Radiolarians

I belatedly learned about diatoms over a year ago, but it wasn't until just the other week that I learned about radiolarians. I was leafing through some junk mail--the Dover catalog of children's books--when I came across Haeckel's Art Forms from the Ocean.* Thank you, junk mail! The Dover blurb states, "The tiny single-celled organisms known as radiolarians (or radiolaria) develop beautiful, intricate mineral skeletons that cover ocean floors throughout the world." Radiolarians? Spherical skeletons with lacy holes and spikes? Whoowee! Diatoms gone wild!

Naturally, I googled "radolaria[ns]" and found a wealth of swell images (most of which are copyrighted, of course, so, ya know, click on the ones below to see the original sources):

I also googled Haeckel and learned that he faked illustrations of embryos in order to support his ideas about evolution, and that those fake illustrations have made their way into assorted contemporary biology textbooks. Perhaps he faked a few radiolarians as well; indeed, it's hard to believe he had real life sources for such fantastic microscopic skeletal remains as these:

Anyway, you know what I gushed about on the last day of Pottery for Geeks.**

While much radiolarian art on the interwebs is created using 3D printing (which, I dunno, kinda seems like cheating), one Bavarian ceramicist, Gerhard Lutz, hand builds exquisitely delicate porcelain radiolarians that put my wheel-thrown ones to shame.

*I'm not quite sure how a CD-ROM of an 1862 atlas of microscopic oceanic lifeforms got mixed in with Dover's At the Beach Fun Kit and Something's Fishy! Undersea Designs to Color, but I'm glad it did.

**I also gushed about the Pythagorean Cup, a.k.a. the Cup of Tantalus, a classical Greek wine goblet that punishes gluttony by siphoning out its entire contents when overfilled. It turned out no one in the class felt a need for an anti-gluttony cup, so we didn't try making any.

Diatomaceous earth

Call me uninformed, but I had never heard of diatomaceous earth until S observed that my little hole-poked Klein Bottle reminded him of it. Diatomaceous earth, also known as diatomite or kieselgur, is composed of the fossilized remains of diatoms, which are a kind of algae. It's used as a potent organic insecticide and also as something to mix into your lemonade if you're in need of deworming or a good colon scrub. "The ladies love it because it grows longer, stronger fingernails!" declares one Nebraska enthusiast, even though he admits it's "not endorsed by the [pesky] FDA" or "cleared for actual human use."

In any case, there are enough images of diatomaceous earth out there on the internets to demonstrate that fossilized diatoms can be stunningly beautiful, tantalizingly symmetric, and impressively prolific in their variety.

When S showed me online pictures of diatomaceous earth, I finally had a plan for a vase I had thrown last weekend. The bulbous pot was about a foot tall, and the form annoyed me (dumpy, footless, no lift, and too evenly split between body and neck). After I made it, I contemplated squashing it, but then I remembered a friend's advice: if you can experiment on the surface, don't throw it out. So I saved the vase, and yesterday evening, the experiment began: Could I carve diatomaceous earth designs into the clay and still keep the pot functional (i.e. no hole cutting allowed)?

After I determined the answer ("go buy yourself some shellac and take a drawing class if you want to do this right"), I recycled the clay.

Stupidly, because I had forbidden myself from cutting holes, I forgot to experiment with drill bits before trashing the pot. My Kemper hole maker leaves messy clay goobers in its wake. Since I can't reach inside Klein Bottles to smooth out the goobers, I'm looking for a way simply to make cleaner cuts. Guess I have something to do with my next irritating form.

In other potting news, I'm just a few deep breaths and one phone call away from buying my very first electric kiln. Here's hoping I have enough oxygen in my brain to make that bold leap tomorrow.