Stephen Rodriguez
A studio is a disarray that lets the artist work. You don’t see what matters to the making of paintings or drawings or sculpture in a room that has had all the evidence of its real function erased. When an artist assures me in advance of a studio visit that the place will be made neat, I am always dismayed. If I can’t see the mess, I will miss something important about the objects that it was a consequence of.
And so, I am always at ease with the apparent shambles of Stephen Rodriguez’ pottery. For as long as I have known his work, even before my first intrusion into his workshop some three years ago, there are still surprises of splendor in every corner. Among the unfinished pots, clay dust, plastic tubs and kiln bricks, a single glazed surface makes conversation with the light, then another, and another. There is what I can only describe as a demand to lift up each piece and mimic the artist’s fingers moving across the shape of it. It is the one gesture that comes closest to gratitude.
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