There's something very special about those things in our lives that are created by another pair of real human hands. Maybe we need to feel that silent tactile connection to another person in an increasingly technological world, or maybe we just appreciate the display of skill. No matter the reason, the handmade object continues to hold our attention even with higher price tags and more imperfections than its factory-made counterpart.
As an artist, I deeply believe in the power of the handmade object. I believe in what it does for the maker and what it does for the buyer. It is a power that is understood at the visual and manual level, and here I go attempting to describe it in words. What crosses my mind when I think about these objects? Uniqueness, a sense of time, and a personal story all come through.
Quite truthfully, I love my smooth, factory-made, perfect-size-for-exactly-the-amount-of-coffee-I-want-to-drink-plus-cream, alma mater mug. I appreciate its reminder of my college days, and I like its trustworthiness. It will be there, surviving the dishwasher and a few bumps along the way, and if all else fails, I can buy another one with relatively little effort. But there is another mug that sits and waits in the dark on the second shelf of the cabinet, behind the travel thermos. It is safe there, and it needs to be safe because it is very special. It is handmade porcelain, wide and squat, with a handle that allows me to fit just one finger through. It is a soft baby blue with several flowers glazed quickly here and there, and it has a matching honey comb. No one else has a mug quite like this. No other mug will have the same accidental dents or cracks in the glaze that make it look like my own skin. This is unique. I should use it more - I know that's what the artist would want - but somehow, pulling it down just every once in a while makes the moment even more special.
All handmade items embody a sense of time. There is the time it took to make the object, the understanding that this skill has been passed from one set of hands to another throughout generations, and the idea that this object is a marker of our own moment in time. I am reminded of this each time I view a case of metal tools, Chinese ceramic vases, beautiful royal dresses, or rough stone carvings at the museum.
Handmade objects also serve as reminders of a personal story that may never be told outright, but is already illustrated within the item. Consider the story of my factory-made mug. Other than remembering that it was a gift for Christmas one year and that it represents my college, who cares? I don't need to know where it was made, how loud the factory was, or who pushed the button. The flower mug is a different case. When I use it, I am reminded of a sunny morning in the sculpture yard at that same college. A friend was unloading his most recent work from the kiln, and I gave him a hand. He had a show coming up, and the work was lovely - lots of mugs and honeycombs and tea sets fresh from the fiery mouth that can make or break beauty. This brief moment was nothing extraordinary...the very fabric of the ceramics studio is woven from all who work there, mixing clay, firing kilns, working in that community. Later on, I found the mug on my table with a note of thanks for the help. It was a gesture both simple (a mug) and profound (the time, each decision, and touch poured into that mug). How do you feel when you run your hand across a quilt, smell the deep wooden scent of a carved flute, or taste a fresh pie made from scratch?
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