Australia

April 2007

I'll start with the obvious - it's an awful lot like NZ, with the attitude of the people, the look of the place and the way everything works. So little things jump out at you, for instance, asking for a dooner when you're cold results in a duvet being thrown over you. Sydney is a brilliant town to wander in. It's got a great collection of parks and a stunning harbour - the beaches aren't too shabby either. I was lucky to be able to stay at Anne Hudson's place and used it as a base for daily forays into the city. The Powerhouse Museum is probably the pick of the crop if you want to see an amazing collection of objects - from contemporary ceramics to imported English porcelains.

I also spent time in a small mining town called Broken Hill. This 120-year-old town has an impressive hill backing onto the railway made entirely of mine tailings. It turns out that the original hill that gave the place its name was dug away completely in the search for lead, zinc and silver and the enormous pile of tailings is what resulted, what's truly bizarre is that this tailings hill is almost exactly the same size, shape and location as the original hill. And to top it off, it's all about to be re-processed to extract left over minerals. So the final hill will be twice broken. The local houses all owe their architectural heritage to the tin shed. Corrugated iron is the material of choice and the dents and dings in the veranda roofs (which are usually supported by the most substantial Ionic columns) were apparently caused by a freak hailstorm - back in 1922.

I was lucky enough to see the outback under both a burning hot sun and 3 days of drizzling rain. The dampness transformed the desert in a matter of a week, removing the brown dusty pall and replacing it (probably temporarily) with a hint of new green. Being so flat the rain just puddles and the soil is so sandy and fine that it erodes before your eyes.

The pottery conference in Gulgong was once again excellent. A different mix of 'masters' this time, with more emphasis on throwing and nothing on firing. Again the best place to be was in the pub after dinner, but due to some odd planning decisions the 'masters' were whisked away at 9pm to their motel in Mudgee - leaving just the delegates to drink the town dry and socialise.

The slide shows covered a wide variety of approaches to studio practice, but were let down by the number of technological glitches that the digital age has brought - bring back the humble slide! The town’s various galleries and shops all played their part and there seemed to be an opening on at least twice a day somewhere. A lot of wood fired pots still appearing (some looking suspiciously the same as last time) and the delegates’ exhibition/market was a very good way for others to see your work. The 350 odd potters invaded Janet Mansfield’s place for the last day and 7 temporary kilns constructed in a competition burn off. The Kiwi effort was shaped like a Kiwi riding a bike - facing up the hill in an attempt to funnel the slight breeze into the firebox. It was a stunningly hot day and by the end everyone was red and dying for a cool beer back in town.

The greatest benefit from these conferences is the contacts made and old friendships rekindled. If you get the chance Gulgong is still a must for NZ potters to attend at least once.

Europe

May

After Australia I headed to England, stayed with John Dawson for a couple of days before heading to the metropolis of Tytherington, north of Bristol (or rather Bristol is just south of Tytherington) It’s a tiny place, one pub, B&B, shop and football club. But my mate Ian lives there and so did I for about a month. I used it as a base for cycle touring the local area – that is when it wasn’t raining. I also used it as a chance to relax, unwind, and take loads of photos. This part of Britain is hugely interesting, the countryside is flattish and there are loads of delightful villages to explore and an impressive collection of industrial revolution leftovers to poke through.

Then, at the end of May Charade turned up and again we made use of the Dawson Hotel and I showed Charade around some bits of London. I think the markets made the most impression – they certainly did on her wallet. But we had a great time and managed to cram a bit of everything in including a visit to the Anthony Gormley exhibition at the Hayward Gallery.

June

We caught the coach to Amsterdam and so started the European leg of the trip. Luckily we moved out of the hostel to the campground or else our budgets would have been crippled in the first week. But it did mean getting used to sleeping on next to nothing on really hard ground. I guess the bruising will go away eventually. We spent the time using the trams and jumping off whenever anything interesting presented itself (usually markets – we discovered three in three days). Didn’t get to any Museums, but saw lots of cool stuff on the streets.

Antwerp in Belgium was next on the list, recommended to us by a bar tender in Amsterdam as being better than anywhere else in Belgium if stretched for time. And what a brilliant pick – the campground was just across the river and we walked into town each day via an 80-year-old tunnel with creaking wooden escalators at each end. The beer is cheap and to die for; served up in quirky and interesting pubs, that’s after having scoffed a plate of the national dish (French Fries or chocolates or waffles). The city is full of old buildings, a port, a funky arts district and the strangest red light district we’ve uncovered.

Paris was next, and after an expensive first night in a hotel we moved to a much cheaper option still in Montmartre – by far the best area of Paris we decided. Funnily enough my French contact, Philippe, also lives in the area. We spent an exhausting 3 days seeing as much as we could and fitted a fair amount in, all the ´big´ sites were at least past by and admired from the pavement. We did indulge in the Louvre and spent about 2 hours wandering its spacious halls. Its Egyptian collection is brilliant and worth the 8.50 euros alone.

After Paris we did a long haul and highly un-recommended bus ride to Barcelona; which turned out to be worth every cramped leg pain endured to get there. It's an amazing city that re-ignited my interest in architecture – obviously Gaudi, but in a way it was the influences of other styles that have endured – like modernism. After a few days we headed back into France to Nime and spent our time exploring Roman remains, aqueducts, and nearby pottery villages. Then onto Grenoble and exploring mountains followed by Bourges and ending up by the 1st July at Philippe's parents place.

July

We were finally at the location that brought us to Europe in the first place – the Young International Woodfirers Association's first event. It was part of La Borne S'enflamme and included potters from all over the world in a frenzy of woodfiring. Lasting about 3 weeks we made pots from completely unknown materials, loaded them into unknown kilns and fired them with a group of unknown potters; the results were unpredictable. The enduring benefit for all was in the contacts made and the friendships that developed over the 3 weeks. Some of the work emerging from the kiln was worthy of exhibiting in La Bourne, the rest of the pots we abandoned to Philippe's back yard and we absconded to nearby St Amand.

August

Again we were caught up in another woodfiring festival, this time fewer kilns were involved but the kiln we were using was larger. So large that when loading we ran out of work and hurriedly dashed into the throwing room with piles of clay and a 6 hour deadline to make enough tall jars to fill the kiln. Fired only with Oak and mostly in oxidation was a new experience for us, but hugely enjoyable. Each new kiln is teaching me something new. During the cooling down cycle we built a smallish Phoenix fast fire kiln in a disused corner of the pottery using old arch bricks, giving the kiln a jaunty look. Then, in a panic that our European visas were expiring, we fled to Istanbul.

What a change; from a miserable, cold and wet summer in France to a sudden hot flush of Asian late summer heat, it caught us un-prepared and heat stoke was narrowly avoided only by dashing into carpet shops that were air-conditioned. The street life was suddenly alive after the stupor of small French villages. But our real destination was Eastern Europe, so hopping onto a train we headed north to Bulgaria.

The Bulgarians we found to be a friendly lot with the best salads anywhere. Despite not being able to read any of their alphabet we managed to navigate our way around their train network and visited castles, monasteries, ancient villages, depressing cities and also some stunning and un-looked for mountain ranges. We even passed through the valley of roses but smelt only truck fumes. It was during our circuit of Bulgaria that I encountered a dose of tonsillitis, it started with a large swelling erupting out of my neck and gave me every paranoid thought imaginable – suddenly I had tumours, cancers, boils, the lot (not helped by the Lonely Planets health section). But the doctors and my sore throat eventually convinced me otherwise, and a 2-week antibiotic course sorted it out. The only downside for me was touring whilst under the influence of tonsillitis, not a recommended treatment by any means, interrupted sleep, massive headaches and not being able to eat anything other than soups for 2 weeks lent a surreal edge to this country

September

Romania was next on the agenda, and it too surprised with its spell bindingly beautiful mountain scenery. We headed out to the mouth of the Danube as an excuse to avoid any tourist hot spot. It turned out to be a desperate place, full of grey skies, chill winds and ship wrecks. Strange characters lurked in even stranger buildings. Packs of puppies following us everywhere meant a shorter than anticipated trip to the coast; we high tailed it out of there on the 'fast' boat, only a 4 hour journey and not 4.5 hours. In Transylvania the chance to observe bears in their natural habitats was too good an offer to pass up, it turned out that by ‘natural’ they meant the city fringe where all the rubbish bins are stored. The site of a brown bear upside down inside a huge bin, hanging on by its claws was comical (we were luckily ensconced inside a nearby car) until it emerged to scoff some tasty morsel wrapped in a plastic bag.

Hungary followed and we enjoyed our trip to Budapest a lot – what a charming city and so well focused on the river Danube. Again my interest in the architecture of Europe was aroused; the detailing of the buildings and heights of rooflines was marvellous to see. We also visited the ceramic centre of Kesckemet and spent a morning peering at their permanent collection in the bowels of the building.

Slovakia was next. By now we were on a tighter time frame as we had been invited to Poland by a contact I had made in France for another woodfiring event. So after exploring the capital, Bratislava, we found some thermal waters, an amazing castle and the Tatras mountain range. When walking one of the trails, up a steep hillside of the Tatras, I couldn't believe the number of other yompers. It was a highway of people; keeping left on a narrow rocky path was a new sensation; if you ignored this walking road code, a Gortex clad tramper was soon insisting on their right of way with a pointed walking stick.

October

And now we are in Poland. We spent about a week visiting places that featured highly in the news stories I remembered about the fall of communism. Gdansk and the ship yard were a highlight, as was finally getting to see first class socialist realist architecture. Poland was decimated after the war and to see the philosophy of the time affect the architecture is fascinating, the number of buildings and the reason for building them is like seeing the implementation of a social theory played out for real.

But now we're here to play once again with mud and fire another kiln.

The chance to take part in an international wood-firing event in Poland was too good an opportunity to pass up. It happened to both of us, as a consequence of attending the wood firing event, La Borne S’enflamme and meeting the Polish wood firer Michal Puszczynski. The invitation arrived whilst we were travelling in Eastern Europe at the time and, by fluke, were due to be in Poland at that time anyway.

The focus of this event was to encourage dialogue between the Polish potters and the international potters, achieved by making pots and firing them in a large Tokagama kiln (similar to an Anagama). The international contingent included potters from Ireland, UK, Germany, Switzerland, Korea and us. The Polish potters included a number of students, ex-students and tutors from the Wroclaw Academy of Fine Arts.

Once settled, sobered up and adjusted to the delights of the Polish countryside we were let loose on about 4 tons of clay. We poked, prodded and generally squeezed the 3 varieties of clays trying to decide which suited us best. Then followed frantic mixing, wetting and experimentation. Within a day or so a rhythm emerged that would see more than enough work completed in about a week.

Every morning a feast for breakfast was wheeled down the road from the local farmer. Meats, cheeses, salads, breads, pastries all helped to soak up the residual vodka from the night before. Then it was back to the tent (a giant marquee studio specially erected on a wooden platform and generously heated by electric fan heaters) to continue making, finishing, or whatever your pots needed. Lunch was a simple affair, a repeat of breakfast. More potting. Dinner at 5pm was a Polish gourmet experience. Mashed potatoes were a constant accompaniment to delicious meats and salads; again all cooked and wheeled to our door by the friendly farmer and his wife. We heard that two pigs were sacrificed to make our stay nourishing to say the least.

Then started the laborious job of loading this large kiln. Our Polish compatriots had generally been more ambitious with their use of clay (the privileges of being more familiar with the material) and so made larger pieces, which required careful manoeuvring to fit inside the kiln, and then every nook and cranny was filled with all manner of other objects. It was a tight load, with spaces left for the flames to circulate through, with the end result that very few pieces had been left out.
A poignant ceremony conducted by Michal lit the kiln the moment the wicket was up and the schedule of shifts was pinned up. The numbers of participants meant the teams of stokers were still quite large, about 4 or 5 per team and the rotation period quite long, so to really get to grips with the various stoking rhythms employed during the firing it was important for individuals to hang around the kiln watching the stoking.

The drama of firing the kiln, watching the stacks of pots move slowly as the heat does its work, the lick of flame erupting from the side stoke ports all needed to be seen and felt against the backdrop of the quiet Polish countryside in the still autumn air, with the trees all turned a sympathetic golden colour. The closing ceremony echoed the lighting up ceremony apart from the amount of lethal vodka being drunk. Until now I’ve never finished a kiln at 6am and toasted the wicket being sealed with a bottle of Absinthe, but Poland was providing me with a number of firsts.

Waiting for the kiln to cool gave Charade and I a chance to visit Lithuania. This small country jammed into a corner of the Baltic was delightful, the two outstanding memories are; one, the women’s fashion sense – even in the perishingly cold conditions of winter, with the first snows drifting down they persisted in wearing skin tight jeans, fuck me boots, puff jackets and bare bellies. Two, the hill of crosses – a cob smacking beautiful site and at the same time oddly disquieting, this hill is smothered with crosses of all sorts in commemoration for the state of Lithuania and many peoples personal commemorations.

November

Then we were back in the Polish boondocks and nervously picking the wicket apart. It was the moment of truth and as the kiln disgorged its secrets we were in turns, enraptured, satisfied and horrified. Some of my experiments had worked, others not, the natural result of trying new forms and clays in a foreign kiln. Two days of cleaning and photography followed as pots were selected for the exhibition at Wroclaw’s main object gallery. The catalogue from the show is very impressive and informative; its only disappointment is Charade’s work is not represented in it.

Then onto Germany and we decided to spend a week in Berlin, rather than shredding our energies by squeezing in too many other places. Berlin is an amazing, cheap European city to visit and up there as one of the top 3 European cities we visited. It has a life about it, a melange of styles and approaches to urban issues that is both in your face and yet reticent. We did a cool walking tour and spent much of our time after that exploring and discovering the funkier side of the city.

But we couldn’t linger, Denmark was next and so onto Copenhagen. After Berlin we knew we were in for a different type of European capital, even so we weren’t impressed. The break away enclave of Christiania was the most fascinating bit, even if it turned out to be rather a depressing zone; filled with desperate looking guys dressed in black hoodies huddled round 44 gallon drums used as braziers and trying to sell us drugs as we wandered past. The redeeming feature was the vege restaurant’s soup. I had a quick side trip to visit Skaelskor and the ceramic research centre there – a lovely facility with a back yard full of the most delightful junk, ideal for all sorts of kiln building projects.

Then we took off for the bus, boat, bus, and train combination to reach the teeny tiny settlement of Hanestad in Norway, in the middle of a blizzard. Luckily our friend Kari found us and whisked us away to her parent’s organic farm. Next day the magic of the place worked its spell as we got up and looked about the gleaming winter landscape. It felt un-real to be in so much snow. We helped Kari in her train to workshop conversion and chased her dog through the snow. We then did a loop up to Trondheim and down to Voss to see friends, Linda and Francois, and catch up with their latest baby news. Then a quick visit to Treena in Stokke before catching a disgustingly crowded and shonky flight curtesy of Ryan Air to Scotland.

December

What a shock – the pristine, quiet, civilised nature of the Norwegians was flung into sharp contrast by the boorish, polluted and loud Glaswegians. The sole advantage was suddenly we could read every sign again, even if it was only advertising beer and chips. The trip around Scotland was a breeze, we were in the off-season and every hostel was deserted. The quiet beauty of the highlands restored our equanimity and Oban stands out as a memorably beautiful spot. Arriving in Edinburgh we struck by the shopping frenzy gripping the nation, Christmas was fast approaching and the streets were crowded with bag wielding shoppers.

Then we plunged over the border and ended up in York, a delightful medieval town that would have been hideously expensive if we actually bothered going to any of its attractions. The free Museum and the walks around the town satisfied. Then we started hooking up with friends and relatives and ended up in London just before Christmas. Our Indian visas were bought mid much relief and waiting in queues, preparation it seems for the actual country to come. Our epic Christmas dinner was provided by John Dawson and guests and was Brobdingnagian. I think it lasted on my waistline at least a month, even with an Indian lentil diet.

India

January 2008

We arrived into the cacophony that is Bombay, luckily my good friend Paulomi had jacked us up with some accommodation in a Hari Krishna temple. The daily commute into downtown Bombay via the second-class train carriage was worth the 8 rupees for entertainment value alone. The mad scrummaging to board was followed by the most dignified adjustments during travel and then a brief struggle as exiting people got near the exits before the cycle started over again. We spent a week trying to adjust to the climate, people, noise, everything. We were also jacking up a teaching gig for later in February and I had an eye lasering operation.

The first experience Charade had with Indian trains was the 2nd class AC sleeper from Bombay to Ahmedabad in Gujarat, a lovely train that brought us rested to the largest of this wealthy state’s cities. It was a melange of stuff; the architecture treasures ranged from tin shacks of the squatters camp down by the river, to Le Corbusier concrete bunkers, to ancient mosques, to even older step wells penetrating the dusty earth. We criss-crossed the river to find the museum, another bunker edifice housing a dilapidated dusty collection of relics. Diu was an ex-Portuguese delight with none of the hype of Goa. An enormous fort dominates the harbour and the guesthouses are full of westerners recovering from ‘normal’ India.

Then up to Rajasthan, the camel kingdom, a place full of amazing textiles, appalling tourist souvenirs and majestic moustaches. We started the tour of this state in Udaipur where the serenity of the lake contrasted with bustle of the old town. Jodhpur followed and amazed us with its’ fort, a monolithic structure emerging out of solid rock and surrounded by a sea of blue houses. The crap hotel room meant we didn’t stay long so Jaisalmer followed and its’ fort had the appearance of a fantasy castle sitting of a sand pile, just waiting for some bully to come and kick it over, or for the tide to come in and drown it. We spent a few days there poking around in the fort or the old quarter of town, buying textiles and generally enjoying ourselves. Watching the sweet makers at work first thing in the morning, or watching the wedding parties parade through the city with their unearthly din and chandelier wielding entourage were highlights. The weather was mostly cool and we did get one day of rain, just enough to wash all the dust off, make all the trees look green again. Pushkar was next via an overnight sleeper bus – a misnomer if there ever was one, no sleeping was possible on the bouncing, heaving, jerking bus – the journey seemed interminable. But the Westerner’s haven of Pushkar awaited, a one street town surrounding a rapidly shrinking holy lake, it’s full of Israelis in pack mode hunting down hummus and the cheapest deal.

February

By now it was early February and we were needed down in Pune to teach the pottery workshop. So one overnight bus later and Bombay was back. We hooked up with Paulomi and were driven via a magnificent highway to Pune. The following day our workshop began, an introductory hands on for beginners lasting 8 days. Ably assisted by other potters it gave me a chance to meet a different slice of India, make new friends and hopefully impart to the participants some skills and a love of clay. We discussed theory, practical tips and glaze recipes; the results out of the glaze kiln were a testament to their perseverance and dedication. We left there on a high, and with an address book full of new numbers.

Off to Aurangabad and a visit to the Ellora caves, via the only package tour we took in all our year away. The caves were awe inspiring, hard to describe as their scale had to be related to your own footsteps. The impenetrable fort of Daulatabad had the most complex entry of any castle I’ve ever visited, pity that it was taken by the simple expedience of bribing the guards.

We had a lovely time in Pachmarhi, a hill town in off-season, which meant emptiness and mad monkeys. Then onto the maelstrom of Varanasi. We arrived at 6am and staggered through the network of tiny, sewage loaded lanes to find a hotel that rose above the street level muck. Seeing the sunrise from the river, picturesquely obscured by the smoke from burning bodies as our oarsman competed for position amongst the flotilla of tourist craft was a delight. The general mass of humanity using that river for every conceivable purpose still left enough life in it for us to see fish feeding off an out-flow pipe. Daily entreaties by a Sadhu to come and test the waters with a swim were declined however.

March

Our doglegged route now headed for Agra via the erotic wet spot of Khujuraho. A temple based town that was popular for all the erotically carved temples. Most of the carving was of beautifully proportioned, clothed figures dancing in praise of various gods. However it was fun watching the Indian men giggling at the completely impossible sexual positions (like a man balancing on his head satisfying three women – what a legend!) We also bumped into some local country potters on the way to yet another erotic temple. They were making the common water pot. So we explained that we were potters too and so they invited to have a go. The wheel turned out to be a clay wok sitting on a small metal wok sitting on a marble slab. To throw a pot involved using this device as a turntable and making as much of the pot with the wheel spinning slowly. Only at the end did a damp rag help you to form the rim (the only finished bit on the whole pot). It was then set aside to dry a bit before being paddles out to the final shape. It was bloody hard!! Both Charade and I had a go - the clay was some local dirt really - sticky and short. The locals had a laugh at our expense. But it was good fun. Then they asked for money – we should have seen it coming. We also managed to find ourselves a brick clamp kiln that was partially demolished so we could see how they worked; we've seen hundreds of them from the bus windows.

The biggest drama of the week was Charade getting attached by monkeys. We'd gone down to the river at Orchha to watch the sunset past old tombs and realised that we'd accidentally bought 2 bananas along. I fished them out of Charade's bag and hurled them at the fast approaching monkeys, but too late! they'd seen where I got them, and so one cheeky bugger made a grab for Charade and clawed a handful of material. She screamed. I grabbed a handful of river sand and threw it into the monkeys face - no way was I going near that vicious evil creature! I kept on biffing sand until it backed off screeching then we bolted for the bridge to get the hell away.

Then it was Agra and the Taj Mahal at dawn, a lovely site that still marvels no matter how many times you visit it. What also marvels is the price that India authorities are charging for all monuments these days. The massive price differential between Westerners and Indians is ridiculous – whilst waiting for tickets we often felt that we were unofficial bankers for the Indian state. Often the Indian tourist next to us, when questioned, was making more money from the burgeoning economy than we made back home as potters.

Jaipur was memorable for the flu we both caught, which gave us amble time to study the horrid small hotel room we found ourselves in. So onto Delhi, shopping and even worse rooms. Our bags were now seriously heavy and a bugger to lug in and out of rickshaws. Manali via a long, tortuous bus trip that truly left the biggest impression on my bum was a Himalayan delight. Cool, quiet, beautiful. A perfect place to dose up on antibiotics and recover from the dregs of flu and Giardia. We walked in the hills, had sumptuous meals, slept late, read the paper and had a lovely time of it. In the midst of all this relaxation came the madness that is Holi. We got ourselves prepared with paint powders, old clothes, water pistols and launched a pre-emptive attack on the town. They were waiting for us and the confusion of colour and the drenchings came thick and fast. We bolted after an hour of mayhem to recover back at the hotel and I had to change my contact lens as the old one had become stained orange from the paint water.

One last long bus and train ride brought us to Bombay and to the very welcome home of Vandana and Maneesh. We spent a couple of days there recovering and sorting our baggage out before flying home (seriously overweight in the luggage but we got away with it).

This trip has been an amazing experience. A year of new sights, smells, sounds and it will be a source of inspiration for years to come in my work.