Cracked, Flawed and Imperfect

Ever since I was a teenager I wanted to take pottery. Well, I finally did it. Took at ten-week class at the local arts center and absolutely loved it. I think I'll go back this fall for the second course.

I made several pieces of pottery. I actually still have some up there that I need to finish and bring home. When people found out that I was taking pottery, several of them said they wanted a piece. They wanted a customized piece of pottery with my initials carved in the bottom.

Since I can't handle the pressure of making EVERYONE a piece, I chose a selected few. I chose people who I felt understood the creative process and appreciated the piece’s flawed and charming presentation. Ok, basically I chose people who would (hopefully) love it no matter how crappy it really is.

I don't know about you, but I put a lot of demands on myself. Probably in the wrong areas of my life. Sometimes I get so worked up that the anxiety builds pretty high. Here's the thing though... I try my best to not let it show. I know. I'm lying to myself if I think people don't notice. They notice.

So, after the ten-week class was over, I had a variety of different original pieces to pass out to my selected audience. The audience that won't reject me. The people who accept my wacky creativity and love me anyway. The people who would normally consider original artwork as their "style". These are safe people. These are good people. These are people who search for the cracks and unevenness because they actually LIKE them.

As time when on after my last pottery class, these customized pieces of kilned sweat-n-tears were needing to be passed out to their designated owners. Just thinking about each exchange, my anxiety heightened. I feared that it wasn't what they expected. Afraid of the, "Oh, but I really was wanting a bowl... did you make a bowl by chance?" I toughened myself up for the pleasant, "Oh, now that's nice. What a nice piece. Thank you." As thick skinned as I was hoping to be, I quickly realized that I was a bundle of insecure mush. I had as much confidence as a bowl of jello.

So I made a mental list of my pottery victims and decided to just go for it. Just do it. Just give them that exposed tender piece of my heart and to say “to hell with you” if they didn’t like it. I did a quick google on “death by pottery giving” and turns out I was pretty safe. I straightened my shoulders, held my head up high, walked with confidence, and with my shaking hands I handed each one of those suckers over to my judge and jury.

What was so crazy about this whole experience is that these kind souls actually loved their pieces. Each one expressed in their own way their appreciation and made my exaggerated anxiety unjustifiable. I was secretly taught that I wasted a lot of good energy.

Why is it that we define ourselves by how others view us? Why is it that we put our self worth into their hands? Why is it that a couple of bad experiences as a child turns into a life time of doubt?

I don’t know. All I know is that I’m one lucky person to have some great people around me. This makes me wish I had given pieces to those other people who didn’t make the receiving list. Makes me wish I had opened myself up emotionally and creatively to others.

Who knows, maybe those pieces I still have up at the arts center have a chance to be gifts.