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Beyond the reach of hands--a potter's plight

January 5, 2006 2:16 am

By KATHRYN WILLIS

For THE FREE LANCE-STAR

Fredericksburg potter Phil Chapman lifts a more-than-3-feet-high pot from its protective box on the floor of his Sophia Street studio. As the artisan places this commanding piece onto a worktable, the pot's heft and solidity are evident.

Despite this vase's formidable height, there is no imminent fear of tipping or tumbling: It's a sturdy piece, solidly grounded. Geometric details are pressed into its assertive base and lid, contributing to a "no-nonsense" straightforwardness.

There is a self-assured confidence here. This pot has presence.

Yet there is also delicacy and grace.

A long, curving edge shapes the vessel with a line suggestive of wind-blown silk. Fine cracks texturize its surface, creating understated visual interest with their delicate dance. Even the glazings, as they slide from hues of gray-coffee to an even more neutral gray-tan, declare a nuanced differentiation.

Like all good art, Chapman's pots reveal an intuitive sense of balance in these elements. Tension and release, weight and delicacy, flowing line and geometric closure they're all present here. Here, and in numerous award-winning vases, pots, boxes and mugs, in myriad collections from Maine to Florida.

What is it that makes this pottery rise above the honorable status of craft? What makes it art?

It is the sum of unique details that marks Chapman's work as his alone. Inimitable. The work of a minor master.

He is a firm believer in shaping new and useful things from what has been given. It's a philosophy that he and his wife and fellow potter, Trista Chapman, hope to apply to his recent diagnosis of ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, also known as Lou Gehrig's disease)--a life-threatening condition that the couple hopes to fend off, or even to defeat.

Coffee-drinking students, serious collectors and art lovers of monetary means between the two extremes have the financial wherewithal to acquire one of Chapman's works. One of his aims is to make his pieces affordable.

He will tell you that the goal is to sell the stuff, because he's a crafter who earns his living exclusively from sales of his work.

He'll tell you this, wearing a comfortable flannel shirt that has a light covering of dust. The fine, gray-white powder is a byproduct of sanding his pieces.

As he talks, he gestures muscled fingers that reveal a lifetime of pouring and glazing his pottery. He could be a farmer, except that the earth he works with is clay.

He decries that people put a romantic spin on what he does, but, he says, it's just hard work.

He produces, packs and hauls his pottery up and down the East Coast. It's a grueling cycle demanding 12- to 15-hour days, for between shows comes the labor-intensive, creatively draining pottery production.

In his gentle, understated manner, Chapman says that he's no artist, that he's "just a potter that churns out pots to pay the bills."

Yet Trista Chapman wryly interjects, "Yeah, and that's why you've never sold a pot in your life that isn't just about perfect!"

And it's true.

Even as he dismisses his talent, he shows you how the lids of all his pots not only sit perfectly on the pot's lip, but also complete a flawless seal. As the series of designs have evolved over the 30-odd years of his career, they also have become more refined and distinctive, achieving an artistry that is no less than tour-de-force.

The "craquelure," or hairline surface cracking, of Chapman's pottery is characteristic of raku, an ancient Japanese firing process in which red-glowing earthenware is removed from a kiln and immediately buried in much cooler smoldering sawdust. The abrupt change in temperature "shocks" the exterior of the pottery, resulting in its delicate tracery.

Chapman's hallmark craquelure is finely etched, not broad; and it encompasses nearly all the surface of his work with a random pattern that is consistent over the entire piece.

That alone marks his mastery.

But for Chapman, it's merely a first step.

The next is his detail of design. Motifs range from Eastern-influenced leaves and tendrils to raised or incised patterns that encompass a vessel's entire surface.

Frequently, geometric patterns of small circles, diamonds and ovals are placed foursquare and centrally, defining an unambiguous frontal orientation.

He's invented a small "alphabet" of marks, reminiscent of hieroglyphics or Eastern characters, to express a fine sensibility.

And then, there is the shape and variety of the vessels themselves. From sturdy casseroles to ephemeral vases, the Chapman shape is distinctive.

The play of the edge line, as it swirls from large to narrow, and from side to front, carries the eye in calm yet certain definition from bottom to top, and from fore to back.

How does he achieve continuity amid this variety? Again, attention to detail and an uncompromising fidelity to the pursuit of his best.

Every mold for every pot is not only conceived but also made by the artisan himself. Every subtle tone for every glaze is personally blended. Every pattern, every impression is executed by tools Chapman himself has personalized.

He's scoured fields and forest floors for the wood for handles; has collected fibers, deer hair, feathers, quills and the like for making the brushes and tools with which he applies his glazes and motifs. He's studied kiln temperatures, textures of sawdust, chemical interaction of pigments, sanding and glazing techniques. He's designed and built his kilns, workshop space and studio. Twice.

Phil Chapman's life as artist turned literally to ashes when, in July 1995, an errant spark from smoldering sawdust ignited his Sophia Street studio and workshop. A small group of friends rushed to save what they could of his lifelong work, but the studio was a total loss.

He thought seriously about quitting. But he didn't.

He rebuilt a new workspace, molds, tools, formulas, kiln and studio from the ashes. And he started personally anew when, shortly thereafter, he married fellow potter Trista Depp.

Now, Chapman is again beginning anew. With his diagnosis of ALS this fall, he discovered that his tall, athletic, resilient body now must wage a battle for life itself.

Chapman has thrown his last pot, cast his last mold, extinguished his last kiln firing. And he's looking forward to working with Trista at possibly creating an entirely fresh approach to pottery that reflects both their artistic sensibilities. It's a collaborative dream that they both have held and now hope to have the opportunity to enact.

As Phil and Trista step into the next challenge of their lives, the image of Phil's powerful, sensitive hands comes to mind, as he pushes clay to take the shape of harmonious vessels that lend grace to daily living. Making beauty attainable in everyday things is perhaps the most characteristic hallmark of Chapman's artistry.

His raku pottery seeks harmony with randomness by balancing unpredictability with hand-crafted design.

Chapman's future, like the raku that he creates with such care, is taking shape under extremes of change. The well-loved pots' undirected cracks and fissures are visual testimony to the accidental beauty of letting go, of saying "yes" to the randomness of life's direction, beyond the reach of hands.

Kathryn Willis is a Stafford County-based arts writer and advocate, and is working to found a regional arts council.