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| Comment: September 2008
The Kiln Muse
by John Millring Bauman
The ridge cap from the author’s house now adorns his kiln as a
reminder, and celebration, of craftsmanship that goes beyond function.
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Kilns? They’re just tools. Yeah, right.
The potters I know seem to be divided into two camps. There is the analytical type who views his/her kiln merely as a tool, and whose firing approach reflects this concrete, rational, scientific approach. I have a friend like this, and he’s famously methodical in his approach to his kiln and to firing it. He can fire to within less than half a cone’s difference anywhere in the box. Amazing. And, like the methodical craftsman that he is, the structure of his kiln could most likely be entered into a competition and be displayed as a work of ceramic art on its own merits. The guy must have killed at LEGOs as a kid.
These analytical guys chart every firing, log the temperature, the atmosphere, where the pots are loaded, even the weather of the day. The last thing they want is a surprise coming out of the kiln. They are applied science personified.
Not me. I fall into a distinctly “other” camp. Oh, back in my school days I loved the sciences. But I think I loved them more like, for instance, I love my wife. I love her differences from me. I like that she sorta turns left where I turn right. I like that she’s blonde while I am black-haired. Stop laughing. I used to be black-haired. And if I ever understood her, our relationship would probably wobble out of the already crazy orbit that keeps it vital.
I like where science meets story-telling. The “you’re not going to believe this, but…” aspect of scientific discovery. But ask me to work my way through a dry manual or page after page of formulas and I’ll act like I didn’t hear you.
My kiln is different. Oh, it’s part tool, no doubt about that. Realities of life don’t let me get too far from the fact that every dollar I make in this life starts as a pot that goes through that kiln’s fires. But it’s also part magic, complete with a whole system of rituals, and decorated with talismans. I realized early on that I had stepped over that line from John-the-potter to Harry Potter when I noticed that I had gone from merely closing the kiln door on a firing with my fingers crossed to, well, to this:
One day, after a particularly good firing, I noticed that a hand-rolled bead that my wife made had rolled out of its firing container and come to rest directly in the middle of the kiln’s flue. I left it there. I left it there for at least ten years. Ten very productive years. With each good firing, I found myself less and less able to remove that bead. Do I believe that the years’ worth of good firings are directly connected to the presence of that charm in the flue of my kiln? Of course not. But why, y’know, tempt fate?
The house I live in was masterfully built by craftsmen of the nineteenth century. At some point in the middle of the twentieth century, the owners of the place finally had to repair the cedar roof. When they did, they replaced it with a metal roof. Again, craftsmen who could have been strictly functionally minded-—who could have assumed the attitude that as long as the roof worked, kept out the rain, that would be enough—weren’t. When they capped the top ridge, they did so with forty feet of ridge cap that was double folded, scalloped and pierced through every six inches with star and clover charms.
When I found myself, sixty years later, having to replace that metal roof, I knew that fate had made me steward to the continuum of the craftsman’s caring obsession. It was up to me to carry it on. So now a four foot section of that ridge cap sits atop my kiln. It’s part charm and part constant reminder that the happy man never stops at mere function.
I also share life with my kiln in the same manner that I might spend time with a friend. We have our friendly rituals, the two of us. Some good times, some tough times. The kiln and I mark the seasonal changes in the same way, year after year. It’s now been nearly twenty years with this kiln. I’ve spent countless hours watching the stars and moon in the clear, cold winter sky—the heat of the kiln warming my back while my nose hairs bristle with each cold inhale. And springtime after springtime I burn off the stinky mouse nests that have accumulated as I spend a few winter months at the wheel, dodging the worst of the natural gas prices by not firing until closer to the start of the show season. In the summers, the door to the kiln room remains open wide, a fan hanging from the door frame, sending hot exhaust outward so the room is tolerable enough to walk into long enough to check the cones. Then comes the blessed cool of the autumn again. And I almost never start a firing in the fall without first burning a small pile of dry maple leaves that blow into the bottom of the kiln, just so I can smell burning leaves—the aroma transporting me back to every past autumn of my life. A potter lives with a kiln in a manner unlike any other tool I can think of. It can be such a constant thing to tend a kiln—every hour, or even more often—looking in on it, adjusting, judging whether it is done or not.
And there’s the heart-pounding start that occurs every day I’m not firing—but forget that I’m not firing. OH MY GOD! I FORGOT THE KI—oh yeah, I’m not firing today. I think I come by my kiln fears honestly. With my first kiln, I burned down my shop. In the middle of the night, the neighbors came banging on my doors and windows shouting that my shop was ablaze. Nearly thirty years later and I haven’t slept naked since. Trying to step into trousers in the dark while the shop is on fire with a propane tank leaning against it will leave an impression.
The old kiln’s not looking so good these days. I’ve lost track of the number of firings we’ve done together. It’s a small kiln, so I’ve been known to go through a busy stretch of season (like right before Ann Arbor Art Fair), firing up to sixteen days in a row. I have figured out that I’ve fired at least $1.5 million worth of pottery in that little kiln. It’s served me well and has been a good friend.
I built a new kiln a few years back. The new kiln is still just the bisque kiln. Still just a tool. Some day the old one will fire its last load. Maybe then I’ll start some rituals and find a charm or two for the new kiln. I think I’ll know what to do when that time comes ‘round. The new one will tell me just like the old one did.
the author John Bauman operates Bauman Stoneware in Warsaw, Indiana. To learn more and to see his work, go to www.baumanstoneware.com.
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