On Inviting Yourself to Stay for a While
Judith Bryant opens wide her studio and invites us in for cookies and tea
Judith and I met at the supper table in the Old Red Mill of the Vermont Studio Center during Vermont Artists week about ten years ago because she was warm and welcoming, and New Zealand sculptural ceramicist Bronwynne Cornish and I—both longer haulers at VSC and nevertheless, far shier by comparison—couldn’t resist Judith’s laughter and smile. By the time, the week was over, it was clear that we were all lifelong friend material, and Bronwynne and I trekked to Judith’s studio for a tour. Judith’s work has been part of my everyday since. (As has Bronwynne’s, but we’ll save that story for another day.)
When I was diagnosed with cancer in 2022, Judith rallied to remind me to stay tethered through community and friendship while I struggled. She sent cards and letters—actual handwritten, paper-by-post musings about everyday things—which I love, plus delightful care packages. As I type this, one of her mugs and one of her bowls, delightful surprises from two different care packages, sit adjacent to my computer, remnants of today’s breakfast and coffee. These objects offer daily hugs, in absentia, and extend connection across a continent and time. They remind me I’m loved. This power is available to us all.
Mere objects divorced from relationship are just things, dismissible and disposable. But objects infused with connection take on what Jane Bennett calls a “vital materiality.” Even if reading theory isn’t your thing, I recommend Bennett as a good read and more. Her fascinating theoretical work about vital materiality is built around live and lively objects at the core, aka “vibrant matter.”
So, let’s add some vibrant matter to the FED table, and I’ll ask you to look around your everyday spaces. What vital materiality connects you—to your family, friends, the broader community, and yourself? Which objects sing to you and what animates them? What vibrant matter in your life tethers you and invites you to stay for a while?
Big love, Ashley
April 2023, Bristol, Vermont
The light in the studio is dim tonight. On some evenings, damp clay lures me back inside after supper; but that small, cramped space no longer feels like my living room, my schoolhouse, my workshop all rolled into one. It feels lonely.
I haven’t always had a private studio. My first decade as a potter was spent in teaching studios, sandwiching my own work in between classes. Whether the plan was to go for a swim or a walk or an ice cream cone, or just to sit outside on the grass with a mug of tea, friends and neighborhood kids could always find me in the studio. There were always snacks at hand, even if we didn’t go anywhere.
There’s something about living at the studio, at any of my studios, ten or twelve hours a day (or even seven or eight when my daughter was little)… It has always taken more than a packed lunch to keep me going! Any large jar, therefore — either a slight “second” or a set waiting to be sold—was likely to become, temporarily, a cookie jar. Pepperidge Farm? There were always at least two varieties. Of course, homemade cookies were great favorites too.
When I realized that my potter-friend’s young daughter, a frequent visitor, didn’t like chocolate (hard though that concept was for me to grasp), I made sure to have one jar ready for her, filled with buttery shortbread cookies. They never went to waste.
My sweet treat habit carried over to craft fairs, where by mid-afternoon, fellow artisans would drift into my booth, to explore the jars on display and sample their contents. A potential purchaser of any of the jars was always offered cookies as well.
Did I give cookies or chocolate to visitors who stopped at the large studio and showroom that I shared for so long with a younger friend? Probably. When we first opened the doors of that rehabbed barn-turned-church-turned-pottery studio, we were the “new kids on the block.” It seemed that everyone who drove by had to come in to see what was going on. We usually left the doors unlocked at the end of the day, so late-night shoppers could look for gifts — but it was more fun actually to get to meet them, to hear their stories, during the daytime.
An old friend helped keep me supplied with snacks for decades. She may have been introducing me to her new puppy, showing off a newly finished painting, or stopping to rest for a few minutes between appointments. With each visit, she would trade a handful of her favorite Belgian chocolates for a cup of tea. And a cookie or two.
That was two studios ago. Working mostly alone, no longer teaching, I began to downsize. Two former students who have accompanied me from one place to another now try to come once a week. Though their wheels and shelves are with me, surrounding me, the humans often have time conflicts. After years of driving miles to reach my studios, it has seemed luxurious for the last four years to be able to simply walk out my back door. But…I no longer have to make a commitment to staying all day. Sometimes I only stay for a few minutes. That’s not really long enough to become absorbed in my work, to be swept into a rhythm.
My old friend is gone now, along with her Belgian chocolate. At first, my anger at her death fueled a frenzy of pottery making, anything to avoid thinking; but that has cooled. Now it’s time to rekindle my own relationship with the studio. The space is small, but perhaps I can clean up to make room for a comfortable chair, inviting friends to stop by and stay for a while as I work at the wheel. I can invite myself to stay for a while. I’ll put out an “Open” flag. I already have a teakettle and boxes of teas, teapots and mugs. Lots of mugs!
I think it’s time to make some cookies.
Dive in for more goodness…
Don’t miss Judith’s cookie recipes, which drop Thursday, May 2. And, to learn more about Judith and FED’s entire Spring 2024 all-star line-up of musicians, artists, writers, growers, gleaners, cooks, and craftspeople, check out Special Guests.
Who’s washing dishes?
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