The Art Station

I’m taking my first ceramics class. We are making masks, of course.  I wasn’t really sure what to expect. Earlier this year when I learned how to screen print, we stood around a freezing cold room in a warehouse and worked on salvaged furniture. It was fun and funky and very New Orleans.

The Art Station is in small town Ponchatoula, and from the sound of it not to far off the rail road tracks. The room reminded me of my high school art class, so I sort of nodded when I found out the owner had been a high school teacher. I was afraid that it would be crowded when I saw how many seats were laid out, but it was not. There was a cozy six students and everyone was in a jovial mood. No one was afraid to get their hands dirty or was so befuddled we couldn’t progress as a group.

I was afraid the I was going to fall a sleep when I arrived because it had been an awfully long day, but the mood of the place picked me right back up. And the moment my hands where full of clay, I was even distracted from my head ache.

The instructor asked all why we’d come and I explained that I loved making masks and wanted to learn a new technique. Most of the students there where taking the class to give them something to do or had always been interested in art, but had had little access over the years. I know that is true for many people, but always find it sad. I’ve always been surrounded by art of one variety or another.

The Mask class is four weeks and I can’t wait to go back. Maybe next week our lumps of clay will actually resemble something and I can take some pictures. So far we a nose on a base, which I nearly knocked off when wrapping my mask for the week’s storage.

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