I forgot that my mother made books with me as a child until I found (after my father died) the remnants of my drawings and her words in a folder in the basement. I loved discovering these small construction paper efforts, because I had made so many books with my daughter– tiny folded and stapled pages with scribbles and words. The books I made as a child were clearly not evidence that I was a poet, but testimony that my mother was paying attention even though I was the third child.
The little books I made with my mother attest to the way I wrote backwards and highlight my love of drawing. No one was keeping score but these scribbles captured my particular gestures. The books were boundaries within which to explore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When I make pots I love the constraint of making functional pottery, but simultaneously I have a very broad definition of the idea of function. Today’s vase maybe seen as a shard. It began as a circle and then became a shape one can slip through– and yet the pot is something you can hold in your hand and turn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n What is grandeur? Who is keeping score?<\/p>\n\n\n\n I believe in the circle, in light that surprises me, when I can<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u00a0 \u00a0believe nothing. The palm reaching out is a gesture,\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0a boundary, a circle one could slip through, or something<\/p>\n\n\n\n you could hold and in turn it could hold you back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.catherinewhite.com\/roughideas\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/12\/05-decembrance-23-1024x696.jpg\")
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