Ceramics Painting 101

You thought I was going to write about wet clay and potters’ wheels, didn’t you? Nope. The clay is too slimy and I get bored trying to keep my lump of goo on the wheel instead of flying onto my neighbor’s back. The art of ceramic fabrication is neither in my past nor my future. Painting Plaster of Paris blanks, now that’s a different story, one that is linked to the mysteries of the human psyche. Why is it when young stay-at-home parents pick up a hobby to keep them from going insane they invariably believe the output can be sold to eager buyers, thereby not only reimbursing the household budget for money spent on supplies but actually adding revenue? Is Etsy the mode du jour of marketing to ease our buried guilt? Or could it be that we are hard-wired for bartering? I’m beginning to suspect peddling is in our mitochondrial DNA. Imagine this: you have space in your backyard for a vegetable plot. Your crop of tomatillos exceeds your capacity to warehouse your jars of homemade sauce. What do you do? Take jars to work and sell them there? Cart them to the local gift shop that already stocks preserves from the orchard up the street? Invite neighbors in for a party and drizzle your concoction over enchiladas, placing a few jars on the table in case they crave more, for a price? You do all of the above, that’s what you do. Whether it’s apple butter, pecan pies, or the tamales from your grandmother’s recipe, what starts out for family use often ends up on a stranger’s table just so you can squirrel away a little cash for next month’s car Insurance. It doesn’t only apply to food. How about those cute little birdhouses you hammered together out of scrap wood one Saturday morning when you felt bored enough to pick up a hammer and saw but not energetic enough to fix the rain gutters? Is that how you ended up at the local weekly street fair with a tent full of bird feeders for sale? Thinking back in time, that’s what people did. If you were peons, you grew or raised food, kept part, and sold or traded the rest. If you were landowners, you made the peons give you part of their products and profits. Then you hawked your services and supplies to grab more land or keep your liege lords happy. Hard-wired, that’s what we are. We create output and find a way to get paid. Therefore, it should come as no surprise that my sisters-in-law and I had vague hopes of not only adorning our homes with our latest craft fads but somehow convincing a third party (usually a reluctant relative) to pay for the privilege of owning a homemade salt shaker, holiday apron, crocheted slippers, or as the title of this blog suggests, a hand-painted Plaster of Paris Mickey Mouse. Delusional, that’s what we were. Bored, broke, and delusional. Yet somehow we fudged our bank accounts enough for trips to the local Plaster of Paris mold producers and scanned the aisles for wall decor, table decorations, lamp bases, and other adorable things waiting to be painted into preciously irresistible dust catchers. Then we’d load up on paints and brushes, cart it all home, spread newspaper on our tables, and paint our little hearts out. This was in the 1970s when that particular craft was the best thing ever invented. My mother had three plates with raised floral centers mounted on her wall until we moved her to A Place For Mom. I know. I hammered the plate holders onto her wall. My in-laws had their own collections. Between three daughters and a daughter-in-law with paint stained fingers they had no choice. Eventually our copious output either got chipped, smashed to pieces, or shoved to the back of a closet. We’d outgrown painting and moved on to the next new thing: growing houseplants so large there was no room for furniture. This led to macrame potted plant holders. Everything leads to something. Last year I was visiting my brood in Virginia and we were researching Fun Things for Children. Aha! My intrepid daughter-in-law discovered a ceramics craft store. For a modest fee, you and your darlings could paint things which the shop would kiln dry for you. Yes, that’s what we would do. We did, or rather they did. I sat and watched, having had my fill of clay painting in the past. The day’s output was one Chihuahua figurine, two mugs and a plate. Don’t quote me. It might have been three mugs and a Chihuahua. The modest fee came to $75 or more and the items were brought home the following week with much joy and mutual compliments. Plans were made to return in the future with Papa so he, too, could paint his own mug, beer stein, or figurine. Last I heard, the shop was still a hot topic on the list of Fun Things For Children. You should check it out if you’re ever in Charlottesville. The family has since relocated to a different state, so I may have seen my last “paint it yourself” knickknack shop. I hope so. On the other hand, just prior to Christmas, my daughter moved into larger dwellings and was finally able to unpack the boxes of holiday decor they had been storing. One of the treasures sat proudly in the middle of their dining table. It was a statuette of a four-story Alpine Gingerbread house atop a snow-covered hill, flanked by trees, with Santa standing on the chimney. The window panes were pristinely outlined in orange. It was FAO Schwartz worthy. “Look, Ma. I’ve kept this all these years and can finally set it out for Christmas.” “That’s so sweet. Where did you get it?

“You made it.” “I did?” “Yes, and it’s still in perfect shape. Don’t you remember?” “Not a clue. Not a trace of a memory.” “Well you did.” I think she’s mistaken. I looked at the detail work. The tiny little lines were too perfect. My hand goes straight for 15 seconds and then veers off toward third base. It would have taken me a long time to get that house right. Surely I’d remember something that taxing. On the other hand, I can’t remember what the wall plaques looked like in my mother’s house, the ones I made her stare at every day. Nor can I remember any other piece of clay painting in my past, so what do I know? “Huh. I did a pretty good job.”