Art and Loss

My brother-in-law died last Saturday.

Cold, brutal words for an incomprehensible fact.

His name was Richard Godfrey. He was beloved by many. He was also an excellent potter.

We all know the saying, “practice makes perfect.” Malcolm Gladwell reached the conclusion that having talent isn't enough—it takes up to 10,000 hours of practice to become really good at something. Over the years of his career, Richard had put in many more than his 10,000 hours of practice and while some of those hours were probably filled with drudgery, as he wedged his clay or turned mug after mug on his wheel, all of them helped to make him the skilled artist that he was. Richard had natural talent, but his final glorious pieces are the culmination of his years of hard work. And it’s so hard for me to write those words, “his final glorious pieces.” Because the loss of what he had yet to create is incalculable to me—I can’t believe that I won’t see another evolution of his pottery, another technical challenge he’s overcome. In his workshop are grey ghosts of pots that he will never finish: never glaze with the bright colors he loved, never decorate with deft brush strokes, never name, pack, and send off to a gallery to be admired and purchased.

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Artists and writers evolve with time: over the years their aspirations change, mellowing or sharpening, narrowing or broadening. Inspiration changes too, although for Richard his love of the Devon countryside and the spectacular coastal scenery near his home were all the inspiration he needed. I’ve come late to children’s writing, but Richard understood that now it’s my passion—that I’d do it regardless of whether my work will be published or not. In the same way, he lived the life he wanted and managed to support his family through his art. His pots can be found in homes around the world—I have many in mine. The weather in Minnesota has been dreary these last few days and one of his recent slab pots is a bright beacon in my window—a cheery contrast to the dull greys and browns outside.

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The world will be less colorful without Richard. He loved and lived with gusto and passion. An exuberant life force, his circle of friends reached far and wide. His bearded face, topped with a mop of hair, smiles out at us from photos: of Richard clowning, or walking on his beloved beach, or playing with his grandchildren. His loss must be mourned and endured by his family. One of his last acts for them was, by dint of sheer guts and determination and with some assistance from modern medicine, to walk his daughter down the aisle at her wedding and give a speech at her reception. He was a determined man.

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There are so many ways to remember Richard—as ukulele-playing toddler-whisperer, pizza-making family man, gregarious party enlivener, or skilled potter. He loved a good “knees-up” and he’d probably say, “Lift a pint in my name.” But I say, buy a pot from a potter. Help someone else live his or her dream.

You can see Richard's work on his web site: Richard Godfrey Ceramics
Watch an interview with Richard where he discusses what inspires his work.