in queue

All of these little white bowls and cups await attention as my glaze investigations continue. Attempting to etch lines in bisqueware, fill it with a grey underglaze and dip in a satin white glaze, unfortunately those beautiful etched lines are obscured by the opacity of the glaze. Other ideas include mixing some of the white and some clear glaze to get something more translucent or attempting a black underglaze instead. Another route would be to use a very fine squirrel or deer hair brush over the white glaze. There is some deer hair somewhere in my studio waiting to be unearthed and made into brushes, but the place to look escapes me just now.
I'm saving these two pieces shown last week, now bisqued, till I figure out my method. Any suggestions? Today also found me a bit irritable after finding several of my white pieces splashed with black glaze. It was of course an unfortunate accident, but still . . . uggh. Wiped and then scrubbed them off, just hope it won't show up later, especially if I go with a clear glaze. Perhaps I'll take the hint and splash a few intentionally.
This little accident of someone's errant pencil line pleased me though.

This cup carries that lovely white glaze. This glaze is one I had been hoping for all semester and finally saw someone else's piece with it, the glaze bucket is a bit hidden. It's white but the texture is skin. Other than the glaze, it's not a favorite, being too bottom heavy and having a slightly awkward silhouette. Still I proudly brought it home, filled it with water, promptly dropped it and chipped the lip. Some days are just like that.



Everything is spinning these days. Living in a college town means feeling its pulse quicken at the end-of-semester, exam stress and excitement of summer plans reach through all of us and quicken our own, regardless of our associations with the school.

Taking a tiny break this week from watching the wheel spin to notice the caterpillars on my snapdragon flower arrangement consuming only the blossoms, decided to raise them up to see what kind of butterfly they'd be, feeding their voracious jaws more snapdragons from my garden hoping they'd spin too. Instead most of them disappeared, save one, who mysteriously declined to make a cocoon and burrowed into some cheesecloth near the flower vase, laid there for a few days bloating until I looked again and it had cast off it's soft green skin in exchange for a hard brown one. When touched, its tail wiggles an ineffectual protest. Looked up this mysterious behavior of digging and it seems it may becoming a moth. Apparently butterflies tend to make cocoons while few moths like to burrow.
Hopefully handling it this way won't kill it. Strange isn't it? The deep black eye stares, and while that delicate strand of antennae and wing veins emboss the shell. Fully self-contained and carefully packed, its wings grow, pleating and folding, perfectly aligned parcels. When it exchanges this skin for the next, it will pump nearly all of the body's blood into the wing's hollow capillaries stretching them out until dry, when it will pull its blood back into the body and swim in the air. Until then it lays buried, sleeping, changing; meditating on what it will become as it's cells respond.

Thoughts dwelling on my little moth drawing I made after my mom died- moth(er).

Finally started spinning the wool washed and carded in November. The staple of the wool is short, maybe 2 inches and my tendency is to spin it thin, not yarn but thread really, its thickness wavers a bit like some of the powerlines I watch so carefully, both undulating heartbeats whispering stories about the creation of civilization as we know it. This beginnning from the most raw material building toward the destination, even when unknown, suits me, I love knowing and controlling every step. My tiny garden now includes cotton and flax seedlings to explore this more. The cotton seeds are from cotton bolls I picked in Georgia in November, the flax are from my local grocery store. They were planted on a whim, so a bit late on the cotton and maybe the wrong season for flax.
cotton seedlings 3 1/2 weeks old
flax 3 1/2 weeks old
white acre peas 4 days old (not destined to be fiber, just food)


greenware bonedry

because of this little plate with an accidental mark.

tried some glazes today, fingers crossed.


off 3O1

Tommy Akin photo1A road trip find perhaps only fully appreciated when it requires pulling off, navigating a field of pines and palmettos eyes narrowed to watch for rattle snakes, two sets of railroad tracks, and navigating a couple of water-filled ditches while grasping our camera straps between teeth to scramble through thick underbrush. We only stuck around a few minutes, but the sheer scale was astounding. Logs stacked stories high, curved into a stadium whose purpose was closed to us. We felt like sneaks.

The black and white photos are Tommy's and the polas, mine.
Tommy Akin photo2Tommy Akin photo3Erin Curry- stacked log polaroid 2I particularly love the sculptural quality in this last image: a smidgen Martin Puryear, a lot Tim Johnson.Erin Curry- stacked log polaroid 3



click image to view larger

for not answering sweet, thoughtful comments
posting with more care
more often

here but far away and finding the computer clumsy and an imperfect medium at the moment. Sometimes it'd be nice to arrange to sit down with each of you for coffee and carrot cake and enjoy the sunshine.

To Alleviate, Mitigate, Assuage, Allay. These words have in common the idea of relief from some painful state; and being all figurative, they differ in their application, according to the image under which this idea is presented. Alleviate supposes a load which is lightened or taken off; as, to alleviate one's cares. Mitigate supposes something fierce which is made mild; as, to mitigate one's anguish. Assuage supposes something violent which is quieted; as, to assuage one's sorrow. Allay supposes something previously excited, but now brought down; as, to allay one's suffering or one's thirst. To alleviate the distresses of life; to mitigate the fierceness of passion or the violence of grief; to assuage angry feeling; to allay wounded sensibility. Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary, © 1996, 1998 MICRA, Inc.


I wanna be these guys today

My aunt in Memphis took in my brother and I for his spring break back in March. A definite highlight was the zoo.
Erin Curry sketch

Erin Curry sketch of giraffe
baby giraffe
Erin Curry sketch of ape

While the male orangutan slept on a food dish way above us, the female orangutan sidled up to this ape(?) and insisted very sweetly for some affection. She puckered up her lips and placed the other's hand on her head holding it there until her red hair was firmly held in the other's grasp. A few minutes later the little ape took a nap in the sun changing positions every minute or so, all the while sweetie orange watched over and caressed her foot whenever it happened close enough to touch.


three up

The polaroids in this series number in the 200s now, and that's edited. Here's three.
Erin Curry polaroid
Erin Curry polaroid
Erin Curry polaroid


Throwing in the studio has revitalized my art practice. The studio hours are fairly limited so every spare moment is eked from my schedule. Most recently, leisure classes have ended and the studio space free, at least two nights a week finds me skipping dinner and in the basement til 10 o'clock at night. There the distractions are few: no computer, few snacks and limited activities to focus on, just that wheel and a growing pile of unglazed bisqueware. The habit is completely satisfying and I'm trying to figure out how to carry it over to my home studio.

At first my little cup sketches guided me nearly exclusively, but the last few weeks have been spent expanding beyond the basic cup; vases with thin tall necks, lids, jars, and bowls thrown with ribs are all being developed. Not much of it is impressive, but I am allowing myself to learn and keeping notes on things to try next; slurry skins, closed clay ballons, big jars, lids that are bowls or vases themselves, round forms paddled square, planters for succulents, handles, and feet for forms.

Lately, the meditative state of trimming a perfectly symmetrical form has seduced me, so I need to start pushing and prodding my forms more soon. Time to make more drawings.

as of 3/4


a little bit

My ceramic work has been taking up the largest part of my studio work lately, trying different functional forms and techniques. Made my first jar a week ago. Still procrastinating on jumping into glazing though.Unfortunately the studio is the basement (no daylight) and pictures aren't very exciting at this point. I'll take in progress shots soon though.

For now just this little polaroid.

Erin Curry- powerline polaroid

I am feeling a bit like I am falling in love with polaroid. It is so satisfying, carrying around my beautiful little camera: I can be in the middle of nowhere or up in a plane or on a busy street or in my yard, then press that red button and out pops a beautiful little object. And then those magic moments watching that grey white square turn into a beautiful, timeful image. Simple partners, no computer needed. Which is all very wonderful except the certain knowledge that Polaroid has a near terminal illness. (Am I being melodramatic? Perhaps.)


Because a few years ago when Polaroid went bankrupt, instead of letting someone interested buying the rights to the technology, Petters group bought the name, immediately began fazing out the cameras and film with the intention of never looking back and slipping that name on TV, and DVD players, and digital cameras. Identity theft. Who ever heard Polaroid and didn't think of that white frame holding precious photos of loved ones or moments? And now just as I'm falling in love with making simple precious images of my world, we're all in danger of losing that simple relationship forever.

If you would, please consider checking out the Save Polaroid site, or if you are short on time just perhaps quickly signing the Save Polaroid petition to let the world know this thing called instant film is still wanted. A little bit of help to save an amazing medium would be so very appreciated.


Gathering Hair

Erin Curry- hair

My own hair has been a growing collection for almost two years now. When I cut it myself, I keep it perfunctorily, but what truly captures me is the collection of strands: from my brush, from washing it, from my hair ties, sometimes when I sweep the floor I gather the strands and remove the dust fritz and my friend's hair, I have to be feeling a bit obsessive for that process though. Even so the pile grows achingly slow. My brother-in-law has playfully called my loose strands Err-hairs ever since he was a kid, being a 10 year old in a house of crew-cut boys, it may have seemed my very body was taking over his space. My younger brother shivers a little bit as the pile grows, a result of watching Eraserhead I believe, but for me it is fascination, hair plays an important role as an undercurrent of civilization: myth, stories, history and science. Hair is dna, power (Samson), youth, a reminder of death, grows beyond death, and releases itself from the body strand by strand breadcrumbs to where you have existed. I think about the movie Gattaca where Vincent, the main character struggles against his own body's dna, evidence which marks him as an In-Valid in his culture, Rapunzel's freedom and desirability, some Orthodox Jewish wives wear wigs of other women's hair to hide their own hair and thus their sexuality.

I have always wished I was born with true red hair with my freckles, but for whatever reason I am too attached to my own color to dye it. The above photo is tricky and makes it more red than it is, the photo below is closer to reality.


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