I am Deirdre. I am a potter.
In Pablo Neruda’s "Poetry", he opens with: “And it was at that age …poetry arrived in search of me.” He concludes with: “And I, infinitesimal being, drunk with the great starry void, likeness, image of mystery, felt myself a pure part of the abyss, I wheeled with the stars, my heart broke loose on the wind.”
It’s a love story about his discovery of, relationship with and surrender to the written word. Substitute the word ‘poetry’ with ‘pottery’ and the poem could very well be about me and my love affair with clay.
I can’t pinpoint the day I first discovered pottery—it was decades ago—but I do know it’s been in my life, in the background or foreground, ever since. If I'm not making it, I'm traveling to Peru or Sicily or Ireland to collect it. My home overflows with pots made by friends and artists local and abroad. I take immense pleasure just sitting and soaking in their beauty.
Over time, because of either a terribly low attention span or an insatiable thirst for all that the craft offers, I’ve likely explored every type, process and technique that exists: low fire, high fire, salt fire, soda fire, wood fire, raku, stoneware, earthenware, porcelain, black pottery, hand-building, slab rolling, wheel throwing…the list goes on. My current passion is pit (or barrel or even fireplace) fired pottery, and I think I've found home.