This short piece was created in response to a writing prompt at my Warehouse Writers Group in Eagle River, WI.
I am perplexed by our new handcrafted ceramic drinking cup and matching plate. What, exactly, are they for? I know what to do with dishes in sets of eight or twelve; they fulfill their function at the dinner table when we host groups of friends and family. Each adult has a setting while the kids select from the bin of washable cups with detachable lids and the simple, indestructible plastic plates.
This new artistic cup and plate, though, are loners. They are one-of-a-kind. I admire their ingenious and unique design, though, each decorated with a single oak leaf and acorn on a muted woodland-toned background that spreads gently across the surface and ranges from light to dark brown. The artist’s initials and a date are scratched on the bottom. The pieces reflect the creator’s ingenuity and craft. They suggest a practiced attention to detail, color, texture, choice of glaze, and heft. The pieces stand well apart from our simple dinnerware.
I still do not know what to do with them. Are they primarily pieces of art that exist merely to be appreciated? Or, rather, are the cup and plate meant to function as vessels for food, utensils, liquids, collectibles, or office supplies (you know, pens, stamps, paper clips, that sort of thing), or do they have some higher purpose? Based on experience, I know pens and markers permanently stain the bottom of cups and receptacles in a mash-up of blue, black, and red ink in a way that somehow seems disrespectful to a working artist.
I study the design, trying to fathom the creator’s intent. I look up the leaf; it is similar, but not identical, to white oak, Quercus alba. Does the fallen leaf, lying flat on the plate and wrapping gently around the cup, symbolize death? Oh, wait, there's that acorn, too. Maybe the combination of this year’s fallen leaf and next year’s acorn signal the promise of continuity between the past and the future. My fingers run across the plate, tracing the varying indentations of the design and following the subtle water-like, rippling pattern on the surface. Could this reflect our imperfections and how they can only be washed away by the gentle passage of time? Of course, the cup and plate will outlast me so, perhaps, the glazed and hardened leaf and fallen acorn, despite their apparent transience, embody the ephemeral qualities that will persevere long after this generation has passed away.
If the artist was here, I could ask her to explain! I fear she would shake her head. “I like leaves and acorns. They look nice together,” she might say. “And this pattern sells pretty well.” So there’s that.
Time for a test run. I light a candle, arrange cheese and grapes on the plate, and pour some red wine in the cup. I carry the cup and plate to the family room where I settle into my favorite chair. As I savor the moment, the cup relaxes into my grip, and the rim’s satisfying texture brushes my lip. The design glows in the candlelight. The cup and plate add to the ambiance of the experience, far exceeding my expectations. I sigh. All is well.
Until, of course, I realize the items are likely not dishwasher safe. I scrub the wine stain from the cup. I find a knife and scrape the shreds of cheese from the indentations. I relegate the cup and plate to a high shelf where they will gather dust along with the other beautiful, orphaned items we've accumulated over the years.
Next time I need a snack, I will pull out one of the kids’ plastic bowls and a reusable cup. I’ll skip the detachable lid.
New Pottery
