Bowls Have Many Stories to Tell

A recent lunch with a dear friend turned to a dis­cus­sion of art objects. “I like square bowls,” she said, show­ing me a pic­ture on her phone of a hand-built, ceram­ic piece she liked. Her remark prompt­ed me to think about the bowls in my life. So often tak­en for grant­ed, it strikes me that bowls are fundamental.

I dis­cov­ered the stain­less-steel ves­sel pocked with rust accom­pa­ny­ing this mis­sive in an aban­doned house on North Carolina’s Outer Banks. The sea air had been doing its job on the house and its con­tents for a long, long time.

Most bowls in my life are not as lone­ly as the one pic­tured. Many have been ride-alongs for decades. I have had a basic white set of eight cere­al coupes by the German com­pa­ny, Arzberg, since the 1980s. They are shal­low, dai­ly, go-to bowls for every­thing from egg-whip­ping to oat­meal. Their num­ber had been dwin­dling, as years and gran­ite counter tops took their toll. The pat­tern was dis­con­tin­ued in 2017, so they are a tough find, but I locat­ed three pris­tine exam­ples recent­ly. I can breathe eas­i­ly again.

Other bowls in inven­to­ry are not mun­dane. One nice white bowl dec­o­rat­ed with blue arabesques was giv­en to me by Nina Leonidovna Stromova dur­ing a vis­it to her home in Vinogradivka, Ukraine. I was in the back coun­try doc­u­ment­ing tra­di­tion­al sto­ries. As my ethno­g­ra­ph­er col­leagues and I climbed back into our four-wheel-dri­ve Renault wag­on, Nina came run­ning up to the car with the gift-bowl brim­ming with hon­ey­comb from her api­ary. Today, the bowl stays full of grape toma­toes. I think of Nina and the rock­ets fly­ing over her vil­lage every time I grab a snack.

I have a large kitchen bowl by Mossy Creek, Georgia, pot­ter Lanier Meaders. He is most esteemed for his folk face jugs, some of which are in the Smithsonian. A piece of his kiln fell into my bowl dur­ing fir­ing. It became a white glob in the bot­tom of his stone black art piece. I won­der if he was dis­ap­point­ed. I’m com­fort­able with wabi-sabi.

Drawn to the mag­net­ic pos­si­bil­i­ties of artis­tic con­i­cal cre­ations, I have them in wood and clay by artists near and far. Several of my favorites are were turned and fired by Ashley and Carvel Norman at Dirty South Pottery here in Winchester. They birthed hun­dreds of bowls for the annu­al Empty Bowls fundrais­er at First Presbyterian Church. It is spe­cial when local art and good deeds col­lide to build trust and belong­ing in our community.

Other bowls por­tend more omi­nous for­tune. I am hold­ing on to four cir­ca 1999 pas­tel French Retroneau bowls like my life depends upon it. One mem­ber of the quar­tet has an invis­i­ble hair­line crack. I keep it in the cab­i­net as a prayer, even though it thuds instead of rings when tapped with a spoon. When will it fail? Some of life’s mys­ter­ies are unknowable.

Whether cer­e­mo­ni­al and sacred, ordi­nary or ornate, bowls embody the intent of their mak­ers and deliv­er joy whether feed­ing us, warm­ing our hands, or dec­o­rat­ing a shelf.

I am sur­round­ed by the shape­ly arti­facts. Some embrace jade plants. Artist Bob put a slash in his cre­ations to cry out in human angst. Terry’s lit­tle blue com­pote is always full of gar­lic cloves. Mitzi’s hands became so tired that she had to stop shap­ing clay on her wheel, but her brown crock still reminds me of her last days in the studio.

We have been liv­ing with bowls for 18,000 years. No doubt you have your own col­lec­tion. I am cer­tain that like mine, your bowls have many inter­est­ing sto­ries to tell.