Well, it looks like I have actually started using Tumblr semi-regularly, so I suppose I should stop claiming that I only barely do.
Anyway, this is for the reblogging and the randomness and all that. I've got my prop blog elsewhere, in the interest of not drowning those posts in a thousand reblogs. I may repost that stuff over here when I feel like it, tho.
i’m pretty sure this twitter account is how sexting works in night vale
i mean really
what is going on here
this is officially my new favourite thing
thank you for sharing it with us
Smut and surreal horror: two great tastes that go great together.
There is also another sense in which ceramics was insanely valuable to me, and that was that it taught me my art is not precious merely because I had the audacity to create it. The wheel breaks you quickly of preciousness. You can turn out a truly shocking number of shockingly mediocre stuff, and there comes a time as you stand before a table of lumpy glazed thingies, that you realize this stuff does not, by merely existing, have a right to continue existing. You have not improved the world by the existence of these things, you have merely added unlovely clutter.
Then you take it out to the dumpster, and you dither for about thirty seconds, and your chest feels tight, and finally you grit your teeth and take the very worst one, the one that looks like a dog turd with a lid, and you wind up and you pitch it into the half-empty dumpster and you listen to it smash and something happens in your head that falls about halfway between a cry of anguish and an orgasm. And you pick up the next one and smash it, and the next one, and the next one, and by the end you’re grinning like an idiot and you feel as clean and sleek and hollow as a Hamada tea bowl.
Some of us are never able to smash our work. That’s okay. Every semester, a small, forlorn pile of pottery would show up in the Free To Good Home box next to the dumpster, so if somebody wanted it, it was theirs. It’s okay. The hardest lesson in art, I think, is learning to fail, and admit failure, and learn to learn from it, without having to carry your failures with you like millstones. Pottery taught me that failure was inevitable, and that merely because I created it did not make it worth keeping, that hours spent trying to torture out art did not, in and of themselves, convey any particular grace. It taught me that no one painting, no one story, no one creative act is, itself, all that important. What matters is doing it over and over, until you get good. And then continuing to do it over and over. And that even when you’re good, you fail at least one pot out of ten. Que sera, sera. Don’t wallow. Cut it off the wheel. Do better on the next one.