Claypan: Brett Stone

claypan

February 2022

exhibition essay

Gazing out the plane windows on my once frequent flights to the west coast, there is an endless landscape of salt lakes and clay pans, and I have often thought of them as a vast table scattered with bowls.  Dry crusted, saltbush fringed, windblown smooth.

I measure my daily life in bowls, from cereal, salad lunches and comfort food dinners, to the bowls of nuts, and cherries.  My dog’s water bowl either spilled or filled.

A recent trip to the AGNSW’s Asian galleries reminded me of the universality and timelessness of bowls.  A Tang turned foot, a Sung flared rim, all still present in my own work, not copied, but part of my inherited sense of our shared humanity.   

As my first pottery teacher instilled:  “Feel with your eyes and see with your fingers”.
Does a bowl belong in a stack or singly, do they invite use or quiet contemplation?  
Are they to be appreciated with your eyes, or held in your hands?
BS 2022
Gazing out the plane windows on my once frequent flights to the west coast, there is an endless landscape of salt lakes and clay pans, and I have often thought of them as a vast table scattered with bowls.  Dry crusted, saltbush fringed, windblown smooth.

I measure my daily life in bowls, from cereal, salad lunches and comfort food dinners, to the bowls of nuts, and cherries.  My dog’s water bowl either spilled or filled.

A recent trip to the AGNSW’s Asian galleries reminded me of the universality and timelessness of bowls.  A Tang turned foot, a Sung flared rim, all still present in my own work, not copied, but part of my inherited sense of our shared humanity.   

As my first pottery teacher instilled:  “Feel with your eyes and see with your fingers”.
Does a bowl belong in a stack or singly, do they invite use or quiet contemplation?  
Are they to be appreciated with your eyes, or held in your hands?
BS 2022