Live Clay
Ceramics & Custom Urns by Laura Bruzzese
Ian Ruhter, Alchemist
I think it would be hard to fully appreciate Ian Ruhter without watching this.
He doesn’t just make photographs, he captures moments.
His goal with his Silver & Light project is to connect the people and places of America through the lens of his camera and social networking sites.
Each of Ruhter’s one-of-a-kind images, averaging in size from 18″ to 36″, is created with the wet-plate photography method using a giant camera that he built himself.
The goal was not to build the world’s biggest camera but to do what he loved. The camera was necessary because he is interested in creating only large-scale original prints, not enlargements.
He’s so passionate about his work that it’s cost him everything — his entire life savings to do what he loves. He goes for broke each time with no guarantee of successful pictures, let alone sales.
If you had been searching your whole life for something you loved and you found it, what would you be willing to sacrifice?
Follow Ian Ruhter’s Silver & Light project on Tumbler or connect with him on Facebook to see his most current photographs and events.
All images copyright Ian Ruhter, via his web site and Tumbler.
Please Enjoy the Art
We interrupt our irregularly scheduled programming to bring you some visual stimulus.
I’m tired of words these days so I’ve been spending a lot of time with images. Non-verbal communication. Art that stirs an emotional response or at least makes me think about something in a new way. There’s some really great stuff out there!
For the next few weeks, I’ll be posting a selection of the more interesting things I’ve come across because this started out as an art blog, after all, back when I didn’t realize that mysterious heart palpitations and inadvertent porn and embarrassing bus rides in Haiti are sort of art, too. So, there have been detours…
But for today (a flooded Friday the 13th here in New Mexico!) I have this: The Tooth Fairy’s Lost Luggage, by Christopher Locke (heartlessmachine.com). Just disturbing enough to be provocative. Enjoy.
The Miracle of Re-Birth
Good news: it’s been three weeks since the attempted murder of Rufna, and she continues to dwell among the living!
After loads of eye care, foot washing, antibiotics, food and vitamins, she has gained weight and is learning to find food and water by herself. Her remaining eye looks normal again but is still blind (I was hoping for a miracle), and the place of its former pair seems to have reached its majority in terms of healing–no eye, but no skin, either. Just a weird, green spot surrounded by red skin that looks not unlike a tiny sun-dried tomato.
But that does not prevent her daily forays into the garden where she walks around with her head craned forward to “feel” where she’s going, and from exhibiting other persisting chicken qualities that seem to evidence a contented life.
I’m still surprised, and slightly in awe of this traumatized chicken who is satisfied to reside indefinitely on my studio porch. Shiny, happy chicken.
And so far, Velma the Rascally Whippet has not been the nuisance I was afraid she might be, but instead, a proud example of a bird-dog in defiance of her own natural instincts (save for one minor incident involving a tail feather. That was still attached to Rufina.). Perhaps Velma knows they are kindred spirits, she herself having survived a scary encounter with the Great Beyond earlier this year.
Thanks to everyone who has contributed free chicken advice, food, ER and vet consults, and even a couple of adorable, surprise chicks* (!) to keep Rufina company.
*Chicks will unfortunately be dispatched to some other venue because they are exploiting their sighted advantage: stealing food out of Rufina’s mouth, crowding the water dish, and mocking her by constantly blinking and sticking their tongues out. Also, they are filthy little creatures that walk in their own poop and then jump on me.
And finally, what’s in a name? When it became clear that chicken might live, I thought I should name her, and Rufina was the first thing that popped into my head. A few days later, I googled it to see what came up. This is what I found on Wiki:
Saints Justa and Rufina (Ruffina) (Spanish: Santa Justa y Santa Rufina) are venerated as martyrs. They are said to have been martyred at Hispalis (Seville) during the 3rd century.
Their legend states that they were sisters and natives of Seville who made fine earthenware pottery for a living, with which they supported themselves and many of the city’s poor. Justa was born in 268 AD, Rufina in 270 AD, of a poor but pious Christian family. During a pagan festival, they refused to sell their wares for use in these celebrations. In anger, locals broke all of their dishes and pots. Justina and Rufina retaliated by smashing an image of Venus.
The city’s prefect, Diogenianus, ordered them to be imprisoned. Failing to convince them to renounce their faith, he had them tortured on the rack and with iron hooks. This method also having failed, they were imprisoned, where they suffered from hunger and thirst.
They were then asked to walk barefoot to the Sierra Morena; when this did not break their resolve, they were imprisoned without water or food. Justa died first. Her body, thrown into a well, was later recovered by the bishop Sabinus. Diogenianus believed that the death of Justa would break the resolve of Rufina. However, Rufina refused to renounce her faith and was thus thrown to the lions. The lion in the amphitheatre, however, refused to attack Rufina, remaining as docile as a house cat. Infuriated, Diogenianus had Rufina strangled or beheaded and her body burned. Her body was also recovered by Sabinus and buried alongside her sister in 287 AD.
Saint Rufina, by Velázquez. See the likeness?? She’s even carrying a giant feather!
Just another name? Perhaps. Or: a dark-haired Spaniard and a Italian-New Mexican, two Christian potters separated by centuries, a saint, a chicken, and an ordinary human united in an extraordinary coincidence of the undead.
The Undead Chicken
This is Rufina. She’s new to our household.
She’s quiet and doesn’t take up much space, mostly sits on her perch or in her ceramic nest all day. She moves around slowly. If you are really gentle, she lets you pick her up.
We sit by the pond together in the morning, before everyone else gets up.
Last Thursday, I answered a friend’s call on Facebook for someone to take this chicken. Isabella and I drove to my friend’s house in the South Valley, put her in a bin, and brought her home. I didn’t think she’d actually still be alive today.
My friend had posted this story Thursday morning:
The neighbor gave us fresh chickens last night for cooking up. He shot them in the head with gun and handed them over the fence. We bagged them and put in freezer for today. Evan gets home, opens freezer and one bird is perched fully alive, very cold, and pissed off.
Chase ensues… !! We now have a blind undead chicken in our yard.Anybody want it?
I’m not sure why anyone would shoot chickens in the head.
But when I read the story, I couldn’t help but admire this chicken’s tenacity. She is courageous. She made her way out of a plastic bag inside a freezer and survived for thirty-six hours. After being shot in the head. I figured any animal that fought that hard to live deserved a little help, if only for a day or two.
The chicken hasn’t made any effort to eat like a normal chicken. Because, of course, she can’t see where to peck. (There isn’t much point in force-feeding a blind chicken.) But she does drink, so I’ve started blending up borrowed chicken food and water and giving her that. She seems content, grooming herself sometimes, showing no signs of pain or anxiety. And still, she will die.
But until then, we will enjoy each of her borrowed mornings by the pond, the sound of birds and running water, the sun on her feathers, expecting nothing.
I’m not sure why I have a blind, undead chicken in my studio. But here is one of my favorite poems, by Laura Gilpin.
The Two-Headed Calf
Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.
But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass. And
as he stares into the sky, there are
twice as many stars as usual.
Garden of Plenty
The soil is the great connector of lives, the source and destination of all. It is the healer and restorer and resurrector, by which disease passes into health, age into youth, death into life.[…] –Wendell Berry
I’ve been doing a lot of digging lately. As usual this time of year, I’ve entered a maniacal phase of grooming, assessing, and re-arranging my garden. I try to accomplish as much as possible early, before it gets too hot, plants grow wilty, and I grow lazy. That hasn’t happened yet, so let’s take a look at what’s going on in my back yard.
A Brief History
I bought my house as a “fixer-upper” eleven years ago from a tiny woman named Petra. Petra was around 102 years old and had lived in the house for 30 of those years. When Isabella was a baby, we lived a block away from Petra (but didn’t know her). I would routinely stroll around the neighborhood stalking fixer-upper properties, dreaming about owning a home and waiting for the right For Sale signs to pop up. One day, I spotted Petra’s baby-blue, cir. 1922 Bungalow and it appeared to be in an appropriate state of decay to fit my budget. But it wasn’t until I went around back to look at the yard — a big yard was a must for a gardener like me — that I fell in love.
People thought I was non compos mentis. But where they saw disaster, I saw delicious. I wanted the house.
A For Sale sign never did go up, so my neighbor-realtor friend and I conspired with a note in Petra’s mailbox offering to buy her house. Petra’s relatives who regularly checked in on her got the note and welcomed the idea of selling the house because Petra could no longer afford to live in it — physically or financially. As it turned out, the house was almost in foreclosure and they wanted to take her in.
Petra’s relatives were ecstatic that I offered to shovel out the property as part of the purchase deal. We got to know each other for a few weeks while Petra was moving out and I was cleaning.
Some of my family pretending they’re happy they offered to help.
Every inch of the house, basement, garage, tin shed, and back yard was packed with stuff ranging from useless flea market junk, to knickknacks and vintage, to animal droppings of indeterminate origin. After Petra’s family hauled away approximately 13 truckloads of her more personal effects (destined for her three storage units), the remaining detritus filled four 30′ dumpsters.
Petra was a bit of a hoarder.
She was not happy about parting with any of her things. I gave her plenty of time to take whatever she wanted, but her family begged me to throw it all away when she wasn’t there because there was no room for it in their house. Enough was enough.
I did what they asked. But still, there were sightings of Petra after the closing, perched on the side of the dumpsters, fishing out more and more from the overabundance and loading it into her tan Celica.
I found something puzzling In the basement: shelves stockpiled with commercial-sized goods: dusty cans of tomatoes and pickles, jars of olives, bags of shriveled garlic, plastic wrap, aluminum foil, maraschino cherries… I couldn’t figure out why these unopened, rotted things were there. Until I remembered that Petra said she’d worked for many years at Jack’s Restaurant & Lounge. So, the tiny woman who’d grown up very poor in northern New Mexico, who had run away from home to escape being married off at the age of 13, who never had a family of her own, made sure she always had enough.
After closing, I started renovating the yard while the house was also being renovated.
Another bathtub was discovered! For some reason, I didn’t feel the need to open the lens all the way for this shot…
Isabella rummaging in the wasteland.
By the time I finished, there was but a single 5′ tree standing (not pictured).
Then it was time to make something. So I offered my sister the use of my backyard for her wedding rehearsal dinner — nothing like a deadline to motivate. I started by building a pond. Because if there’s one thing you need when hosting a rehearsal dinner in your back yard, it’s a pond. I talked to a few pond owners, read some articles, and started digging. Things have grown from there.
The treehouse came along in 2009, thanks to a talented builder friend.
View from my studio.
I’m pretty happy with my yard now.
But change happens. Trees grow and sunny places become shady, things die and need replaced, the pond and deck need maintained. And no matter how many plants I’ve already planted, I can’t seem to stop buying them. Gorgeous plants. With their endless variety of textures, colors, shapes, smells, sizes, habits. Big plants, small plants, common plants, exotic plants, edible and inedible plants, pond plants, sale or full-priced plants, local or mail-ordered, plants in pots, plants in the ground, plants in the air.
There is always room for more and more and more.
Woodfire Results: Wares & Winner!
We unloaded the kiln last Saturday and all of my pieces survived, although some will need to be re-fired because they’re a little too dark or too crusty.
But the consensus among the group (and guests at the opening!) was that it was a success — great pottery, sales, and fun.
Overall, I’m very happy with the results and I finally have fresh inventory for my online shop.
Now, on to the results of Woodfire of Fortune contest:
Strangely, all of the contestant poppy cups survived the firing without major “damage”. They were about equal in surface quality and I wasn’t sure how I would ever pick a winner…
Until I turned them over, looking for initials. Lo and behold! See that ugly crack and those initials next to it… MB?!
ROAM ABOUT MIKE, Traveler, Writer, Purveyor of awesome YOU ARE A WINNER!
One of the things I love about blogging is getting to know other bloggers, even if by words alone. I’ve been following Roam About Mike for almost a year now, and he’s not only a great writer, but also hilarious, humble, and generous. How do I know this? Because Mike periodically thanks his subscribers with random give-aways, items from his Pantheon of useless and upsetting memorabilia such as American Hoggers™ tea cups, or beef jerky left over from camping trips.
A few months back, Mike had a give-away to celebrate his 46,000th subscriber. He offered old comp cards (signed, of course) from his former modeling/acting career which he reluctantly abandoned when Heroin Chic tragically took its place in the annals of deceased style trends. He went on to cultivate a successful stand-up comedy career, a highlight from which was used to enter the contest. (Check it out in the comments here.)
Anyway, I said, “Yes, please!” to that give-away and eagerly awaited my prize in the mail. Little did I know that the “card” was actually billboard sized (!!), rolled around a sapling and delivered by freight. Too large to fully unravel and hang on the walls of my modest Bungalow, I carted the massive double-sided portrait to my daughter’s high school gym where I could safely unroll it to its full glory. It was a little overwhelming.
One of the conditions of his give-away was to photograph yourself with the “card” and send it back to him. So, here you go, Mike. And thanks! I’ll never have to buy wallpaper again.
It almost seems fated that Mike won this contest, given the series of unsettling questions he emailed me (before the kiln opening) regarding “clay toilets” — if I could make one, functionality, how one might be used in his cobb house (?), buttocks measuring devices, etc etc. So, it seems like more than a coincidence that his cup won because of a healthy crack across its bottom. But I’m a believer in fate as much as anything and a win is a win, no matter how slim the margins, so high-five my friend, a cracked but functional cup is on its way to your new house. (I’ll contact you privately about your Prize Selection Part II, lucky man!)
Thanks to all the contestants who bared their humiliations for art’s sake, and for the love of free stuff. My life is the richer for it.
Wood-Fire Finished! Kiln Opening & Pottery Sale April 20
A quick update to let everyone know about our kiln opening & pottery sale this Saturday, April 20, 11-3, come if you can! Experience the thrill of unloading warm pots straight outa the kiln! Meet the artists! Oggle and caress!
Oh. I’m tired.
Here are some random photos of the loading & firing of the past couple weeks. And the poster with all the deets about how & where to find us on Saturday. Here’s hoping the firing — about 48 hrs shorter than usual because we reached temperature (2400 F) throughout the kiln by Friday — was successful!. (Except for you, Contesters, let’s hope your pieces suck!)
[Photos via everyone but me.]
A variety of lovely wares waiting to be loaded.
Kat glazing. Correct glaze chemistry is important for good results.
Needs salt.
Fitting in all 800 or so pieces is a feat of patience and sophisticated engineering. Or so I like to believe.
How ever will we get everything in here, with larger pieces like this toward the front (fire) and more delicate glazed pieces toward the back?
These cones all melt at different temperatures and act as somewhat of a pyrometer inside the kiln during firing.
Door at the front of the kiln where the fire box is located.
Oooo, hot.
Mike and I feeding the beast from both sides with wood dropped through two side ports.
Becoming one with dirt and fire after six hours of this @ 2200 F.
Collection of kiln goddesses guarding side door.
Jann tending side port.
Dinner time.
Bye kiln.
The Return of Tupperware Dove
How do you like this gigantic picture of a mourning dove? (click and it gets even bigger!)
See that nest? I made it.
A few years ago right after my beloved pitbull x died, I came home and found these two on the bricks in front of my studio.
Right beside them was the flimsy nest constructed by the obviously first-time dove parents.
I was always taught not to touch a baby bird because if the mother got a whiff of my human scent, she would abandon it.
Fact: Birds do not smell very well and will not reject a baby just because it’s been carelessly fondled by a human.
So, I got this plastic container, nailed it to a pretty secure spot on a highish branch, put the nest and baby in it, and hoped for the best.
Fact: Unlike robins, baby doves tend not to jump out of the nest explore their surroundings before they can fly.
The mother returned to take care of the baby until it was grown. I felt like a hero.
The next year, mother dove came back and laid another egg and raised another chick in the deluxe Tupperware nest. And here she is again!
When I wrote the original post about mother & baby, I also wrote about the passenger pigeon because the mourning dove is one of its closest genetic relatives. For a long time, “passenger pigeon” was the most commonly used search term for my blog. People seem fascinated with them, I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because, like the great herds of buffalo that formerly roamed North America and were reduced in less than 50 years to a few hundred stragglers, the extinction of this bird that once flocked & flew in the millions is also unfathomable.
I’ll copy the paragraph about passenger pigeons again, just because it’s Easter time — naturally lending itself to stories of immense life and immense death.
Flocks were commonly 300 miles long and one mile across. It seems that the real decline of the bird occurred when pigeon meat was commercialized as a cheap protein source for slaves and the poor in the 19th century, resulting in massive hunting. Before poultry farms, there were passenger pigeons. They were netted in trees and hunted with shot guns, whose pellet sprays could bring down dozens at a time. They were stuffed into refrigerated boxcars and shipped by train to canneries in the East and Midwest. When it became clear in 1850 that their numbers were diminishing, frenzied hunters went out and killed even more. Subsequent attempts to establish captive flocks failed because it was discovered too late that they were very gregarious birds who practiced communal nesting and breeding. Only very large flocks with very large breeding grounds were sustainable. The last known passenger pigeon died in the Cincinnati Zoo in 1914.
Contest: Woodfire of Fortune
Wabi-sabi represents a comprehensive Japanese world-view or aesthetic centered on the acceptance of transience and imperfection. The aesthetic is sometimes described as one of beauty that is “imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete”. Wabi-sabi nurtures all that is authentic by acknowledging three simple realities: nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect.
Good morning! I’d like to start with a big welcome to new subscribers, thanks for reading! This wouldn’t be nearly as much fun without my audience of five. Now, on to the exciting news of the day…
It’s time for another Live Clay contest!
If you read my last post, you’ll know that I’m in studio mania, getting ready for the anagama wood-fire that will happen later this month near Madrid.
*teaching moment*
Anagama kilns like ours originated in Korea around 1600 BC, and produce pottery with unique glaze (melted wood ash that combines with flame and minerals in the clay) and flashing (where the fire touch the wares). Wood-fired pottery is considered the most durable of all ceramics, having survived temperatures of up to 2200 F.
Last week, we spent most of Sunday prepping the wood: cutting, sorting, and stacking six cords of lumberyard scraps into tidy piles like this one.
I made most of this stack, it’s around 6′ x 12′. Isn’t it beautiful? Photo by Kat. Photobomb also by Kat.
Wood prep is hellishly exhausting a great workout and time to bond with the rest of the crew before the firing. It’s important to be on good terms with your fellow potters, as your work will literally be in their hands. More on that later.
You may also recall from my last post a rather melodramatic musing on the nature of imperfection, namely, my own. The questioning of choices and motives, or the unsightly bits that rarely make an appearance except in times of stress or vulnerability. I’m sure you can relate, as everyone has their own inner fiend that may or may not be acknowledged, hidden, or occasionally walked on a leash through the dark, music-less hellscape of their own introspection.
So, for this contest, I want to go Wabi-sabi, celebrate “imperfections,” acknowledge their beauty as part of the unfathomable whole, bring them into the [fire]light, as it were. I hope you’ll play along.
To Enter
1. Simply tell me about one of your best failures, humiliations, or embarrassments in the comments below. It doesn’t have to be long and detailed, just so the mortifying essence is communicated. Include your initials somewhere in the comment.
2. I’ll paint each entrant’s initials on the bottoms of these poppy cups.
3. The cups will then be loaded into the kiln March 23-24 by me and 12 other people, totally random placement.
4. The cup that suffers the most “damage,” or is the biggest “wreckage” wins! (In the event of multiple failures, winner will be selected by random drawing or vote.)
5. Winner receives not only his or her own “loser” cup, but their choice of any other cup, bowl, or vase from this firing! (unless it is already spoken for)!
Rules
1. Stories must be true.
2. One entry per person. BONUS: double entry for any failure submitted in Haiku or Limerick format!
3. Deadline is Thursday, March 21, 8pm MST
FAQs
Damage? How could any of these pieces that you’ve spent approximately 17,000 hours on be anything less than perfect?
It’s the nature of wood-firing, and working with clay in general, and life in general, that not every piece or person survives unscathed. Cracks, breakage, sticking to the shelf, death, trauma, abuse, cold spots in the kiln… The list of potential “flaws” is endless and uncontrollable.
See what I mean?
Humiliation? Embarrassing moment? What you mean?
Anything as basic as a divorce or epic trip and fall, to complex and timeless like this, one of my personal classics: That time in college when I ran into the bathroom (forgot it was Men’s) for water because my mouth was on fire from stupidly agreeing to try some guy’s chewing tobacco. Wearing flip-flops, I slid in a puddle of I don’t know what, fell on my butt and continued sliding until my forward trajectory was interrupted by a pants-down guy at the urinal. A guy who happened to be the roommate of my biggest crush.
The winner really gets to pick any other piece?
OMG!
Have fun, and thanks for entering!
Sometimes I Wish I Was Pleasanta Goodwoman
Pleasanta Goodwoman. That’s a character name that Isabella came up with when she was around 10, for one of her short stories. I can’t remember the story, but the name stuck with me. I imagine that someone with that name would be good. A good person who never says the wrong thing, or speaks too loudly or unkindly, or causes the rocking of any boats with opinions or confrontation. If she were a color, she would be taupe. Not red-brown fire, bold bronze or chocolatey passion… just a consistent, uncontroversial, mid-value tan.
Today, I’m suffering from studio mania, fiendishly working to meet crazy goals I set for myself for the upcoming wood-fire, the annual community fiesta involving a dozen potters, a huge kiln, and the alchemy of the four elements that will, with any luck, turn out 400-500 pieces of lovely pottery four weeks from now. (You can see last year’s adventure in the Cerrillos mountains here. If you’re local or going to be in NM on April 7, please join us for the opening!)
Being a professional potter is not a safe line of work; safe meaning: predictable, conventional. A place to be 40 hrs a week, where a corporate or human someone tells you what to do. One that yields a reliable income, benefits, paid days off, and retirement. Pleasanta Goodwoman would never be a potter. No, the physical demands and creative responsibility would be too much for her. Plus, it’s messy. Downright dirty, in fact, as working with dirt tends to be.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ve made the right career choice, this one that involves so much happiness but also struggle. A career that would never be possible without the unwavering support from people who love me because they have to (thanks, family!), and people who buy my work. The good thing is, whatever happens is up to me. The bad thing is, whatever happens is up to me. But it always comes down to the same choice, one I imagine all of us in creative fields make: financial security & convention vs. passion. Doing what you love. The thing you are willing to suffer for, but would suffer more if you weren’t doing. Pleasanta would certainly choose the former.
I imagine Pleasanta would have a much cleaner house then mine, too, which at the moment is in a state of wreckage because I’ve neglected all other responsibilities save for the occasional feeding of my child in order to reach my studio goals. Wanna have a peek? Here’s how things are looking right now.
All these poppy cups and the two jars are ready to be glazed. Why did I make so many of those?
More cup/bowls! These will be painted with blossom designs to hopefully turn out like this.
Wait, even more cups…. A friend also requested an 8″-9″ vase so naturally I had to make 12. Oh, there’s that wine glass (I’ve discovered that a straw in the bottle works just fine).
If the wood-fire goddesses are smiling upon me, some of those will look like this.
Man, what a mess! Here are some Poppy urns that need to be painted. I’m making these for Funeria.
I’m pretty happy with the new lid style, a sculpted flower. I wonder if I’ll still like it when they’re finished? Let’s take a closer look. Is it too O’Keeffey-vaginal?
Wouldn’t this Aspen urn have been lovely? Had the foot not blown off because I didn’t let it dry long enough? Darn. Off to the garden it goes….
I’ve been thinking a lot over the past few weeks about what I am and what I’m not. The kind of self-analysis that sometimes dips a toe into self-disappointment (a gentler word than loathing). Those times when I’m just not proud of myself. Impatience. Hurtful words. Taking people or places or my life for granted. Biotchy. Despite my best intentions. The nice thing about clay is that it tends to absorb all of that while you work — the good, the bad, and the ugly — and give back something beautiful in return.
So, mania.
Mostly I’m really happy with the choices I’ve made, how I spend my time and the company I keep, the brokering of love in all its manifestations: art, children, gardens, family, lovers, expensive dogs. And for those times when I feel like a half-blind idiot fumbling around just trying to get it right, I remember my favorite [paraphrased] Walt Whitman quote, Do I contradict myself? Yes, but I am large, I contain multitudes. Absolute unworthiness is part of the perfection. Passion and risk go hand in hand. I’m not Pleasanta Goodwoman.
I still have more things to make so I’ll get going now. But all this internal melodrama has got things stirred up and guess what? Today, as I’m about to ship the final prizes from the last contest*…
I FEEL ANOTHER CONTEST COMING ON!!! something to do with the wood-fire and the nature of imperfection, but I’m still formulating it. So, stay tuned for your chance to. win. big.
*Sorry, Stacie & Maggi! Pleasanta Goodwoman would’ve had them finished & mailed weeks ago…
Click to see my new website for ceramic & biodegradable cremation urns
Live Clay 