On your first time in the new studio, you’ll feel uncomfortable and out-of-place. Every studio has its own systems, and what once made sense in your old space will seem like jibberish in a new one. When I first sit down at a potter’s wheel, I step on the pedal and nothing happens. “You have to plug it in,” a kind woman across the room says, and then steps up from her own wheel, hands dripping with slip, to show me where to find the outlet in a cupboard behind me. I’m not brave enough yet to ask why the wheels remain unplugged, but I manage to mumble thanks and I wonder if my cheeks are flushed.
The quality of your questions will tease out how well you know your medium, so be thoughtful about what you ask.
You’ll have to rely on the kindness of strangers to find your way around. Months later, it’s obvious that the wedging table is in the corner, but on my first day, it was somehow invisible to me—so I had to ask. The asking is how you will get to know those strangers, who will likely treat you kindly because they were once new, too. The quality of your questions will tease out how well you know your medium, so be thoughtful about what you ask. Jargon is okay, but not too much of it. You know what stoneware is, but don’t presume to know the names of the shop glazes or how they fire at cone six. Be curious, not cocky.
When you work, focus on your work. You will encounter others who treat the studio as a place to socialize, and maybe you remember this from the last place, the place where you felt more comfortable. You’ll find that those who are there to chatter are either veterans who have already earned their place, or other newcomers who are trying too hard to fit in. In a studio, you’ll find that the new connections grow out of respect for the work: our reason for being here, the processes that we love, the medium that connects us. Work, listen, and learn, and the connections will grow naturally.
For god’s sake, clean up after yourself. Maybe you were comfortable enough in your last studio to leave slop in a bucket, or half-ass cleaning a wheel. Let these bad habits play out in the new studio, and you’ll face either passive-aggressive stares or direct confrontation from your new studio mates. It’s so much better to overdo the cleanup and have another artist suggest that you can ease up a bit than to face the perception that you’re careless. You might slip up—leave a tool out, or forget some reclaim—but if you’ve established a reputation for being careful, you’ll be forgiven, You may even find that tool replaced on your shelf, that clay lovingly re-wrapped with a post-it note stuck on the bag, “Is this yours?”
The gesture of replacing materials matters, because your time and your materials now have a cost. They always have had a cost, but it feels poignant in a new space. Every object you make, there’s less clay in your bag to use. Every class you take, there’s another charge on your credit card, perhaps one that you can’t afford, but there are worse habits. Resist the temptation to ration your materials or your time too much, but be aware of the difference.
And whatever you do, don’t complain about the expense. In your last studio, maybe someone mixed the glazes, pugged the clay, and fired your work without a fee—but one of the systems of your new space likely involves supporting the time and talent of other artists who are dedicated to the work. The cost of your bag of clay may include the glazes, the firing, even the studio maintenance. Trust the system.
Did I mention, don’t complain? People share studios because they want to support others. There certainly are many other ways to make a profit with far less labor involved.
Anything you don’t know represents an opportunity to stay open and learn.
Please, please be confident. You know how to do this. It might feel stiff or uncomfortable for awhile, but you know every step of this process like you know your own thumbprint on a pinch pot, and anything you don’t know represents an opportunity to stay open and learn. By the end of three weeks, I’ve tried a new handle design; by the end of six weeks, I’ve exchanged phone numbers and followed new Instagram accounts; at the end of the semester, I laugh easily with friends at the clumsy results of my work as we celebrate new pots and connections over potluck and wine. I’ve learned the story of the potter for whom the studio is named, and I’ve even taken her advice on glaze combinations. At the potluck, she eats out of one of my bowls, and my heart swells.
You will find that it’s different to do this work on your own terms, with your own sacrifices and choices as much a part of the process as ribs and needles.
You’ll find that the studio is part of who you are. A place where you can make a home out of strangeness. A place where something you love helps you to speak the same language as others.
Stick with it.
