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Abstract

I make art about dirt. To be more specific, I make clay and ceramic compositions- landscapes-to be displayed on the wall and floor. Formally, these works exist somewhere between sculpture and painting. They are to be read frontally, but they are very physical, using the visceral language of materials. Ive always implemented clay as a way to visually refer to earth in these works, but in recent years, I have begun to actually dig up a large portion of the clays and other ceramic materials I use. Many ceramic artists object to calling clay "dirt", since clay is a more specific material and the terms are not technically synonymous. Not all dirt can be shaped into a pot and fired in a kiln. Scientifically speaking, you need a hydrated, layeredstructure, aluminosilicate mineral for that. So not all dirt is clay, but all clay is dirt, especially at the point it is mined from the earth. I prefer the term "dirt" because to me it means clay that is earth and ground, as opposed to a refined, commercial clay. Since Ive begun using dug clays or dirt, my work has gained a more visual and innate connection to its geological origins. The rocks, imperfections and impurities that get processed out of commercial clays lend individual character to small batches of clay from particular sites. Clays have a history of geologic activity and travel before being deposited at their current sites. The pulverizing, weathering and sorting of particles as rocks decompose into clay imparts to some clays a finer texture, or gathers sand, aggregate and additional minerals into the mix for others. A unique geologic history distinguishes my local Mt. Rainier, Maryland clay from that of Arlington, Virginia, some 15 kilometers away. In the studio, this translates into different appearances and different behavior for the clays. My studio work now includes going outside to explore. I walk around construction sites and creek banks prospecting for materials. I carry my camera with me, taking pictures of dirt as I find it, showing evidence of erosion, the bite marks of excavator teeth, tire tracks and other human and geological forces. These instances of "clay in its natural habitat" have begun to inform my art. Commercial clay from a bag doesnt bring this information with it. I have thousands of photos, some of which get sent to my friends as "Dirt of the Day". I keep a collapsible shovel in the truck. I peer into road repair sites to see whats below the surface. I gather a chunk, a bucketful or a truckload and take my finds back to the studio. I have a storeroom filled with containers labeled "outside of Atlanta, Dec. 2004," "Calvert Cliffs, 2001" or "water main break, Perry Street, 2006." As an abstract concept, dirt is a rich and complex metaphor to mine. It suggests fertility, growth and birth as well as death. It is old; it is deep. Dirt is common and base, yet vital to survival. As a physical material, dirt offers an inexhaustible palette. Using dirt has made me a better artist. It has taken me out of the studio and into the world, and it has given me a much more vocal material with which to converse. Sometimes I find a cutaway bank of clay so beautiful that any artistic response I imagine seems trivial in comparison. But my job as an artist is not just to look closely at my environment, but to try and understand it, and then to communicate something about that understanding. And I can never resist taking some dirt back to the studio to see what I can make of it.