Rooted in the relationship between process, material and meaning, I am drawn to how clay and ceramic processes have affinities with the human condition. I choose porcelain for many reasons. One of the qualities I am interested in is its capacity to move. I see embracing movement and change as essential in life. The energy at the molecular level that attracts or repels particles of clay is invisible to the eye, but the effects are apparent. There are many forces in life both visible and invisible that are cracking us open, making us vulnerable, creating opportunities to move through life in a new way. When I am casting a bowl, I am encouraging movement by embedding fiber-glass into the walls of the smooth and symmetrical vessel. Although these two materials are essentially made of the same molecular elements, they are put together differently, not unlike how DNA is shared across our species. Tension is created as the clay dries. This force literally cracks open the piece, bringing it to the point of collapse. I watch and respond, supporting it through the first firing and then over subsequent firings adding layers of clay and glaze. The raised lines remind me of the blood pulsing through my veins.
Liminal space is where all transformation takes place if we learn to wait and let it form. The word liminal comes from the Latin word limen, meaning threshold – any point or place of entering or beginning. A liminal space is a time between the “what was” and the “next.” It is a place of transition, a season of waiting, and not knowing. Author and Franciscan friar Richard Rohr describes this space as, “Where we are betwixt and between the familiar and the completely unknown.” There alone is our old world left behind, while we are not yet sure of the new existence. That’s a good space where genuine newness can begin. This is the sacred space where the old world is able to fall apart, and a bigger world is revealed.