As society puts an increased premium on speed and efficiency, I feel more compelled to offer a slow and sometimes awkward experience, both in the reading and real use of a pot. Perhaps this is a common and dated response for anyone involved with the production of a handmade object and the inherent inefficiencies involved with the various processes (at least mine). Because of the
gravitational pull toward “fast,” I find myself drawn to making the “slow’ object.” This thinking is not rooted in a disinterest or distrust of technology, rather it is a straightforward way for me to extend a conversation with a user/viewer, potentially providing a platform for a meaningful encounter.

For several years now I have been involved with a relatively simple object reflecting a simple idea: that is, to make a container that allows for the transport of several cups (or sometimes bowls or cordials). To “carry” is my effort to construct an experience that brings a pot close to one’s center, while encouraging an awareness of weight, proportion, and scale. The number of cups implies community; the act of carrying is a gesture of giving. It is my desire that the awkwardness of lifting a cup as it “scrapes” a wall will provide a subtle catalyst for seeing and feeling a new relationship with something as familiar and ordinary as a cup, as well as to serve as a bond for those gathered. The absence of cups intimates presence, and I enjoy that inferred reference.

The generation of this idea evolved from three specific instances, all of which still resonate from over a decade ago. Seeing Richard Serra’s Torqued Ellipses and Spirals at a sparse and new Gagosian Gallery in Chelsea gave me a greater appreciation and feel for gravity, and led me to rethink previously held notions of containment. Coming across a simple cylindrical “carrier” at a flea market in Western Massachusetts, resembling an open wooden hatbox with a thin metal handle spanning the volume, struck me as a beautifully sparse and sturdy object that spoke to an obvious use, as well as a history of use. And lastly, walking the grounds of Mont Alban, Oaxaca, Mexico, I became aware of the quiet power of an expansive, flat plane intersecting a defined, articulated barrier. Within their own respective languages, the sculptures, carrier, and ruins expressed a sense of clarity and elegance that I found both attractive and profound. Though I am always concerned that this series and interest will be perceived as falling strictly into a design construct similar to the familiar “how to wrap five eggs,” because it is based in problem solving, it is my hope that these works possess a glimmer of the aforementioned qualities of a simple, direct object suggesting restraint, accessibility and studied elegance.

The string series “tablets”, are yet another means for me to advance a more measured experience. Like the stone tablet, the first recorded writing in history, my tablets hope to serve as a tangible reminder of the importance and weight of history, particularly in light of the ethereal nature of present-day information retrieval systems. In a personal way, these tablets are markers for my political awakening, in1968. Often referred to as the “year that changed the world,” 1968 has been the subject of lengthy dissertations across all media. For me, it was the year that first illuminated the tragedies of the world outside of the comfort of a small family room in Toledo, Ohio. The portraits of individuals depicted on each tablet are at the forefront of my memory: Robert Kennedy, Walter Cronkite, Richard Nixon, Mayor Daley, Lyndon B. Johnson, and Martin Luther King. Initially these “portraits” begin with a traditional drawing made of string, which becomes abstracted and unintelligible after the final firing. I find the translation between known and unknown, between actual events and memory to be provocative territory for another connection to history.

“Bill and I decided early on to focus the UC VI symposium on a group of artists considered to be in the ‘early-career’ phase of their métier.  It was in part recognition of the sea change of sorts afoot in our field, as well as knowing that the tried and true template of the symposium could/should embrace the change; this was a departure from the previous symposium’s rubric of an even distribution of early, mid, and late-career artist.  Though we were confident that this would be a workable model and deliver a meaningful symposium to our audience, we nonetheless crosschecked our intuitions in several conversations with past presenters.  The idea was well received, from both academic and non-academic perspectives, and we proceeded with the nuts and bolts of the planning.

An immediate challenge was arriving at a suitable definition for ‘early-career’ – such arbitrary classifications are invariably fraught with problems, and in all most any instance there could be a plausible counter argument.  To this end, we were helped most by Mary Barringer, who suggested we consider an ‘early career’ artist as someone “who is at least one decision away from their mentor/teacher” (or so that is how I remembered it).  At the close of our conversation, Mary went on to add, “Make sure they have something to say…,”  planting the most nagging seed in our psyche.

Speaking for Bill here, I believe our intuitions were confirmed when we began looking at prospective presenters.  Starting with a working list of over fifty names, we realized that we could comfortably assemble three equally competent and compelling rosters of artists to demonstrate and discuss interesting and engaging objects and ideas.  And so without getting bogged down in the nuances of any one decision/selection, I will broadly say that this group of artists involved in UC VI represented: quality work, a healthy variety of approaches to material and process, varying backgrounds and present studio/working situations, and quality thinking as manifested through the work and in the person.

I might add that this gathering of energies as evidenced by this website (objectiveclay.org) is, in no small part, a further signal of the importance and relevance of symposia to act as a catalyst for a conscious collectivity to push ideas and continue to probe the “what if” in our field.”

I first met Jack Troy in 1979 as a ceramics monitor for a series of summer workshops at Miami University. Soon after receiving my undergraduate degree, I went to Juniata College to work as a special student under Jack. Not enrolled in a class, I worked independently and upon getting there asked Jack for an assignment to get me jump-started. He suggested I make a hundred of something. Having never devoted much time to bottles, I choose that form. After 150 or so, I had my first critique. Jack took great care in helping set up the bottles at eye height throughout the studio. I remember our discussion starting in daylight and ending after dark. I had never thought it imaginable to consider so much in one form. “The space around the bottle?” From that moment on, the door was open. Not only was it a lesson in critiquing and the needed attention to what I didn’t know, but it was a memorable experience in patient listening. Jack’s thoughtful ear conveyed a sense of mutual respect and instilled a belief in my young efforts to establish a visual identity for myself. Now as a teacher knowing the fragility of this identity, I strive to have such a devoted and sincere ear.

Spending more time with Jack outside the studio, in his home amongst beautiful pots and books, or one of the countless hikes around the area, I found an individual who loved to learn as much as he loved to teach. The intensity of his focus and interest extended into all corners of knowledge. The quiet notes of a wood thrush or the latest Updike piece would receive the same scrutiny as the lip on a 19th C. ovoid jug or the last pull of a pitchers handle. Seeing an individual intent on being so well conversant with the political, social, natural and creative world around him had a profound impression on me. Perhaps most salient of all, I began to be aware of the connective tissue between what I once considered to be relatively disparate bodies of knowledge. Seeing the fullness of a dedicated life, in and outside of the classroom, provided an important model of what it means to be an engaged citizen of this world.

Richard Roth sold his successful pottery in Sonoma, California to return to his family home on a sixty-acre diary farm in Winlock, Washington, to raise his family and start another pottery. Through a rather circuitous route, I found myself on the doorstep of Richard and Susan’s home in 1981, and was immediately welcomed into their family. As a young potter to be, I couldn’t of arrived at a better time. Having just completed their move, I was fortunate to be on the ground floor of establishing their business. There was an unbelievable completeness to the experience: from falling trees to put up the kiln building, developing glazes with the newest and most abundant glaze material on hand in Mt. St. Helens ash, to deciding on what fairs to enter and how to negotiate this new and competitive market. It was a rich time and it would be difficult to imagine a more gifted teacher than Richard in which to navigate all these new challenges for me.

Growing up on a farm, Richard was kneeled in hard work and common sense. Though for a time he was a teacher, and has been on and off as opportunity and desire permits, his teaching’ always came through by example. An extraordinary amount of care and love was a part of every encounter, regardless of how mundane or profound. From preparing a job, using a tool, making a pot, talking with customers, addressing a town meeting, or leading the scout troop to playing tuba in his kid’s high school band, I was struck by how seamless his efforts were. Richard, more than any other individual I’ve met, was and remains today, enviably 100% present in the moment. On the bleakest of days the Pacific Northwest has to offer, trudging out for a day of fence post digging, Richard would pause to comment on the pattern of rain falling against the saw mill shed. His ability to locate the beautiful and poetic in the ordinary and commonplace stays with me to this day, reminded me of the importance of looking at the often overlooked. Though I learned a great deal from Richard about making pots and a pottery, I learned more about the making of a person. Jokingly, a friend once referred to Richard as “pathologically positive.” Conducting his life with integrity, passion, and sensitivity, there is a strong element of truth to this. Opening his mind, heart, and soul to me and nearly everyone who treaded on their acres, Richard has not surprisingly been more of a spiritual mentor to me, In being so, I feel he is a tuning fork of sorts for things in and outside of the classroom.

While living with a host family in 1997, as a participant in the International Workshop of Ceramic Art in Tokoname (IWCAT), Peter Beasecker remembers “seeing close up, the life of a Japanese pot, which was quite different from all my experiences in museums, galleries, restaurants, and even with friends’ collections. Types of pots, which before I had seen in a more rarified way became a part of an everyday experience, and with that, an unfolding of an appreciation and understanding that can only come through use. Upon coming home and returning to the classroom, my nagging dilemma was, ‘How could I bring a semblance of this experience to my students?’ and more broadly, ‘How could I personify the abstract nature of problem solving for the average 20 year old college student making an utilitarian vessel?’” And so the “Tei Tei Project”, as it is commonly referred to within the Meadows School of the Arts at Southern Methodist University, where Peter teaches, was born.

Tei Tei, is one of two small restaurants in Dallas, Texas, owned and operated by Chef Teiichi Sakurai, a native of Tokyo. Peter chose to approach this restaurant not only because of the reputation of Chef Sakurai, but because he knew that the Chef was sympathetic to hand-made pots. “As soon as I walked into the restaurant I was greeted by a large Sam Clarkson platter hanging on the wall, and one of his soy bottles was on every table,” he recalls. Chef Sakurai remembers, “When Peter came in and talked with me about his idea, I thought about my own vision of operating a restaurant, which is to introduce Japanese culture to this country in the right way. This was a perfect project to introduce the culture to students, because every single pot has a meaning for the food.” Briefly, the project involves three separate meetings with Chef Sakurai and culminates with a feast of up to a dozen courses, depending upon the number of students enrolled in the class.

Top-first: At the Tei Tei Robata Bar, Chef Teiichi Sakurai prepares a sashimi course in Bowls for Spring Season, 7 in. (18 cm) in diameter, thrown, then fired to Cone 10 in reduction, by Amelia Jones.
Top-second: Grill Plates for Spring, 7 in. (18 cm) in diameter, hold grilled seabass with pickled ginger and lemon, thrown and altered porcelain, with celadon glaze and fired to Cone 10 in reduction, by Elisa Difeo.
Below: The second meeting of Chef Sakurai and the students takes place at the Meadows School of the Arts studio in Dallas, Texas, where he critiques the greenware pieces, like Amy Miller’s Dessert Bowl for Spring.

The suitability of Japanese cooking to this kind of project comes from a long, solid cultural background, the essence of which is its observance of nature. A survey of Japanese art - painting, poetry, literature, music, and even cooking, highlights the Japanese society’s acute awareness of the seasons. According to ShizuoTsuji, noted chef and cookbook author, Japanese culture was born of austerity. Even the imperial court in Kyoto was impoverished. But the cultivated nobles learned to delight in the offerings of each changing season, making the most of what nature provided, when each fish, fowl, fruit or vegetable was at its prime. In the 6th century, Buddhism took hold in Japanese society, and meat was made taboo. The contradiction here was that Buddhism had originated in countries with tropical climates, with bountiful harvests of fruits and vegetables. The mostly temperate Japanese island climate provided a severely limited selection of edible choices. Therefore, making the most of nature’s seasonal offerings with the utmost culinary artistry gave rise to the traditional Japanese meal: Many small courses, each a work of art in which much time and thought is spent, with the utensils constituting an important part of the sensual experience, all with emphasis toward satisfying the needs and desires of the guest. A traditional Japanese banquet consists of a great many small portions - the greater the variety, the more extravagant the hospitality.

THE FIRST MEETING

Students initially meet with Chef Sakurai at Tei Tei on a Monday, the day the restaurant is closed. There, they get a sense of the ambiance of the space, explore Chef Sakurai’s large inventory of pots (organized by season), and listen as he shares his thoughts on everything from the landscape of his homeland to the salute he gives his patrons as they leave the restaurant. Chef Sakurai says, “I want to give the students an understanding of where I come from, my thinking. I tell them to try to understand about how I think about the seasons by looking at nature, sensing the seasons, and going to the Mall to see what designers are showing in terms of color and texture.” Toward the end of the meeting, Chef Sakurai assigns courses to each individual student and, one person/course at a time, explains the intricacies and requirements of a specific vessel for the assigned course. For example, in the requirements of a “rice bowl for the spring season,” he explains how a rice bowl will be held, the needs of the foot, and general height to allow the bowl to be held in one hand. For other courses, such as “fry”, the plate will be covered with a neatly folded piece of paper. In that case, creativity and an idea that expresses the season is more important, and specific formal requirements are not as necessary as for “rice”. However, even with courses which have vessels with stricter formal issues, creativity and an idea for the season is paramount. The students are always advised to, “Use your imagination and look at nature.” Peter remarks that at this meeting, “Students typically take this far more seriously than the usual classroom assignment, partly because it’s not on familiar ground and partly because they’re not responsible to me. It changes the context of the discussion and because of Chef Sakurai’s presence, it adds an element of uniqueness and seriousness. One thing I impress upon the students is that this project is an exchange of gifts, culture, and talents. No money is involved, which would introduce commerce and bring a different energy into the mix. ”

Left: Little Bite Dish for Fall, 3 in. (8 cm) in height, press-molded stoneware, glazed and fired to Cone 10 in reduction, by Stefan Chinov. Little Bite, usually the first course in Japanese cuisine, is seen here with Ebisunimono (shrimp salad) and Japanese cucumber, hashioke (chopstick rest) and a sake cup.
Right: Matsumae (seaweed) zuke (marinated) salmon with turnip pickle and kinuta maki (salmon roe role) is an example of 3 Things, the course following Little Bite. Three Things Plate for Fall, 7 in. (18 cm) in length, thrown and cut stoneware, glazed and fired to Cone 10 in reduction, by Victoria Hicks.

Left: Sashimi Bowl for Fall, filled with Blue fin tuna, sweet shrimp, octopus and uri (squash) pickle, 6 in. (15 cm) in diameter, thrown stoneware, with Shino glaze, fired to Cone 10 in reduction, by Debbie Reichard.
Right: Mum suimono (chrysanthemum soup) with shitake mushroom in Soup Bowl for Fall, 4 in. (10 cm) in diameter, thrown and altered stoneware, with slip and Shino glaze, fired to Cone 10 in reduction, by Larkin Evans.

Above: Fry Plate for Fall, 8 in. (20 cm) in length, handbuilt stoneware, glazed and fired to Cone 10 in reduction. The fry course usually consists of tempura, like Kabochi (pumpkin), lotus root and ebishinjo (shrimp), shown here with a shishito (chile pepper) and baby sawagami (river crab).
Mum suimono (chrysanthemum soup) with shitake mushroom in Soup Bowl for Fall, 4 in. (10 cm) in diameter, thrown and altered stoneware, with slip and Shino glaze, fired to Cone 10 in reduction, by Larkin Evans.

THE SECOND MEEETING

Now the problem solving begins. Students return to the studio and create 5 to 7 prototypes. After a couple of weeks, Chef Sakurai comes to the studio to view and critique their efforts. The presentation is extremely formal, work tables are covered with white paper and each person’s work is presented separately. Chef Sakurai is thoughtful in his discussion, addressing the advantages and disadvantages of each prototype before settling on a piece. Sometimes, none of a person’s work is acceptable, and they have to go back to the drawing board. But they always have a better understanding of where they missed the mark. Chef Sakurai also has in mind the look of the entire ensemble together and how they will work following one another during the meal. At the end of this critique, one table has all the selected pieces on it, and the students begin to understand the underlying idea and aesthetic at work.

Following the initial critique, each person produces enough of their assigned vessel for 5 or so glaze tests and the number of final dishes which again is determined by the number of students. This is probably the most difficult and challenging part of the project, because the sizes, volumes, and shapes must be extremely uniform. Chef Sakurai prefers no more than an eighth to quarter inch variance and points out that if two people receive the same amount of rice, but one bowl is 2″ larger, one person will feel shorted, “…and this doesn’t go over well in the restaurant business.” The glaze tests require creative thinking about the season for which the dishes have been designed and the texture of the landscape that Chef Sakurai has described. Fall colors and motifs of dying leaves, dark days, slowing down of life, are different from Spring colors and motifs of new life blossoming, ice and snow melting, new grass shooting up from recently warmed ground. Here, each student’s idea is very important. So even those who have been given courses with more rigid formal requirements must now consider how the food will look in the vessel, and how the vessel can represent the season.

THE THIRD MEETING

At the next critique, Chef Sakurai comes to the studio to view the five prototypes that have been glazed. The work is discussed and the final glaze combinations are decided upon. At the end of this visit, the students can see the final selections together, and get a feeling of the visual pace of the meal. The remaining inventory is glazed and fired and delivered to Chef Sakurai so that he can have a week or two to respond to the work and reconsider his relationship to the pieces and make the appropriate changes to the menu. “I will always try to see what the best fit is between my idea and the student’s work. Sculpture speaks for itself, but as a chef, I believe that pottery provides a foundation for collaboration. I suggest to students that we have to have mutual respect. The food shouldn’t overpower the pot, and the pot shouldn’t overpower the food. Just like when you are shopping for clothes, and you visualize yourself in a certain jacket you see. You want the combination to be just perfect.”

Above: Rice Bowl for Fall, 4 in. (10 cm) in diameter, thrown, with slip and glaze, fired to Cone 10 in reduction, and full of Mastaki mushroom okowa (steamed rice).
Grill Plate for Fall, 11 in. (28 cm) in length, handbuilt porcelain, with Shino and ash glazes, fired to Cone 10 in reduction, by Louise Rosenfield. Kobe beef skewer, atsuage (tofu), daikon (white radish) and Suzuki (sea bass) on haran (type of bamboo) leaf.
Braise Bowl for Fall, 5 in. (13 cm) in diameter, handbuilt stoneware, fired to Cone 10 in reduction, by Jerilyn Virden, seen here with Hachiman (Shinto god) maki (roll).

THE BANQUET

The dinner is on a Monday evening and is always a private affair due to the restaurant being closed that day. The students arrive at the restaurant, full of anticipation of the fantastic feast, and anxious and nervous about how their dishes will look. Everyone is dressed up, with cameras in hand to document the evening. They are seated at a bar that surrounds the cooking area, and can watch the actual banquet preparation. Chef Sakurai and his two assistants work studiously over their stations, and the sounds of preparations and the smell the cooking fill the small restaurant. The experience starts with a warm cloth, and cold sake is poured. Each course is presented in the special order typical of Japanese cuisine:

• Little bite - a small taste of food with your drink - ebisunomono, Japanese cucumber with hashioke, chopstick rest and sake cup
• Three-Things - a tiny taste that starts showing the season with the food - matsu mae zuke, turnip pickle, kinuta maki (special salmon, turnip pickle and special salmon roe)
• Sashimi - crushed ice in a bowl topped with seasonal raw fish - blue fin tuna, sweet shrimp, octopus, uri squash pickle
• Soup - It’s important to have proper size, shape, and especially, rim, because you are supposed to drink the soup, not use a spoon. - mum suimono with shitake mushroom
• Fry - Tempura - A flat plate with paper folded on top of the plate. The shape of the folded paper should be considered when designing the shape of the plate. - kabochi pumpkin, lotus root, sbishino, shishito pepper, baby sawagani
• Rice - bowl must be right size to hold with one hand, one finger underneath, with thumb on rim. Shape of rim is important for comfort. - mastaki mushroom okowa
• Grill - food cooked over oak charcoal - Teich likes to cook grilled fish skewered to make it bend and look like it’s swimming when served - sea bass with ginger pickle and lemon, or, kobe beef skewer with atsuage tofu, daikon radish, Suzuki sea bass on haran leaf
• Braise - High and tall bowl to keep contents warm. Must be able to accommodate chop sticks at no larger than a 45 degree angle. - hachiman maki
• Steam - Similar size and shape to Braise, but for spring, sometimes smaller. Mountain potato with snapper and shitake mushrooms
• Dessert - Not heavy, should clean the palate - pickle cherry blossom leaf with green tea custard and strawberries, or, sake ice cream with malon chesnut puree

As each course is presented, Chef Sakurai briefly explains what everyone is about to eat. At this point the chefs stop their frenzied preparations to watch the reactions of the students. The feeling each person gets when their dishes are presented with the most beautiful food is hard to explain. The first year when two Japanese students participated in the project, they were so overwhelmed with emotion, they cried. The students soon realize how special their dishes are to Chef Sakurai and the restaurant, as he spared no expense, ordering Cherry Blossom branches from Japan and serving the most expensive Sake on the wine list. This exchange of gifts and talents, is put into perspective when the students realize how much thought, creativity, effort and expense Chef Sakurai lavishes on them. When dressed with beautiful food, the tableware had transcended simple plates and bowls. In the 5 years that Peter has repeated this project, Chef Sakurai has yet to repeat a dish. He believes that layers of flavors add sophistication, and aftertaste of each bite is an important consideration in developing a menu. The vessels provide an additional layer, for a complete sensual experience. At the end of the evening, both Chef and Professor are recognized with applause.

About the Author: Louise Rosenfield has participated in the Tei Tei project since its inception, and has become obsessed with expensive sake. Tei Tei is one of her favorite restaurants because “it’s a joy for me to be served beautiful delicious food on hand-made dishes created by our class.”

Left: Pickled cherry blossom leaf, strawberries and green tea custard in Dessert Bowl for Spring, 6 in. (15 cm) in diameter, thrown and altered porcelain, with copper red glaze, by Amy Miller.
Right: Sake ice cream with malon (chestnut) and chestnut pure?e complete this Dessert Bowl for Fall, 5 in. (13 cm) in diameter, handbuilt porcelain, with Shino glaze, fired to Cone 10 in reduction, by Lael Sale.

IN THOMAS HART BENTON, A 1988 FILM BY KEN BURNS, Benton’s sister Mildred Small is reminiscing on her brother’s life and art when she rather unexpectedly announces, There aren’t any real New Yorkers. They all came from the Middle West. But that’s not strictly true but it’s amazing. There is a great deal of force in the Middle West. It is the US. The shores are the borders. Things go on in a lively fashion in San Francisco and New York City, but they aren’t the US. It is a remarkably frank thing to say, and its populist-regionalist tone goes a long way in addressing the recent works of Peter Beasecker. Born and raised in Toledo, Ohio, Beasecker’s recent work seems indebted to the values, communal histories and familial social bonds of the Midwest in ways that are only now becoming more clear. Returning often to the place of his birth and maintaining close family relationships are as much a part of his work as the proportions he arrives at slowly and with great care or the restrained and simple use of colour.

His works are made to be used but possess a purity of form that transcends mere utility. They are common objects of uncommon grace. In Beasecker’s words, These pieces represent a combination of things seen and felt in my travels. Beasecker has a keen eye for the shape of things and the relationship of parts to one another and to the whole. He often begins the process by making multiple asphalt-impregnated roofing-felt models or prototypes to help refine and define the relationships of one part, or one form, to another. Held together by paperclips, this pattern making allows Beasecker yet another avenue to search for the right combinations of line, form, proportion, and even shadow. That design sensibility seems imbued with a strong sense of the value, responsibilities and importance of the communal experience. Sharing, fairness, harmony, cooperation, placing the needs of the group above individual self-interest, life centred on the family all play a critical role in his life and in the way his well-made and functional work looks and, more importantly, behaves.

Basket Carrier. 2002. Stoneware, porcelain cups (9). 49 x 38 x 18 cm.

The works are perhaps best described by their titles: Wedding Carrier, Double Carrier, Round Carrier, Basket Carrier, Lidded Carrier and Oval Carrier. Even in a form that is as familiar as the word “carrier” suggests, Beasecker brings a wide variety of original shapes into play. As the word implies, a carrier is a thing of use, of utilitarian value. The “value” implied in carriers such as these, with multiple cups within, is that they “behave” communally. They are meant to be used by many gathered together in a communal ritual almost certainly acted out in a small duration of time. Even when not in use (which is most of the time), the carriers still actively, one could say even joyously, announce their communal intentions. Many models exist for thinking about works that spring from the mastery of a craft through the use of tools, materials and processes welded to a largely agrarian lifestyle centred on the family. One in particular seems especially relevant to Beasecker’s work in multiple ways and bears closer scrutiny.

The United Society of Believers, or Shakers as they are better known, had between 4000 to 6000 members by 1840. Begun in 1774, Shaker communities grew to number 24, mostly centred in New England and the Midwest. New York had four, and Massachusetts led with five. Shakerism flourished in Ohio with Union Village (1806-1912), North Union (1822-1889), Whitewater (1824-1907) and Watervilet (1806-1910). Shakers only rarely invented new forms. Their real talent lay in refining existing forms along with an eye for harmony of proportion and a keen understanding of the qualities and characteristics of their chosen materials. Materials always fit the demands of use in a Shaker-made object. For Shakers a handle added to an oval box resulted in a wholly new form, the carrier. Even then Shaker ingenuity led to fixed and swing-handled versions in a seemingly endless array of sizes, shapes and colours. Viewed by many as perhaps the penultimate Shaker form, the oval box was itself a highly refined design solution patterned after much earlier oval box forms found throughout colonial America. In turn, those earliest American oval boxes had their roots in now archaic European oval box forms.

Capped Carrier. 2002. Stoneware, porcelain cups (10). 38 x 30 x 30 cm.

Correspondence between philosophical values and Beasecker’s artisanship results in the penetration of those ideals into what is for him the secular studio activity of making utilitarian articles. Certainly Beasecker’s well ordered and balanced carriers are individualistic creative expressions and not collective ones but the principles remain the same. Originality and invention appear not as fashion or merely “aesthetic” phenomenon but as evidence of beliefs for Beasecker. If the utilitarian design principle applies, then innovation possibilities lie mostly in the refinement of previously discovered solutions to needs and the uses attached to those needs. Utility alone does not curve a wall or shape a handle. It only suggests those necessities are practical solutions to better use. Perhaps all makers of utilitarian objects of simple materials are linked to Shaker belief and custom in ways only they can understand. To be sure, beauty for Beasecker at least partially rests on util- ity, and beauty does matter to him. While his carriers are based on traditional forms and techniques, personal and individual aesthetic visions determine the way those forms appear. The works also look the way they do, and behave the way they do, for “useful” reasons, and it is essential to him that they be used and that they behave, function if you will, in a way that is commensurate with their use. This is an important distinction for Beasecker and cannot be separated from the way something appears.

Wedding Carrier. 2002. Stoneware, porcelain cups (8). 61 x 18 x 13 cm.

Double Carrier. 2001. Stoneware, porcelain cups (10). Wood handle. 51 x 20 x 13 cm.

This is about as close to the Shaker theory of making things as one can get. In a timeless 1939 book review of Shaker Furniture: The Craftsmanship of an American Faith Andrews. Ananda K. Coomaraswamy (1877-1947) argued that things are only beautiful in the environment for which they were designed, or as the Shaker expressed it when adapted to condition. Shaker style was not a “fashion” determined by taste, but rather a creative activity adapted to condition. Coomaraswamy goes on to say: To imitate Shaker works would be no proof of a creative virtue in ourselves: their austerity, imitated for our convenience, economic or aesthetic, becomes a luxury in us: their avoidance of ornament an interior decoration for us. Most importantly near the end of his review he suggests that “if we were now such as the Shaker was, an art of our own, adapted to condition, would be indeed essentially like, but assuredly accidentally unlike Shaker art.”

Coomaraswamy was right to say, “All archaism is the proof of a deficiency.” The world is seemingly awash in secular activity devoid of any spirit. Mindless and meaningless reproduction and rehashing of ideas unrelated to any real life experiences are the norm. Perhaps that is why Beasecker’s ordinary carriers are so extraordinary. He has managed to bring his way of work and his way of life into a kind of delicate balance. Long periods of solitude in his studio quietly working his way through variation after variation, yields work that reflects not only his devotion to his art but his understanding of his place in the world. It is surely not only the domain of Midwesterners, as Mildred Small suggested, but the roots are still somehow embedded in those Ohioan, communal, agrarian histories of people and the things they made, used, and often cherished for generations. In The Poetics of Space, Gaston Bachelard quotes Pierre-Jean Jouve: “Poetry is a soul inaugurating a form.” Bachelard responds, “The soul inaugurates. Here it is the supreme power. It is human dignity. Even if the (form) was already well-known, previously discovered, carved from commonplaces, before the interior poetic light was turned upon it, it was a mere object for the mind. But the soul comes and inaugurates the form, dwells in it, takes pleasure in it.” The Shaker phrase “adapted to condition” might be just another way to say the same thing about Peter Beasecker’s art.

Philip Van Keuren is Director of the Pollock Gallery and Associate Professor of Art and Curatorial Studies at the Meadows School of the Arts, Southern Methodist University, Dallas, Texas. Peter Beasecker is a studio artist and Associate Professor of Art at the Meadows School of the Arts, SMU, Dallas, Texas. Photographs by Harrison Evans.