the sky drops down onto the top of the hole, giving the impression that the sky is actually a flat surface just above your head. The nature of the illusion varies with the weather and time of day. When (if) the crater ever opens to the public, you can bet I'll be making the trip.

Of course you all know Andy Goldsworthy. More nature-inspired than hard-core science, but pretty darn cool either way. I really like the temporal nature of much of his work. Of course I've only seen his works in stone (Storm King wall is neat, but Drawn Stone at the de Young is more subtle), but I'm really more fascinated with his pieces made of leaves and twigs. Like this, or this, or this. I love the fact that he sets out with no tools and uses only the materials he finds to create the sculptures. Many of them are deliberately short-lived: ice sculptures made at dawn that melt with the rising sun, or driftwood cairns that float away with the tide. If you haven't seen Rivers and Tides, I highly recommend it (Netflix has it to watch instantly).

You also may know my friend Carol Opie. She is a zoologist and a potter, and makes really awesome ceramic pieces with beetles and skeletons carved in them--but more than just carved. She carves the outline and stretches the clay to create a very three dimensional relief, using clay's natural tendency towards surface cracks when it's a little too dry to produce wonderful texture. We've been woodfiring together lately, and I'm so glad--her work is perfect for the anagama.

Please, if you are a fan of any science-minded artists, tell me about them!

On selling

This weekend (Dec 11-13) is the second half of Thurman Street Studios' holiday open studio and sale. The first weekend went pretty well--lots of visitors, including visits from friends I hadn't seen for a while. I sold some pieces, which was nice too. But the whole selling thing has me thinking. (What I'm about to say is about my feelings about my work. Please don't read this as a judgement on the work of other artists who create work to sell. We all feel differently about our art, and that's a good thing.)

Since I was a child, I've identified myself as an artist of one sort or another. My medium of choice has changed over the years, but one thing has remained consistent: I've never wanted my artwork to be dictated by the need to sell. That's why I went to a state school rather than art school for undergrad, why I have degrees in biology and library science, and why I have a full-time career-type job outside of the studio. (Whether those have proven to be good decisions is a topic for another post.)

Pottery started as nothing more than a fun hobby. It cost a little and I produced a little bit of work, but never enough of either to worry about too much. Ten years later, it's grown into an addiction that produces more work than I know what to do with, and costs more than I can justify spending on a hobby.

I still feel the same about not wanting my work to be dictated by what will sell. I don't want to compromise my artistic integrity for a few bucks--that's why I have a day job. But I'm spending more and more time and money on this "hobby" that has become a "business" and accumulating more work than I can pawn off on friends and relatives. I'm at a point where I either need to scale back or start selling enough to defray my expenses a bit. I don't think I can scale back, so that leaves selling.

So what does that mean exactly? Well, I can make whatever I want, put price tags on the results and hope for the best (that's what I've been doing). Or I can deliberately make pieces that I know will have a better chance of selling: mugs, bowls, glossy things with lots of color and pictures of birds. It would be nice to sell some work. Nice to be appreciated, and nice to defray expenses.

A former studio-mate told me once that selling is an integral part of her creative process. Obviously, I don't feel that strong of a need to sell, but I also don't want to create work in a vacuum. As I've said in a previous post, part of creating "art" is expressing something to an audience. Selling a piece shows that the piece is effective on some level. It communicated something to someone enough that they felt the desire to posses it. There is something to be said for that. There is also something to be said for being able to afford rent on my studio.

On the other hand, is there a point where the work ceases to be "art"? If the only objective of the creator is to make work to sell, I believe that it crosses a line. It may be wonderfully hand-crafted, well-designed work, but if it is not created with the intent to convey some sort of message or viewpoint from the artist to the audience, it is not art (by my definition). I don't ever want to stop creating art.

I have to admit: the more I sell, the more I start to think about what will sell. It's beginning to guide my creative process more than I might like. Maybe that's ok. I don't ever plan to go into production-mode, (my mom should know by now that asking me to make a set of dishes is fruitless) and I'm not going to give up my "if you don't like it, don't buy it" attitude. But I have my own electric kiln now, and things like mugs and bowls are great for practicing technique. This winter, I'm going to spend some time working on my throwing, playing with some cone 6 clay, and figuring out if I can get anything out of an electric kiln that doesn't make me cringe. I'll let you know how it works out. :)

New Wheel!!

Just a quick post to show off some pictures of my new wheel. I haven't had a chance to throw anything yet, but it's all put together and ready to go. Yay!

Here it is in pieces on the floor:

Here it is all put together and working. See, you can tell that it's turning because Mr. Owl is blurry!

This is the studio from the doorway. Keep in mind that it's set up for the open studio and sale, so it's looking a little more like a display and less like a functional studio.


Coming soon: photos of pieces from November Digger Mt firing, Thanksgiving Nanagama firing, and a blog post on selling work and how I feel about the whole ordeal.

The importance of art

I started this post a month or more ago and never posted it. Here it is!

Art matters. Art has been part of my life since I was old enough to say the word. In fact, I think that art is inextricably tied to who I am. I've had conversations with people over the years about a lot of related ideas -- the value of sadness, the importance of feeling emotions*, seeing beauty in traditionally ugly things, and understanding "angst." But at the root, I think it all comes back to art.

To really explain how I feel about art, I think I should start by explaining what art is to me. I know it's different to everyone, so I don't want to claim that this is the definition of art, just that it's my definition. Art is any creation (visual, audible, tangible, etc) that deliberately expresses something about the artist's experience of the world. In other words, something I create is art if I intentionally created it to communicate my feelings about any aspect of my life, experience, environment, imagination, etc. I think "good" art is good in that it expresses the artists intent successfully. Craft is an essential aspect of art, in that the craftsmanship of the art can add or detract from the success of the piece in communicating its intent. But something can be well crafted and not successful art if it does not express anything (which, of course, is in the eye of the beholder). That doesn't mean it is not valuable in its own right, just that it doesn't fit my definition of art.

So. Why is art important to me? Because I think that feelings and experience are valuable. Each of us has a unique life experience. Because of that unique experience, we see the world in different ways. We see beauty in different things, and we are hurt by different things. By sharing our experience through art, we give each other the opportunity to learn and grow. We are inspired by others' creativity. We feel connected to each other in a way that spans distance and time. My life is made richer by seeing bits of the world through the filter of other artists' creations, and I feel less alone when I see my own experience mirrored in their work.

I know that not everyone shares my definition of art, and not everyone values it the way I do. My mother has never understood why I want people I date to get the concept of angst. My favorite artwork has always been more about negative emotions and difficult experiences. It's easy to see beauty in the beautiful, and reflecting that beauty back takes skill, but maybe not so much depth. Seeing beauty in sadness and using pain to create something that resonates with others is what captivates me.

This is something I struggle with in my own art. While pottery is my (current) medium of choice, I have yet to make anything that comes from that same depth of emotion that I value in other artists' work. The piece I just finished (popularly known as Snork Bottles) comes the closest. It's about the connections between people--conversations, cliques, families, and the feeling of being with, but still removed from the rest of the group. People seem to like it but they don't necessarily see the message I'm trying to convey with it. I'm afraid that the cuteness of the bottles gets in the way of the message.

My other work is more about the process of pottery--the feeling of the clay, the physical evidence (or lack of evidence) of the artist in the finished piece. It's experimental, interesting and fun but doesn't come from great depth of feeling.

Since I was a child, I've felt the need to express something through my artwork. I've created many pots, poems, drawings, paintings, sculptures that I'm proud of, but nothing that scratches that itch.

Maybe that's how it's supposed to be. Maybe once I create a piece that successfully communicates all the emotions I had as a 13 year old sitting in the crook of an oak tree writing incomprehensible poems and drawing pictures of wild roses, or all the thoughts that ran through my head as a college student listening to Love Hangover, drinking whiskey and drawing nudes out of an old Playboy at 2am, I'll be done and there won't be anything left to say.


(*The Giver by Lois Lowry and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind are two of my favorite stories about the importance of feeling negative emotions.)