A Very Personal Statement by Elke Blodgett

Reprinted from Contact magazine, 1994/95 Winter.

Whatever mood it was that made me register for an evening class in our local potters’ guild 25 years ago; it must have been more than a whim. It was so important to me that I actually cried when, at first, I was put on a waiting list because the class was full. I went to classes, quite often with a baby in a backpack, wearing a long woollen skirt. I sat there all evening with a lump of clay, expecting beautiful pots to flow out of my hands. Nothing ever happened. The few things I managed to put together usually had collapsed by the time I came back to finish them the following week because I had wrapped them too tightly in plastic. 

Eventually — it was never easy to get away from home and three children — I took more classes whenever and wherever possible, particularly at the Banff Centre. I used to watch “old” potters like Carton Ball, Tatsuzo Shimaoka, Michael Cardew, Ruth Duckworth and others at workshops and marvel at the obvious satisfaction they seemed to find in their work. They appeared so at ease. When I grew old, I wanted to be like them.