Gifted: A Wonky Green Mug and Self Worth

Gifted

Anyone who has worked with clay and the firing process has felt the pain of a break. It’s simply part of the art form. I was so proud of the wobbly sculpted mug, paying special attention to the handle. The cup fit beautifully in the hand and was a delight, in theory, to drink out of. It survived the bisque firing, which gave me a lot of confidence. I agonized over the layering of the glazes. The goal was a misty evergreen forest that faded into fog and stars. The glaze fire, again, was a success, and I was over the moon.

I was so proud of my first ceramic piece, which I made as a gift for my husband for Christmas. I modeled it after his current favorite coffee carafe. The devastating part of this piece was that the break didn’t happen in the process; it was only after it was completed and given away that it was broken.

Christmas morning came, and the lovely green mug was his favorite gift. Obviously, I have a ceramic obsession by my attachment to them (see: an entire painting series dedicated to it), and he admired them as well, but more so, he was so proud of me for exploring my own artistic abilities and how my practice had grown and how much it had benefited my self-worth and health. He was honored to share in that with me and to show off the wonky cup his wife had made.

The christening cup of tea was brewed. While we noticed a tinkling sound, like tiny bells, being inexperienced in the craft, I didn't know that this spelled disaster. Halfway through the drink, the tinkling turned into a split down the front. Drips of chai fell on the table. My poor husband felt so bad about breaking it.

I sat down to assess the damage, it had hardly been touched but was already rendered useless. Yet, I found myself unable to just throw it away. The broken tea cup was a guilt-inducing accident. The second shattered bowl, I’d had for so long and had been with me through so much. But I couldn't place why I was unable to part with things I couldn't use and that hardly resembled their original form. 

This being the third mug I'd broken and kept, I sat down to paint it and really meditate on why. Yes, I'd made it, and that was special, but I wasn't particularly sentimental about it. As an artist, I’ve made and thrown away a staggering number of drawings, paintings, and obscure sculptures. Many didn’t turn out how I wanted. Most were good stepping stones in my learning but no longer needed. Some were just plain ugly. Somehow this mug felt different.

Having come so far from the deep depression of postpartum, I realized my fondness for the pieces reflected how I was beginning to see myself. This series had become more than a study, but a meditation on beloved objects, their demise, and meaning. If I held on to a pile of ceramic shards so lovingly, why would I feel any different about myself?

I was the one who developed my art practice through sheer force of will. I’d carved out what little time and energy I had with expert craftsmanship, forming myself into what I can now comfortably call a professional artist. Even through the failures, through my cracks and brokenness, I am lovable.

My worth is not dictated by my usefulness. If a broken cup can hold such a special place in my home and my heart, how much more valuable am I?