Does this Pile Of Wet Dirt Look Like Me?

    I'm late to this post, and I skipped class when the making of this post was discussed, I think. I'm not sure of the parameters, what we're supposed to be writing about, aside from a sense, and I can't find a mention of it in any syllabus material. This is my fault, as I wasn't in class! Instead of being in class on that day of Thursday the 17th, I was in the sculpture and printmaking studios, just one floor down, working on two different projects. For this blog post, I'll be focusing on the sculpture assignment: a life-sized bust of myself. Pictured are the progress photos I've taken-- the current product is mostly finished, it just needs to be glazed and fired (making it strong and shiny, essentially). 

    Sculpture is all about touch and sight. While there is the smell and taste of clay, and the sound of soft clay being sheared off or the slap of wedging, the making process is focused almost entirely in the hands and eyes. 

    It's frustrating, doing a self portrait you're forced to work on for more than one session. Unlike any other subject, when you fight with a self portrait, you fight with yourself. After a while, it'll start giving you looks and your own attitude, I've found. Don't look at me like that... Even though I'm giving you the same look. 

    The assignment had everyone pulling a face-- no straight faces or slack cheeks. I decided on an exaggerated pout, looking off to the side. This made the staring at myself problem a little better, as my reference was looking off instead of directly at me. Still, a three dimensional self portrait is not easy. Sure, it might look good, but it needs to look like you. Like it or not, you must touch your own face gently, or carve pieces off. Take out an eye and replace it. Make your nose bigger. Form your hair, so you can brush it out. Come to terms with your soft chin and puffy undereyes. Like the font at the entrance of a Catholic Church, you must wet your hands, before smoothing yourself out. A lot of the people in class found their final products very flat, not willing to gouge out chunks of a perfectly smooth and uniform face-- their own face. But in that, it doesn't look like them. 

    It's strange to shape yourself into existence with wet dirt. It smells strange, and gets way into your fingernails, and dries out your skin. It's heavy, and hard to move from the table to the shelf. It likely has my fingerprints all over it. Does it look like me? I think so. Maybe you don't. But it was made by me, touched only by my hands. I made this, and "just by stroking [her] I am performing a life-giving act." (Diane Ackerman, A Natural History of the Senses, p73). 

Hello world!