Dirt and Sunshine

I grew up in a home of seven, nestled in the rolling hills and cornfields of the American northeast. While other girls played Barbies and dress-up, I found myself outside in a creek, scooping clay out of a bank. A nerdy, freckled girl with big glasses, covered in dirt and sunshine, I found my passion. To others, it was mud. To me, it was endless possibilities.

My parents were both teachers, so naturally, a creative, fiery little spirit like me rebelled against the inevitable: becoming a teacher myself. For years I worked odd jobs. Clerked at a bank. Scooped manure at the local farmer’s market. Waitressed. At some point in my twenties, I realized, “Grownups that don’t eat ramen every day have stable jobs.” And so, after being humbled by the world, I began my journey to teach.

I was certified in art education in 2012. In a rusty, beat up Ford, I packed up my life and drove to the deep south to find a job. It wasn’t easy. But I believe that in order to grow, you need to push yourself outside your comfort zone. I was alone. Broke. Scared. Sleeping on a blowup mattress. But I was ridiculously excited to make a classroom of my own as special as art rooms were for me as a kid.

Art rooms are a place where you can be yourself without anyone questioning your “weird”. They’re a place where you can mellow out to some music and get a little messy. A place where being vulnerable is okay. Where there are infinite “right answers”, rather than one concrete number or historical fact that you could get wrong. It’s a place where your creativity gives you a sense of satisfaction that is unmatched elsewhere.

I began teaching art in low-income high school with only a pack of paper, some pencils and scissors. The kids didn’t have much. But my room became a safe haven. I challenged them to push themselves outside their comfort zones; to create and try something new. Over the years, our program grew. It was busting at the seams and I was happy with what I’d built.

About eight years into my career, I got that itch. You know the one I’m talking about. That nagging feeling that something needs to change. A new challenge. Something “more”. I switched schools and started teaching a medium out of my wheelhouse: digital art. It scared me. It wasn’t my forte. But I knew I needed a change. A little voice inside me said that I would need these new skills, even if I couldn’t yet see why.

But changing schools and trying a new medium still didn’t scratch that itch. As an artist and teacher, people were always asking me to make them things. I finally decided to turn it into a business in hopes that it would satisfy my need to grow.

I started selling artwork under the name of Wild Things, like the story Where the Wild Things Are. It’s about a boy who is wild and rebellious. In a fit of anger, he is confined to his bedroom, and his imagination takes him far away, where he becomes King of the Wild Things. But in the end. He is lonely and travels back home where his mother has a warm supper waiting. My life path resonated with that story. Even though I live across the country, every summer, I travel home to my hills and my family, sometimes teaching pottery on a lake, and sometimes just enjoying working with my dad on their house. I am their Wild Thing.

My Wild Things allowed me to create outside the classroom. To make things with passion. The purpose of life is to “find our gift”, right? Well, a gift is something that is meant to be given, not hoarded. It is something uniquely endowed to us to give to others. I could draw, paint, sculpt, and throw on the pottery wheel, but was still looking for that “thing” that was unique to me. About six months ago, I found a way to combine all of those things into something that I’m ridiculously passionate about: fireable ceramic decals.

I found that if I manipulated text or imagery in Photoshop, I could print them on special decal paper and cut them out using my Fiskars scissors and circle cutter. Placing them on pottery, I fired text on a plate, photographs on ornaments, words on planters, and so much more. There were endless possibilities. I printed a scan of my grandmother’s chocolate chip cookie recipe. I cut it out and it placed on a porcelain platter. I prayed to the kiln gods that when I cracked that kiln open, I would find the swoops and curves of her handwriting embedded into ceramic for thousands of years.

When I opened the kiln, it felt like Christmas morning. I found that the crumpled, fragile piece of paper that held her writing was now permanent, safe, and preserved forever. But aside from the tangible plate, what I also found was “it”. That gift that I could give people that was uniquely mine. It was more than just pottery. It was the ability to preserve a memory. To honor love.

In the early days of my brainchild, I fired a recipe in Russian written by a friend’s grandmother, a recipe handed down from an Italian nonna, an urn with the photograph of a family’s beloved pet, and the image of an “I do” kiss on an ornament. I was able to take a feeling and immortalize it.

There I was. I had a dream. But as a teacher, on a single-woman’s income, I couldn’t afford the one thing I needed to make it happen from my home: my own kiln. I’d searched for years, but couldn’t justify the cost. I searched online and finally found a used kiln for a reasonable price. After negotiating with the seller, he said the most amazing thing to me. “I want to plant a seed of good faith. You seem like someone who loves pottery and has a dream. How about I give it to you for free, in exchange for a pottery lesson for my wife and I? I hope you can do good for others with it.” I was speechless. Sobbing. Filled with gratitude, and on a mission to make his words a reality.

I got the kiln home and ran into the next roadblock: affording the electrical hookup. I crunched the numbers. Balanced them against the cost of living and my vow not to go into debt over this dream. Disappointed, I realized I couldn’t afford it. A few hundred dollars to some was monumental to me. I put out a plea on my social media to launch a sale of my ceramic decals in hopes of raking in enough money to afford the electric. My parents always taught me, “You value what you work for, more than what you are given.”

Miracle number two came the next morning. I had a friend who was an electrician. I woke up to message that read, “How about I install the electric for your kiln, in exchange for a painting for my wife and I?” For the second time, I was rendered speechless and sobbing. Rather than living on ramen and iceberg lettuce, I was able to use my creative skills as currency.

On this path to establish a business, I have been enormously blessed by Good Samaritans. People who have given of themselves to make my dream a reality.

So, what are my next goals? To expand and grow. While I grow my Wild Things and accrue more technology and skills needed to be successful, I still teach for the same district that started my career. Like most public education systems, monetary woes are the norm. This year, I received just under $400 to teach pottery and 2D Art to 150 students for the entire school year. I am limited on what I can give them. We run on fumes. My goal is to utilize my ceramic decals and my Wild Things business to help raise money for my classroom through creative fundraising.

I would like to work with my students to create ornaments to be sold during the holidays, planters to be sold in the agricultural department, dinnerware to be sold in culinary. All while using text and imagery that will be cut out and fired on ceramic elements. I want my students to see that they can use their creative skills and passions to make the world a better place. That their creativity is valuable and that goodness and kindness should be rewarded. That they will value what they work for more than what they are given.

What is my craft? I make pottery. I use pictures, words, digital art, scissors and clay to immortalize memories. But at the end of the day, I’m still that little girl, scooping mud out of a creek bank, covered in dirt and sunshine.