JCT Woodwork

Wood Bowls from Fallen Trees of Los Angeles

Home

page1

page2

page3

page4

page5

page6

Email Fliers

Where to Buy Bowls

Latest Work

small bowls

Galleries

Walnut Gallery

Peach

Poplar Gallery

Oak Gallery

Carob Gallery

Ash Gallery

Elm Gallery

Acacia Gallery

Pear Gallery

Olive Gallery

Alder Gallery

Eucalyptus Gallery

Madrone and Maple

Sycamore and Macadamia

Behnke Doherty Gallery

Trees

Bonanza in Reseda

Migthty Oak of Oakland

Death of an Oak

Mountain Laurel

Redwood

Your Lens

My Process

Words

Links

Sort of a Journal

09-12-2010

When about to make a thing

And I’m not so exactly sure

What the thing will look like

I wonder if I should stop

Maybe consult a professional

Prepare a long confessional

In case it seems a mistake.

 

My best work has always come

Once my notion is in motion

And it’s too late to turn back.

Fear comes into my present

And prompts my heart to speak

Urging me to reach clear to the thing I seek.

Then there is no mistake.

Truth is the thing I make.


08/11/10

When I was sixteen and building my first house

I had an epiphany about  wood,

I noticed that it was changing: warping, oozing, cracking

Even as I  constructed.

 

I hated that fact.

I wanted my work to be perfect and permanent.

I thrashed around in my sleep.

Perplexed by imperfection.

 

My boss at the time was a slob.

He coached me: “You need to adjust your attitude:

Don’t worry ‘bout it. Goddamnit.

Can’t see it from my house anyway.” He shrugged.

 

I found some boldness in his prescription for mindless action.

And that seemed to work for him and be to his pleasing

When I immediately did what he told me to do.

Right wrong: not my fault: not my job to be mindful.

 

I never could make peace with it.

Even with a raise, when everything was swimming.

I thrashed around in my sleep.

Wrestling an internal opponent that pit me against myself.

 

I was blissfully unemployed about five years ago

I sat on the lawn at my sister’s house

With both my artist sisters, eating a simple lunch.

One  sister said “Wabi Sabi”

 

Other sister said “Just was reading about that.”

Brother in law rounded the house

Like in a musical reading a book titled:

“What is Wabi Sabi?”

 

Well…. It’s a Japanese phrase that juxtaposes

Two notions of age, like New-Old.

Like aging renewed by usage.

An old tarnished door knob that shines anew just where you grasp it.

 

So after years of mindful care, I can grasp and turn a log

From something old, hidden and rotting

Into a fascinating new vessel.

That honors old and new life in its layers of age and coping.

 

That has been the idea behind my work this week.

Love, John

 
 

July 4, 2010

A friend sent me a photograph

Of a generous oak in Rochester.

In a park designed by Omstead

Near the beautiful Genesee river.

I felt instantly entitled
To climb that seat
And feel again like a toddler

In the precarious comfort

Of my grandfather’s recliner.


Oak on the Genesee River

But come the fourth of  July this year

That tree was cleft in twain

As if smacked so hard

It split from the blow

Of a bare fisted giant.

Now, I’m not Druid any more,

Though those would be my roots.

But such an event on such a date

Might cause a plume to quiver

Back in the age of Shakespeare

When catastrophic events caused

Kings to repent from wars

And other wrong decisions.

Beware, repent and then perhaps rejoice.

Love, John  

P.S. find the “after” picture in the attached.


05/29/10

I’m sick about the Gulf of Mexico.

Everything seems so mighty there at the mouth of the Mississippi.

But the breeze carries such a delicate mixture of scent.

Of things that require the gentlest kind of loving.

The scent of frogs, whatever that is

And reeds that bravely flower over mud

And little eyes that blink in the surface of gentle water.

I so hope whoever spills oil will certainly clean it up

Before it washes to shore.

 

Surely they will corral it like a gigantic school of fish

And suck it up as I’ve seen them do with fish into the hold.

And I hope they will experiment there

And find a way to separate

Oil from troubled water.

O, it’s already reached the shore?

O, they didn’t try to capture it?

O, they don’t know what they’re doing?

O, ships are full and won’t offload until the price of Oil rises?

O, they think the ratio of oil to water is not yet high enough?

 

Try this: One teacup of oil in the vast ocean is too much.

We must be fastidious as American Indians were about buffalos.

For all the bounty of this delicate earth.

Love John  


Winter

A song from last summer in midst of this winter

Inspired a broken limb to attempt the sound.

Summer had died and left this painful splinter

Sapless, his leaves all scattered to the ground.

Snow had come and filled up over his feet.

An empty wood will echo any tune.

Why choose a song that sounds so like defeat?

Like Summer isn’t dead; she’s back at noon?

No, she died. I saw her. Every plant grew plump

Then ripe then picked or eaten by the deer

Then, as the heat expired the plants did slump

Sun came late, then shadowed, then it disappeared.

If Summer is truly gone: now we can sleep

And ready ourselves for a brand new summer to peak.


Spring

My heart aches for the rush of Spring

Where every shrub is stretching

And rushing with all its might

To get ready in its fat bud.

Then burst with scent and color

And join the wild profusion

On its dizzy march toward summer.

Alas, much of summer is here all winter.

And while I applaud the quiet and formal rites of Spring,

I’d still like a taste of New England’s all out bash!


Website by JCT August 21, 2006

Website powered by Network Solutions®