RICHARD: G’day Rick, As the operative-word in all the above is ‘self-worth’ (and self-worth as derived from others’ opinion at that) perhaps a personal anecdote may be of assistance.
(If nothing else it will provide some light relief/ entertainment).
Many years ago, back when I was a normal bloke and making my living as a practising artist, a minor art gallery in a major city approached me with a proposition to stage a one-man exhibition of my idiosyncratic ceramic work – with the selection to be entirely of my own choice – complete with metropolis-wide advertising, an opening night with the usual razzamatazz (wine and cheese, etc.), invitations to various art-critics, quite liberal terms of commission, and a guaranteed-to-be-exclusive three-week run.
I was a big frog in a small provincial pond, at the time, and this was an opportunity to be a small frog in a large urban pond – to put one foot on the bottom rung of a potential ladder of national success – so the rather generous offer with its opportune entrée into the inner-city art establishment was readily accepted and a firm date was set for three months hence.
Without any thought at all it was obvious to me the exhibition would comprise entirely of fresh pieces – even though there was already more than enough high quality items at hand (which the art gallery had in mind) – as that way a cohesive body of work, with a yet to be discovered theme, would bring about the integrity necessary to carry the day.
Now, with ceramics there is normally a five-to-six week lead-in time (due to the process of making, carving, drying, first-firing, glazing, decorating, and second-firing) yet the days became weeks until, despite the frequent reminders and promptings of my then-wife, only three weeks remained before the big night.
And three weeks was the absolute minimum time-span; if the eighty-odd pieces were not formed today then the afore-mentioned hodgepodge stock-at-hand would have to be pressed into service.
Not that the art-gallery would mind, of course, but I would.
For most of the morning I wedged, kneaded and balled the highest quality (the most-aged and ripened) clay from my extensive stocks of hand-dug and hand-mixed local clays; it was one of those quite marvellous days of lightly overcast skies and a gentle, misty rain; there was no wind at all, not even the slightest zephyr of a breeze; the quietly gleaming hand-made copper kettle was sitting, steaming gently atop the cheery pot-bellied stove in my studio; music from a nowadays-superseded four-track cartridge player was piping through all its strategically placed speakers; the dank, swampy aroma of the well-matured clay was filling the nostrils as it began to bounce elastically beneath my well-practiced kneading hands; and soon all was well, within my world, as any and all stress from time-pressure softly ebbed away.
Settling myself onto my home-made pottery wheel, and kicking it into action, I swiftly and easily formed a few small throwaway pieces so as to get my hand in.
Then, without any further ado, I reached for the first of the eighty-odd different-sized balls of finely-prepared clay; dropping it onto the still slowing-turning wheel-head I kicked up the momentum of the heavy wheel beneath my feet; moistening my hands in the bowls of warm, muddy water to either side I then centred the clay ball and began throwing the first of the many individual pieces which would eventually comprise the whole.
Being well-dug, well-prepared, well-aged, well-wedged and well-kneaded, the clay, whilst supremely elastic, was taut and springy beneath the hands; there would be no slumping, no sagging, no bulging, just this easy pulling up to maximum height; just this graceful setting of bellied form; just this elegant rolling of lip; just this effortless forming of the base; just this ready pass of the cutting thread detaching it from the wheel-head; just this gentle placing of it on the ready-to-hand shelf-tray nearby; just this regular reaching for the next ball; just this easy kicking keeping the momentum rolling.
Upon placing the third or fourth newly-formed piece alongside its predecessors, and whilst reaching for the next ball, it is evident the clouds are clearing a trifle; the sun is shining fitfully through a gap onto the translucent full-height screens immediately to the front; some chickens are clucking and scratching around in the ground just beyond them; ducks are quacking and nosing into the mud of the small pond nearby; off in the near-distance the pigs are snorting and snuffling for roots; one of the goats is bleating; a couple of the geese are honking; and … and a by-now-familiar and oh-so-subtle shift is occurring in the brain-stem.
All-of-a-sudden there is a vast stillness – there is absolutely no movement of time – and in that perfect peace the piece of pottery is making itself.
The foot is kicking the massive wheel of its own accord; the hands are dipping themselves into the warm, muddy water; the eyes are eying the bellied form all on their own; the hands, one on the inside and the other on the outside just below the former, are gently coaxing the perfect shape without command (or is the perfect form gently coaxing the hands to its bidding); and the whole world – nay, the entire universe, itself – is a magical fairytale-like wonderland where nothing, but nothing, ever ultimately goes wrong.
And then, with the sun sinking spectacularly in the west behind banked clouds, the one-hundredth pot has made itself (so much for the planned eighty-odd) and the one-man exhibition is in the bag … guaranteed to be a fantastic success.
It is now three weeks later: all the pieces have been carved, dried, first-fired, glazed, decorated, second-fired, packed, transported, unpacked and selectively placed upon their pedestals in the major city art gallery.
It is opening night and the place is packed with peoples from many walks of life; all milling around, glasses in hand, seeing and being seen. Being the star of the show I am, accordingly, a trifle late in arriving (as is the fashion). With orange juice in hand I mix and mingle; a word or two here; a tilt of the head there; a small chat here; a wink and a grin there; a murmured response here; and all the while noticing those little red stickers appearing, first on this piece, then on that piece, more on those pieces, until almost every single piece is snapped-up.
It is shaping up to be a sell-out … and all on opening night!
The curator is tapping on his glass, calling for attention, and the speechifying begins; soon it is my turn to speak and every eye is turned toward me, every ear is listening to me, everybody’s rapt attention is directed towards the … well, towards the star of the show, of course.
But I am not the star of the show – the pieces made themselves, remember, back in that magical wonderland – and yet all of the accolades, all of the applause, all of the (yes) adulation, is centred solely upon me.
It was at that moment I understood something so profound it is permanently etched into the memory banks … to wit: I did not and could not value their collective/ individual opinions one iota, one jot, for they knew not of what they spoke.
And even if they were to be told, that the pieces magically made themselves, they would lavish praise for being so gifted/ so blessed/ so whatever.
Moreover, they did not, and would not ever, comprehend that the esteem they bestowed so lavishly slid straight off me like that proverbial water off a duck’s back … as, at that very moment, self-esteem and all its associated vanity and humility vanished out of my life forever, never to return, even unto this very day.
And so, Rick, as we come to the end of this quaint little wonder-land tale, just what value is self-esteem, eh?
Regards, Richard.