Critique: Artist: Claudi Casanovas Platter

Of the earth.

Many potters were rock collectors as youths.

No?

Yes.

I was.

As such, I can not help but enjoying rough igneous like surfaces.

I relish a bit of texture here and there, a bit of grit.

Here there is certainly more than “a bit of grit”.

In danger of muddling such a pure pottery rhetoric (HA!) shall we light on the stupidly over done and redundant question of pottery that verges on sculpture? I maintain that all pottery is sculpture, and more. It is hard not to acknowledge that we shant being eating spaghetti out of this number. Though I would be tempted to fill it, make it a container (of more than just thoughts). For lack of hint to its size, I can see it larger than life the mainstay of a low sweet trendy coffee table holding new age architecture mags (Oh, no. We’ll save the talk about Architecture and Pottery for later. I do loath it. For I broke tradition in grade 7 Drafting 101 disappointing a Father Architect, son of an Architect, a Grandfather Architect, son of an architect, son of a farmer (designing and raising all farm structures alone) swearing off Architecture as a unpleasurable profession. I now find myself surrounded by a myriad of potters who believe their designing and problem solving akin to that of those designing hospitals, prisons, schools, libraries and homes. Compare and contrast. Compare and contrast. Oh the human condition, Oh the foundations of science.) I can also see this of small presence holding my car keys (Claudi, if you ever happen to read this, I am sorry for desiring to put my car keys in your wonderous vessel that is surely to be revered and cherished and purchased for at least few hundred thousand dollars. My homely way of expressing my reverence is by wishing it used no matter how offensive and belittling such an action may seem to you.) Alas, due to craggy textured surface this vessel is propelled slightly more towards sculpture than pot. No?

It looks like space. Oh, compare and contrast. A bunt out star, a black hole drawing every thing closely into boundless dense dark matter. The surface of Mars? A topographic rendering of the subarctic sprawl? For person who is displeased when someone else’s symbolism over shadows my own I do so readily delight and sharing mine. I  like that the we drag meaning from something perhaps meaningless. That our minds project and create story from abstract imagery. I like that everything is up for interpretation and no concept concrete. I have been looking at this vessel by its lonesome and finding strength in its quality. Looking at this vessel next to one akin to it in nature, craggy and low and topographic, compare and contrast, I would undoubtedly be able to find a number more to my liking. I am amused and intrigued by how things grow more agreeable in isolation. Gallery walls are sparse and white for a reason. Portfolio photos are uninhibited by extraneous content for a reason. If I had my druthers there would be hints of peach added to this scape and that one middle patch of rust would be less eye catching- more evenly distributed and brother patch of rust added for reference. The edges I would never change- good edges, good shape, good proportion. It is such a futile and odd consideration for an artist to desire change and control in another’s work, knowing that the artists themself did not even have ultimate control. The thoughts are still work considering though for it can hone our own thoughts with our own work where we can elicit some control and bring about change. Though, it shows little deference to an artist and speaks volumes of our consumer society with focus on the power of choice, the power of consumer. What happened to the power of the Artist and Art? it seems someone has always got to buy it.

There is a danger in critique, in being over critical. The crit undermines the notion of a Work of Art, a Masterpiece, True Beauty. It has a tendency to focus on fault and not the presence of perfection. I find this a fault in myself- always an active mind searching for improvement. It is dangerous, dare I say it wrong? For how can one always finding faults and ever being a tinge dissatisfied be respected or cherished or the work of such a foe? If artists themselves can not find pure elation in Art how on earth shall the rest of society? You may say it is the real work of the Artist to be critical and critical thinking does truthfully make for better work. At what point does it inhibit us and our ilk?

What do you think?

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