Enhancing the Creative Form in Art - Ceramics
“Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?”— Omar Khayyam.Photograph by Don Jones
Exciting as the compositions,
shapes, and patterns it produces,
the world of ceramics appeals to
two types of individual: the artist
who becomes a professional cer
amacist, and the amateur searching
for a means of expression.
Once in the grip of this stimulat
ing occupation, the artist has the
world at his fingertips. He can
create anything his intuition or
common sense dictates. He can
evoke in each creation all of the
self-expression and originality he
wants to donate.
Dean S. W. Little of the art and
architecture school states that the
immediate aim of his administra
tion is a collaboration of sculpture
and ceramics, and a complete inte
gration of all fields of art. Ceramics,
he believes, enhances the creative
form in all arts.
Interest in ceramics has increased
to the extent that Miss Victoria
Avakian's studio in the art school
is being greatly enlarged to accom
modate new students. The new
equipment is the best available, and
it is predicted the University’s cer
amics department will soon be
second to none in the west. Profes
sor Avakian is well-known for her
creations in foreign and domestic
clays on display in various museums
and exhibits throughout the coun
try.
The pieces are shaped on the
throwing or kick wheel, baited,
glazed, and then re-baked. The re
sult is ash trays, bowls, and vases
that would put the Greeks to shame
. . . and for the artist, the supreme
satisfaction of creation.
^ HEIR APPARENT
(Continued from f’ciac two)
delicate leaves had taken time. He showed it to Old
August, who nodded and said:
“Good. Nov/ we finish it. We can get one coat of varnish
on at least tonight, so it will be dry in the morning. I
already sanded the legs, so v/e put the top on and refinish
the whole t'ing.”
The two of them worked together, Old August on one
side and Roscoe on the other. They lost track of time. Old
August stood up once to pull on the drop light that hung
above them. His pipe went out and he forgot to relight it.
Finally the table stood, gleaming under the naked light
bulb, and the old man and the boy straightened with diffi
culty. Old August placed a hand on Roscoe’s shoulder.
“Your mother will be worried, boy. I shouldn’t keep you
£o late. You go pow, and I clean up the brushes.”
“That’s all right, Gramp," Roscoe’s face was radiant as
the table. "Boy, ain’t she a beaut!” He waved his varnish
brush at the table.
“Ja, but wait till we polish. We’ll put on another coat
tomorrow, and the next day will be Friday when Anna
comes for it. We polish it Friday morning.”
“Yell.” They worked silently on the brushes, until
Roscoe looked up at the old man with sudden interest in
his face. "Say, Gramp, who is this Anna? She’s not . . .?”
“Oh ho!” He wagged-liis head slyly, "I get it, Gramp.
An old flame.”
(Jia August lOUKt'U abtuilloucu. lib ‘Wiiur.u Jr “-c
—► from his mouth. “What are you saying, boy! Anna is yust
. . . well ... an old friend.”
^Sure,” Roscoe grinned.
“Sure. I made that table for her. Over thirty year
ago.”
It was Rcscoe’s turn to look amazed. “Thirty years
ago! No kiddin’, C-ramp? And she’s still got it.”
“She is giving it to her granddaughter, Ebba. It will
last Ebba until she gives it to her granddaughter also.
Good walnut lasts forever; boy.’’
“Yeh.”
“And a good piece of work, it never goes out of
fashion. It grows old, ja, but it like an old friend. Better
.because you had it a long time.”
“I guess you’re right, Gramp.”
Old' August reached up and pulled off the light, then
fumbled his sweater off the nail and put it on. He heard
shavings whisper under Roscoe’s feet, and looked back
over his shoulder. The rear half of the shop wa§ in dark
ness, except for a rectangle of brilliance where light from
the streetlamp spilled through the back window into the
floor. Standing squarely in the yellow patch was the tiny
walnut table, with its new varnish blazing in reflected
brightness; a fragile ornament blown in black glass. There
was no sound. The shop slept under its powdery blanket
of settled wood dust, giving off a breath heavy with the
pungent bite of resin and turpentine.
Old August turned back and busied himself in the dark
REVIEWING . . . The first time I read Irving Stone’s
LUST FOR LIFE book, “Lust for Life" I was too
By IRVING STONE young to fully comprehend the sig
nificance of the work. That was in
1935. Recently, I came across the book in the browsing
room of the library, and decided to thumb through it to
refresh my memory. Within a half hour I found myself
intensely absorbed in the volume, and I devoted the remain
der of the day to its completion.
The book is the biography of Vincent Van Gogh written
in the medium of the novel. This is a rather difficult task to
perform. In writing with purely imaginar y characters the
author has some leeway, but the case of biographical
material presents the problem of good interpretation. And
it seems to me that Mr. Stone has done a superb job of
interpretive writing.
Van Gogh, probably more so than any other nineteenth
century artist, has been one of the most fascinating person
alities in the world of art. He was an individual of great
complexity and of artistic genius. Stone is very successful in
his attempt to put before the reader the intense feeling and
depth of the painter’s character. ^
With the skill of a good story teller the author unveils
his tale. It begins in London and at an early stage the
reader becomes familiar with the turbulence within the
soul of the central character, this red-headed young man
with filling his pipe. He caught a note of reverence in
Iloscoe’s voice when the boy suddenly spoke.
“Geez, Gramp. I wish I could bull a table like this
one."
Old August smiled in the darkness. A joyous assur
ance had settled on him.
“You will, boy. You will."
Old August’s mind leapt from its reverie in panicky
haste at the hoot of an automobile horn. The old man's
heels jarred painfully against the pavement as he stopped
at a led traffic light. He realized that he was on Fourth
Avenue, only one block from the cabinet shop.
He stcocl there on the curb, panting. Glistening lines
ssamed his face, his temples tom-tonlmed, and his lean
shanks quivered. Eyeing the traffic light in an agony of
impatience, his throat scared with breathing, he again
pictured the small walnut tahle. Only he didn’t sec it as
(Please turn to pa/jc four)
who cannot seem to find his purpose in life. Spurned in his
first love, Vincent Van Gogh leaves England and takes up
the priesthood. He believes he has found his place at last.
Once again, frustration is his reward and he finally real,
izes that the desire to express himself is the purpose
which he seeks.
Painting becomes the medium for that expression. For
the next ten years he strives obstinately, energetically,
with every ounce of creative force for perfect expression.
Van Gogh is next found in the Hague where he obtains his
formal training in art. He is then lured to Paris where he
hopes to learn a new technique from the newly formed group
of impressionists. Feeling the urge for country scenes, he
flees to Arles and paints feverishly until he goes mad. From
there the story thunders to its pathetic climax. Wearied by
the torment in his soul, exhausted by years of hardship, the
artist realizes that he has tapped dry the well-springs of
his creative force. In the fields that he loves so well he shoots
himself, and tkcs a day later in the presence of his brother,
Theo, in a most moving and poignant death scene.
$
That, very briefly, is the story. There are other points
to consider in reference to the writing of Irving Stone. The
author has treated the personality of Van Gogh with great
compassion and empathy. As I read the book I felt every
thought, feeling, and emotion live, breathe and' throb before
my eyes. The whole tortured being of the artist moving to
the tragic finale was unveiled with great force and power.
And Stone’s exceptional gift for expression extends
into other elements of the story. Every scene he creates has
a strong emotional quality. The scenes depicting Vincent's
mother and her affection for her son are most touching. The
lives of the Belgium miners are keen studies in drama and
sadness. Van Gogh's encounter with hunger and poverty
exact a feeling of pathos.
But it is in the character of Vincent Van Gogh that
the best of Stone lies. Some of the most powerfully written,
literary portraiture is found in the examihation of the
dynamo of the Dutch painter's life, his sexual wants. It
is here that various tempestuous aspects of his personality
are illuminated. There is the Van Gogh of extreme passion,
and the Van Gogh of great tenderness. This is an important
component of the painter’s nature which must not be under
rated, and Stone handles the material with excellent crafts
manship.
Thus, in nearly five hundred pages, “Lust for Life”
brings to life a personality of depth, strength, pain, and
genius, a book which tends to influence a better apprecia
tion of Van Gogh, the painter.— Emanuel Mussman.