Aw, crud.

Pottery is such a calming, meditative experience. Except when it’s not.

Today it was decidedly not.

The Small Comforts, which I wanted to have in the gallery’s Christmas show, and which were already a few days behind deadline for submission *anyways*, but which were going to be fired over the weekend and snuck in at the last minute before jurying started for the show… didn’t get fired. I’m kinda crushed. This is the… what, second? third?… group show I’ve had plans for but didn’t get into thanks to technical issues.

I loaded and started the kiln Saturday evening, partly with my stuff and partly with general studio stuff. Heather was going to come in Sunday and turn it up, and there was going to be happy fresh pottery to unload Monday morning, ready for jurying. But the kiln sitter[1] went off prematurely (it looks like it cracked or shifted somehow, after only an hour or two), and the kiln didn’t get any warmer than about heat-up-the-leftover-potatoes temperature. I wiggled in a new bar and turned on the kiln on my lunch break. I’m home now, making spaghetti for supper[2]. I’ll head back to the studio in an hour or two, and make teacups and sit up with the kiln until Oh Gawd O’Clock tonight. Guess the Small Comforts won’t make it into the show, but they might get into that Gallery Shop thing they’re planning for this Christmas. We’ll see.

[1] Safety feature on most kilns. Basically, there’s a lever held up by a little bar of material that is engineered to melt at a certain temperature. So, when the kiln hits the right temperature, the bar melts and sags, the lever comes down, and the kiln switches off. It’s supposed to make it impossible to forget about the kiln/overfire your work/burn down your studio. They’re wonderful, useful things, except when they don’t work, which is an annoyingly frequent occurence.

[2] Spaghetti is my father’s favourite meal, and a favourite of mine and my brothers’ now.[3] It’s my comfort (ha!) food, and I really, really wanted some after looking in the kiln this morning…

[3] My mom got pretty damn sick of it after the first ten or twelve years, though.

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