Chapter One:
Jean Garriock, my grandmother.
My grandmother was a potter. Toward the back of her property next to the raspberry bush sat her little blue shed. Every time I slept over at grandma's house I would grab the key with the whistle attached to it and venture out to her shed. Even though her shed wasn't very big I would find myself lost in there for hours. Her shelves were filled with mason jars of powders, marbles, glass bits, sand, sea foam sponges and other curious things. An old wooden kick wheel sat pressed up against the wall. It was archaic and clunky, a tool that she never used but never parted with.
Along the large window overlooking the raspberry bush was her kiln. All I understood about the kiln was that it was powerful and we needed to respect it. A little timer sat in grandma's kitchen window and when the kiln was firing, it would go off every hour as a reminder that it was time to turn up the kiln. She would let us run to the shed with very specific instructions on which switch to flick on. One switch every hour for 5 hours.
Sleepovers at my grandmother's house looked like this: classical music playing on the radio, swinging sessions on an old wooden swing that hung from her big maple tree, and explorations of the world of arts and crafts. We stenciled clothing, painted pictures, made origami swans and boats and sailed them down Twelve Mile Creek, and (my favourite, of course) we worked with clay. When I was about five years old my grandmother and I made a wind chime that now hangs in my house for safekeeping. This is my first true recollection of getting my hands in the clay. The wind chime is an outline of my hands and feet, fired and unglazed, now strung to a small branch. Every element of this chime is pure organic beauty.
When I started to grow older and the sleepovers faded away so did my time with clay. In my early twenties, during a time of soul searching and uncertainty I found myself back at my grandmother's house. She was a wise woman and a kind woman. Desiring to know more about what made her a happy person I asked her to teach me more about her life passions. We spent time talking about gardening, baking pies, stewing jams, discussing books and potting. I felt at home and reconnected to my roots when I spent time learning from my grandmother. She had so much to teach and I quickly rekindled my fascination with her world of pottery. Our afternoons were spent in her dark dirt basement learning to center clay on the wheel. It was in these moments spent with my grandmother that I found myself and my passion.
Fast forward ten years and you will now find me in my country home with my husband Ryan; our cat Townes; our flock of hens, and our two adopted dogs, Chance and Julius. The view from our backyard is vineyards and vast farmer's fields. As I glaze wares at my front studio table I look out over Jackson's Flats Valley. There is one house at the bottom of this valley and it belongs to my father. I have spent more than half my life surrounded by this place, this grace of nature, and I honour it by incorporating its beauty into my work.
Step up to our back deck and enter into shed's retail gallery. It is in this home surrounded by country living that shed pottery was born.
Along the large window overlooking the raspberry bush was her kiln. All I understood about the kiln was that it was powerful and we needed to respect it. A little timer sat in grandma's kitchen window and when the kiln was firing, it would go off every hour as a reminder that it was time to turn up the kiln. She would let us run to the shed with very specific instructions on which switch to flick on. One switch every hour for 5 hours.
Sleepovers at my grandmother's house looked like this: classical music playing on the radio, swinging sessions on an old wooden swing that hung from her big maple tree, and explorations of the world of arts and crafts. We stenciled clothing, painted pictures, made origami swans and boats and sailed them down Twelve Mile Creek, and (my favourite, of course) we worked with clay. When I was about five years old my grandmother and I made a wind chime that now hangs in my house for safekeeping. This is my first true recollection of getting my hands in the clay. The wind chime is an outline of my hands and feet, fired and unglazed, now strung to a small branch. Every element of this chime is pure organic beauty.
When I started to grow older and the sleepovers faded away so did my time with clay. In my early twenties, during a time of soul searching and uncertainty I found myself back at my grandmother's house. She was a wise woman and a kind woman. Desiring to know more about what made her a happy person I asked her to teach me more about her life passions. We spent time talking about gardening, baking pies, stewing jams, discussing books and potting. I felt at home and reconnected to my roots when I spent time learning from my grandmother. She had so much to teach and I quickly rekindled my fascination with her world of pottery. Our afternoons were spent in her dark dirt basement learning to center clay on the wheel. It was in these moments spent with my grandmother that I found myself and my passion.
Fast forward ten years and you will now find me in my country home with my husband Ryan; our cat Townes; our flock of hens, and our two adopted dogs, Chance and Julius. The view from our backyard is vineyards and vast farmer's fields. As I glaze wares at my front studio table I look out over Jackson's Flats Valley. There is one house at the bottom of this valley and it belongs to my father. I have spent more than half my life surrounded by this place, this grace of nature, and I honour it by incorporating its beauty into my work.
Step up to our back deck and enter into shed's retail gallery. It is in this home surrounded by country living that shed pottery was born.
Check out the blog page to follow the shed story, as it unfolds each year.