the story behind Sunday suppers...

When my husband and I chose to move from Franklin County to Athens 7 years ago, it wasn’t the favorite decision we’d made in the eyes of our families. We are both fortunate enough to say we grew up in small towns that are a part of the same county, and if you’re from a small town, you know what this means. If you’re not, it means that you live within 5 to 10 minutes drive of your parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and closest friends. It means you attend church with and work with the same people who you’ve known since you were all in kindergarten together. It means that there’s not one stop on your errands or one dinner out that you won’t run into people you know, and know well. Side note: this is not at all to do with why we moved—in fact, these were a lot of the reasons we considered not moving—I just wanted to make sure it’s understood just how much we both love where we’re from. I say all this to try to convey just how big of a deal this move was to our families. We both saw our parents once, sometimes several times a week and it wasn’t uncommon for them to drop by to see our girls on their way home from work or on their way to this and that. So when we moved, we promised my parents that we’d have a standing supper date on Sundays. There’s been an occasional missed Sunday over the years for various conflicts but I can honestly say that 7 years later, there have been very few Sundays (I could probably count them on both hands) that we haven’t had them over for supper, but mostly, driven back home for supper in their home.

I’m going to be super honest, sometimes after a busy week or weekend, it’s hard to commit an afternoon and evening to the drive back home, supper, then back to Athens which, for most of the year, is a on a school night. But to do this gives my girls an opportunity that many can’t say they have—to see their grandparents regularly and to truly know them, to find letters and photos from my friends and high school sweetheart (now their dad) in my old bedroom that’s pretty much the same as when I left it, to play dress up in my old clothes and costumes, and to share a food, laughs, and conversation with their family each week.

When I needed website and social media photos for new plates and patterns, I was struggling with how to best show the pieces in photos because no matter how I set the photo up, something was missing, so I decided to load them up and bring them with me to this week’s Sunday supper. I’m usually in charge of dessert for our meals in Franklin County, so I thought we’d use the new plates for our dessert and I’d try photos then. I made buttermilk lemon scones (buttermilk pie is usually my default, so if you like that, then these are the best of buttermilk pie in scone form—see recipe below), we spread out a blanket in the shade in the front yard like my mama always did with my girls when they were babies, and we had our Sunday supper dessert while I took photos. The resulting images were just what the previous photos of the plates had been lacking—the people who’d use the plates and the experience of eating together. I love the images I have as a result, and I guess I just wanted y’all to know the hands, place, and people you’ll see in future posts because they aren’t just a part of my story, but the whole fun, messy, sometimes crazy, loving, thing. So whether you’re into scones while you catch up on your favorite Netflix series or want to serve them at your families’ version of Sunday supper, the recipe is below!

Buttermilk Lemon Scones (original recipe courtesy of The Unlikely Baker)

1 1/2 tbsp of lemon zest

1/2 cup of sugar

3 cups of all purpose flour (cups packed tight, then sifted)

1/2 tsp of salt

2 1/2 tsp of baking powder

1/2 tsp of baking soda

1 stick of butter, frozen then grated

1 cup of buttermilk

Mix lemon zest into sugar, then add flour, salt, baking soda, and baking powder. Next, mix in frozen, grated butter until little balls of dough form around the butter. Make a well, add in the buttermilk, and mix until all moisture is incorporated. Flour your work surface and pat the dough out about an inch thick. Either cut into traditional scone triangles or use a cookie cutter to cut scones out to place on a lightly greased baking sheet. Bake at 400 degrees for 10-12 minutes or until golden brown. You can make a glaze with one cup of powdered sugar and 1/4 cup of lemon juice to add when scones have cooled. Let me know who you share your scones with—enjoy!

the story behind the details

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If you look through pictures from my recent trip to Italy, a pattern will emerge among my photos-windows, doors, floors, windows, doors, floors.  There are very few photos of a building, structure, or place in its entirety.  What is this about?!  This photo pattern isn't limited to my recent trip, it's the same with all the images I take from any travels or experiences.  Why am I so drawn to the details of a place?  What is it about these smaller parts of a bigger whole that are the things I remember about the places most special to me?  Is it just me that finds a connection in the details?  

I took my questions to Google (for some reason, I need to feel that I'm not alone in how I think and feel about things) and I came away with a few helpful tidbits that I'll share in a bit, but I realized that this attachment to details may be something that is personal and specific to me, and that's okay, because it is me that is having these experiences.  One of my Google searches confirmed this realization in an article from a psychology journal where the author says that our emotions are like a highlighter pen that emphasizes certain details that make the overall experience more memorable.  This helped me make sense of my need to capture and savor the details of a place.  Because my emotions are tied to these places and experiences, my memory (and camera) have "highlighted" the details. Much like when I highlight something I've read in a book, the highlighted passage is what I remember when I recall the book and it is the details I recall when I think of the places and experiences that have created my story. 

These very details I refer to that have become the primary subject of my tiles.  The windows, doors, floor tiles, even the floral tiles are details from specific places that are the most special-places I've traveled and places that I call home.  From an art composition perspective, it could be said that my tiles lack depth because I just show one surface plane.  The entire tile may be just a wall with a window, a front facade and door, or just the floor tile design where I've stood, but just that one facet calls up so much more in my memory of the whole-the conversations, the people, the tastes, and the sounds.  I read somewhere in my Google search that we only retain 10% of the things we see, so maybe for me, these little details are my 10% of what I retain.  All I need is to see the detail to remind me of the whole experience.

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the story of a new season and new things

I tend to forget the connection I have to the feeling of spring until it arrives again each year.  As soon as the days get longer, I feel a shift in energy all around from the excitement that the easy days of summer are so close.  This time of year reminds me that there are specific sights, places, smells, sounds, and emotions we relate with each season. The scent of new flowers blooming, neighbors beginning to cut their grass, and warm potting soil combined with the sounds of my girls playing outside longer each day, lawnmowers, birds, and breezes that create the unmistakable feel of spring.  It's these ties to spring that gave me the idea to try out a new process combining the carving element of printmaking on a new series of floral clay tiles.

If you've read earlier blog posts, you know that the tiles I create share little parts of the places that make my story.  The new tiles I've been working on are just the same in that they are sweet, little parts of places that are very special to me.  Each floral tile depicts a flower that I identify with the homes where I grew up, where we first lived as a family, and where we live and visit now. 

The first flower in this series is the pink camellia that grows outside my aunt Polly's kitchen window, and this flower is first because it reminds me so much of this exact time of year.  Growing up, the first full April weekend meant I'd be at my aunt Polly's because my parents would head down to Augusta for the Masters.  I'd spend the weekend outside for hours on a four-wheeler making lap after lap around her house where I'd pass by her camellia bush full of huge, pink camellias.  I can't picture these flowers without seeing her waving at me from the kitchen sink window just next to the camellia bush because she always seemed to be right there, watching and washing dishes (now that I'm a mom, I'm pretty sure she was using the dishes as a reason to stand at the window and make sure I behaved on the four-wheeler).  Now, whenever I see a full camellia bush, I remember the exact feel of those weekends--the sound of the Masters on in the living room, the sun setting later, and my aunt Polly at the kitchen window.  I made sure that when we moved to our house in the spring of 2012, a camellia bush was the first thing I planted. 

I'm so excited to share more about the people and places that have inspired this series, and I've loved talking to friends who already have a connection to other flowers to come.  Those conversations are my exact hope for h.made studio--that others will recognize bits of their story in my work and want to make my tiles a part of their home.  

Pink camellias in full bloom.

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the story behind the process

Over twentyish years have gone by since I first took an art class, and a lot of things have been painted, carved, printed, collaged, thrown, slabbed, coiled, water colored, photographed, developed, sketched, and drawn before arriving at the processes I use now.   Being an art education major allowed me the freedom to take classes in painting, drawing, ceramics, printmaking, photography, even fabric design, and now a current high school art teacher, I still work in many of these processes.  I've always loved little bits of each method, but never the full process of any. 

Clay has been my favorite since college.  I love the meticulous hand building processes and even throwing on the wheel (even though I'm not very good at the latter mentioned). The first tile I made was a product of playing around with left over slab scraps from a demonstration I'd just had for my pottery students.  I began assembling sides to a square slab and once complete, it reminded me of a little painting canvas.  I ordered white clay suited for tile work, and I became hooked to the process.  Confession:  I really like to be in control in all situations, so there's something very gratifying to me to be able to hand make the entire surface I will eventually carve and paint.  As I carved and glazed the first tile, I knew I'd found the exact process I wanted to work in.  I've always enjoyed the tediousness and texture found in carved linoleum or wood, and color is what I love about painting, so why not use my clay as my surface to carve into and play with color? 

As people have asked me why I don't sell my art, I've always used the excuse of "well, I don't really feel like I've found my "thing."  The beginning of h.made studio was a result of not being able to use that excuse anymore.  After years of making, it's become clear to me that the clay tiles that I create are a coming together of parts of the processes that I love, while sharing images of little parts of places that make up my story.  

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