A conversation about color between the artist Meg Franklin and Elizabeth Irene Meehan (career TBD).

All the answers from the lady who made this.

(Her name is Giselle Hicks. She's a ceramicist at the top of her game, living in the state of oro y plata.)

And now when the board had been placed on the illuminated table between the lamp and the raspberries, and its dust wiped off with a bit of newspaper

 
Dear Rachel,

I was working on building a piano with the elephant poop you so generously provisioned when I was interrupted by a phone call from my mother who was out and about in Austin and ultimately had to hang up because she was worried that someone else was leaving the cake shop—Uh uh this woman has giant bags. I hope she didn't get mine. I'd better run in. OK talk to you later.—with the cake balls she had ordered.

 

When I was a kid I had several fundamental misunderstandings. For one, I thought we lived inside the earth. I remember asking my dad, "But how do the rockets get OUT?" "Well they fly through the atmosphere," he answered. "But what about the crust? How do they break through the Earth's crust?" I wanted to know.

(This was only resolved years later.)

 

 

 

More thinking in the direction of the ideal studio

 

Sometimes things make sense because they are next to each other. Sometimes things are placed next to each other because they make sense. It's hard to say how meaning arises, but proximity definitely does something.

 

What if you could have the studio of your dreams? What would it look like? How would it be furnished? What kinds of tools would it have? What would you make there?

Something I've been wanting to do for a while is put some imagined studios to paper. It's fun to think about spaces I might occupy and the way those spaces might predetermine the things I make and the way the things I make might then be accessed by others.

This is the beginning. The very beginning.