I see my place in clay nestled in the present, the past, and the future. In the present time I feel a hunger. In the past I am learning. In the future I can only weld together what I have learned, and now the most ancient of forms becomes the most new.

      After years of studying shapes made with clay—what is beautiful, what is not—has brought me full circle. From the classical symmetries to the certain abstraction, I find comfort with the rocks and their lines, edges, surface, and color. Clay and its world of fire have been a dream, an observation, and a focus of the eye and muscles. It has delighted my senses for all the natural wonders. The clay has turned me into a wheel and follower of the natural laws. I have been frustrated but know I can not stop. I have been liberated by its simplicity and forever challenged by its sophistication. It has led me on a great journey of discovery. My place in clay is smashed, gouged, ripped, spread, compressed, and open. Just give me some clay and I will squeeze something out of it. I was called the clay man before I knew clay and have wondered if there was some destiny in that childhood jests.

      I feel a great presence in the clay—everything from the beginning of time, the primordial matter having come full circle, fire, earth, air and now water, the life of the clay. What fun to make the decomposed stones jump into life, in that orbit I walk with the clay. Sometimes I think the clay feels me coming down the stairs, to the concrete floor to smash and stretch its particles and platelets. It must know how I gaze at its beautiful surface, its skin, its living skin, and know how I feel the yin and the yang of it all. I see my place in clay nestled in the present, the past, and the future. In the present time I feel a hunger. In the past I am learning. In the future I can only weld together what I have learned, and now the most ancient of forms becomes the most new.

      After years of studying shapes made with clay—what is beautiful, what is not—has brought me full circle. From the classical cemeteries to the certain abstraction, I find comfort with the rocks and their lines, edges, surface, and color. Clay and its world of fire have been a dream, an observation, and a focus of the eye and muscles. It has delighted my senses for all the natural wonders. The clay has turned me into a wheel and follower of the natural laws. I have been frustrated but know I can not stop. I have been liberated by it’s simplicity and forever challenged by it’s sophistication. It has led me on a great journey of discovery. My place in clay is smashed, gouged, ripped, spread, compressed, and open. Just give me some clay and I will squeeze something out of it. I was called the clay man before I knew clay and have wondered if there was some destiny in that childhood test.

      I feel a great presence in the clay—everything from the beginning of time, the primordial matter having come full circle, fire, earth, air and now water, the life of the clay. What fun to make the decomposed stones jump into life, in that orbit I walk with the clay. Sometimes I think the clay feels me coming down the stairs, to the concrete floor to smash and stretch its particles and platelets. It must know how I gaze at it’s beautiful surface, it’s skin, it’s living skin, and know how I feel the yen and the yang of it all.