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| Image via the Potters' Penguin Project |
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| Image via http://www.cnn.com/2015/02/25/world/penguin-watch-conservation-citizen-science/ |
Wednesday, June 22, 2016
Solstice census
Winter Solstice (in Antarctica) has come and gone, and the Potters' Penguin Project colony has grown to a whopping 804 penguins! The Project has two more deadlines: October 15, 2016, when we hope to pass the 1,500-penguin mark, and December 15, 2016, when we'll conduct our final colony census. We expect to exhibit at Claymakers in Durham, NC, in early 2017. Check back for info about other exhibit spaces as plans develop.
Monday, June 20, 2016
Cats as time sinks
A tiny piece broke off the potentiometer in the pedal for my pottery wheel. Neither super glue nor epoxy have fixed it, so I'm wheel-less for the next few days, until I can get a new part. In the meantime, here is a video of Findus trying to decide whether he'd rather destroy a paper bag or wrestle with Schroeder.
Saturday, June 11, 2016
Potters' Penguin Project update
We're just ten days away from the Potters' Penguin Project's initial deadline. To clarify: we will continue our penguin drive into the fall. The June 21 deadline exists so that we can assess how close we are to reaching our goal of >1500, and to help with soliciting exhibition spaces (it's easier to make a compelling argument that we can complete the project when we have penguins in hand, and oh!--the photo ops!). Reports of pending penguins suggest we'll be at least halfway to our goal by the 21st. Thanks to all who have participated so far (currently 43 participants documented by name, along with several anonymouses--anonymice?--plus a class of 4th graders and multiple middle-school art classes documented by teacher name).
As I've never organized anything like this before, my project-documenting skills have improved as penguins have accumulated. Please see our Facebook page for photos, videos, and regular updates.
Here are some photos from penguin census day (318 penguins on May 20).
After unpacking all the penguins then in my possession, photographing them on a bedsheet on my parlor grand piano, and repacking them all, I realized 1500 penguins were going to take up a lot more space than I had initially calculated, and it would be beneficial to document them as they arrived. Out came the Flotone grayscale graduated background and the fancy 55-watt 5000-5500K light bulb with the tripod and light diffuser, and voila: formal penguin portraits. A selection is below. The variety in penguin design has been a delight to see.
As I've never organized anything like this before, my project-documenting skills have improved as penguins have accumulated. Please see our Facebook page for photos, videos, and regular updates.
Here are some photos from penguin census day (318 penguins on May 20).
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| Mary Sjogren |
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| Rogers Herr Middle School art students |
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| Rogers Herr Middle School |
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| Pam Wardell |
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| Hannah Suckle and Grace Anker |
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| Cathy Cindrich |
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| Lisa Brown |
Friday, May 20, 2016
Introducing Findus "Baby Cat" Bitey Beau
Meet Findus, a.k.a. Baby Cat, a.k.a. Bitey Beau, formerly Fargo, adopted April 25 from APS of Durham. After three days quarantined in the upstairs bathroom, he emerged to help Schroeder begin a new exercise program. He spends his waking hours snarfing food and harassing Schroeder ("c'mon, hit me, hit me, I dare you!," he says, gnawing on Schroeder's head; to which Schroeder replies "happy to oblige." Two pots broken so far, one per cat). He spends a huge amount of time sleeping every day, which makes E jealous. We thought Schroeder was a bitey cat, but Findus bites much more. He'll occasionally open his fanged jaws wide even when he doesn't immediately need to bite, because a bitey cat can never be too prepared--though on such occasions, he's usually happy to receive a tooth massage. He managed to get us to adopt him by kissing all of us repeatedly, nose to nose--his preferred form of human contact other than biting. Below are photos of the two cats sharing some tender moments of not beating each other up.
Monday, May 9, 2016
Third generation is the charm: reflections on cherry pie and slide rules
When I was a kid, my siblings and I would ask my mother to tell us bedtime stories about her childhood. "Tell us a story about the Olden Days," we would say, night after night, and she would oblige with sepia-tinted tales about life on the Indiana farm or in Hyde Park, Chicago.
The stories that stuck with me most were wonderful adventures foiled by tragedy, like the time my mom and a friend decided to make a cherry pie, so they picked the cherries from the tree on the farm all by themselves, and they made a pie crust all by themselves, and they filled up that pie crust and baked that cherry pie all by themselves, and then no one in my mom's family would even taste it.
(Years later, when I brought up the story and wondered how her family could have been so callous, she said "oh, didn't I mention that the cherries were full of pits and worms, and I'm sure we didn't add any sugar, and we made the crust from flour and water and it was like grey paste? I didn't even eat any of it." I had somehow deleted all of that in my childhood indignation.)
Then there was the story about when my mother, as a little girl, got her very first helium balloon. This was after World War II, because during the war, all the latex was going to the war effort instead of to wonderful frivolous things like balloons. As she was crossing the street, with the balloon tied safely around her tiny wrist so it wouldn't float away (or so I imagined), that wonderful very first balloon popped. Popped! O cruel fate!
(Years later, after I had a child of my own, my mother observed that unlike my own son, my siblings and I had always cried and cried when balloons popped, and she had never understood what was up with that. I asked how we could not have cried, in light of her poignant story of post-war balloon loss. "It was just a balloon," she said.)
One memorable story was less tragic and less sepia-toned, at least to me if not to my mother. As I remember it, the story went something like this: "once upon a time, long ago in the olden days, when my sweet-sixteen birthday rolled around, I hoped for the usual things a 16-year-old girl wants for a birthday present. A pearl necklace, or a new bicycle, or maybe a pony. Something pretty or fun. But I didn't get a pearl necklace, or a new bicycle, or a pony. Instead, my parents gave me a slide rule."
Perhaps I am mis-remembering, and I didn't hear that story until my own sixteenth birthday was approaching. In any case, because my mother has a sense of humor, I too received a slide rule when I turned sixteen: a six-inch long ca. 1936 Keuffel & Esser Ever-There No. 4097D in a slim leather case. Fifteen months later, when my sister had her sixteenth birthday, she too was gifted with a slide rule ("only because it was tradition," she confirmed last night via email).
I am proud that the coming-of-age slide-rule tradition began with women, passed from my mother, as the first recipient, to her daughters. Family lore does not record whether my mother's brother received a slide rule for his sixteenth birthday, and as far as I know, my older brother's slide rules were not affiliated with his sixteenth. (Yes, "slide rules," plural. He reports, "I think I was given more than one because I think I lost more than one.")
My mother broadened the tradition to include menfolk and rites of passage other than birthdays when I married S. She felt it was important to properly welcome my husband into the family, so she gave him a big, fancy, vintage engineer's slide rule with a sturdy leather holster to call his own: a 14-inch long duplex Engineer's No. 1510 in fashionable plastic-coated bamboo, made in Japan, presumably by Relay/Ricoh, for the US market, no date.
My father was a math professor. He owned a slide rule and knew how to wield it. When I was young, I enjoyed playing with its smoothly gliding bars, but by the time I was old enough that a slide rule could have helped with school math, the world had begun its shift to TI-30s and wasn't looking back.
Neither my sister, my husband, nor I ever learned how to use our slide rules. My sister's probably migrated to my parents' attic decades ago. For the past 20 years, S and I have kept ours in their leather cases, tucked away in a desk drawer (his) and in a box in a closet (mine), unused.
Until last week. My son, just thirteen months shy of his sixteenth birthday, is learning about logarithms at school.
"Logarithms?" I said brightly, when he told me. "Let me show you something."
I opened the top right-hand drawer of our roll-top desk and pulled out his father's marital slide rule. We removed it from its holster, and E and I went online to learn how to use it.
"This is SO COOL," E said, as he figured one square root after another to within two significant digits; "when the power goes out after the Zombie Apocalypse, I can calculate numbers without a calculator! Let's do another!"
He asked why we had such a fascinating object. I told him about his grandmother's sixteenth birthday, how she had wanted a pearl necklace or a new bicycle or a pony, and how she had gotten a slide rule instead, and then I fetched my own sweet-sixteen slide rule.
"That is sooooo cute," he said, picking it up.
"Yeah. It's not as fancy as papa's though," I said.
"But it's really cute. It's so small!," he squeaked in admiration.
I put an arm around my delighted child, pointed to the two slide rules on the table, and quoted from the Woozy Works: "Someday, son," I said, "all this will be yours."
And thus it came to pass that a questionable gift for a bright-eyed girl on the cusp of womanhood almost sixty years ago is finally bearing fruit, two generations later. This metaphorical homemade cherry pie will not just be tasted: to paraphrase Sir Francis Bacon, it will be chewed and digested. And thirteen months from now, my son will receive a slide rule to call his own.
The stories that stuck with me most were wonderful adventures foiled by tragedy, like the time my mom and a friend decided to make a cherry pie, so they picked the cherries from the tree on the farm all by themselves, and they made a pie crust all by themselves, and they filled up that pie crust and baked that cherry pie all by themselves, and then no one in my mom's family would even taste it.
(Years later, when I brought up the story and wondered how her family could have been so callous, she said "oh, didn't I mention that the cherries were full of pits and worms, and I'm sure we didn't add any sugar, and we made the crust from flour and water and it was like grey paste? I didn't even eat any of it." I had somehow deleted all of that in my childhood indignation.)
Then there was the story about when my mother, as a little girl, got her very first helium balloon. This was after World War II, because during the war, all the latex was going to the war effort instead of to wonderful frivolous things like balloons. As she was crossing the street, with the balloon tied safely around her tiny wrist so it wouldn't float away (or so I imagined), that wonderful very first balloon popped. Popped! O cruel fate!
(Years later, after I had a child of my own, my mother observed that unlike my own son, my siblings and I had always cried and cried when balloons popped, and she had never understood what was up with that. I asked how we could not have cried, in light of her poignant story of post-war balloon loss. "It was just a balloon," she said.)
One memorable story was less tragic and less sepia-toned, at least to me if not to my mother. As I remember it, the story went something like this: "once upon a time, long ago in the olden days, when my sweet-sixteen birthday rolled around, I hoped for the usual things a 16-year-old girl wants for a birthday present. A pearl necklace, or a new bicycle, or maybe a pony. Something pretty or fun. But I didn't get a pearl necklace, or a new bicycle, or a pony. Instead, my parents gave me a slide rule."
Perhaps I am mis-remembering, and I didn't hear that story until my own sixteenth birthday was approaching. In any case, because my mother has a sense of humor, I too received a slide rule when I turned sixteen: a six-inch long ca. 1936 Keuffel & Esser Ever-There No. 4097D in a slim leather case. Fifteen months later, when my sister had her sixteenth birthday, she too was gifted with a slide rule ("only because it was tradition," she confirmed last night via email).
 |
| My sweet-sixteen Keuffel & Esser Ever-There No. 4097D |
I am proud that the coming-of-age slide-rule tradition began with women, passed from my mother, as the first recipient, to her daughters. Family lore does not record whether my mother's brother received a slide rule for his sixteenth birthday, and as far as I know, my older brother's slide rules were not affiliated with his sixteenth. (Yes, "slide rules," plural. He reports, "I think I was given more than one because I think I lost more than one.")
My mother broadened the tradition to include menfolk and rites of passage other than birthdays when I married S. She felt it was important to properly welcome my husband into the family, so she gave him a big, fancy, vintage engineer's slide rule with a sturdy leather holster to call his own: a 14-inch long duplex Engineer's No. 1510 in fashionable plastic-coated bamboo, made in Japan, presumably by Relay/Ricoh, for the US market, no date.
 |
| S's hefty Engineer's No. 1510 is more than twice as long and twice as thick as my diminutive Keuffel & Esser Ever-There. Surely there's a Master's thesis waiting to be written about slide rules and gender. |
My father was a math professor. He owned a slide rule and knew how to wield it. When I was young, I enjoyed playing with its smoothly gliding bars, but by the time I was old enough that a slide rule could have helped with school math, the world had begun its shift to TI-30s and wasn't looking back.
Neither my sister, my husband, nor I ever learned how to use our slide rules. My sister's probably migrated to my parents' attic decades ago. For the past 20 years, S and I have kept ours in their leather cases, tucked away in a desk drawer (his) and in a box in a closet (mine), unused.
Until last week. My son, just thirteen months shy of his sixteenth birthday, is learning about logarithms at school.
"Logarithms?" I said brightly, when he told me. "Let me show you something."
I opened the top right-hand drawer of our roll-top desk and pulled out his father's marital slide rule. We removed it from its holster, and E and I went online to learn how to use it.
"This is SO COOL," E said, as he figured one square root after another to within two significant digits; "when the power goes out after the Zombie Apocalypse, I can calculate numbers without a calculator! Let's do another!"
He asked why we had such a fascinating object. I told him about his grandmother's sixteenth birthday, how she had wanted a pearl necklace or a new bicycle or a pony, and how she had gotten a slide rule instead, and then I fetched my own sweet-sixteen slide rule.
"That is sooooo cute," he said, picking it up.
"Yeah. It's not as fancy as papa's though," I said.
"But it's really cute. It's so small!," he squeaked in admiration.
I put an arm around my delighted child, pointed to the two slide rules on the table, and quoted from the Woozy Works: "Someday, son," I said, "all this will be yours."
 |
| "One day, son, ALL THIS WILL BE YOURS." My grandfather Mitch shows my uncle Bob the splendor of the junk in the barn; from Woozy Works: The Nearly Complete and Mostly Unexpurgated Writings of the Blue Spanch (1996). |
Tuesday, April 5, 2016
Kitten of Kansas, cat of NC
My first teaching gig after grad school was as an assistant professor of music theory at the University of Kansas. Lawrence was a blue-tinged college town situated on the eastern end of Bob Dole country. I arrived two years after Bob Dole lost the presidential election to Bill Clinton (Dole won most of Kansas, but Clinton won Douglas County).
One of the first things I did in Lawrence was adopt a cat. I had grown up with female cats--Cuddles, Grimalkin, and Charcoal--and I fully intended to adopt a female cat and to name her Fafner.
I took it as a sign that the humane society had a cat named Madison--the same name as the town of my doctoral alma mater. But there, next to her, was a big schmusig orange tabby named Larry--the chummy name of the town of my current professorial gig. Larry was so very schmoozy that he ended up coming home with me and becoming Larry Fafner. He made it his habit to sleep at night curled around my head, purring. He was a lovely cat.
Larry Fafner came with free tape worms that required, in quick succession, a bad vet, a change of vets, a good vet, and several hundred dollars to resolve. Two short months later, when I decided to adopt a second cat to keep Larry Fafner company, the good vet gave me some financial advice: look more thoroughly for signs of health in the adoptee, and bring him/her straight from the pound to the vet before bringing him/her home to Larry.
So, three days in a row, in mid-November 1998, I visited the Lawrence humane society. On Wednesday and Thursday, I played with multiple adorable kittens, leaning toward a sweet little tabby I thought I would call my own--until, on Friday, I decided he was perhaps more wild than Larry would tolerate, and I settled on a jet black kitten named Luke instead.
"We usually require cats to be here for eight days before adopting them out," the pound administrator told me cheerfully, "and Luke has only been here for seven; but that's OK, we'll let you take him." Thus it was that Luke and I headed to the vet that very afternoon. The vet said the cat needed a flea dip, so I left him there and went home to think about a new name while they de-pested him.
When I returned late that afternoon to pick up Not-Going-to-Be-Named-Luke Kitten, he looked content and clean in his carrier. The staff at the clinic had fallen in love with him and, oohing and ahhing about his adorableness, confirmed I had made an excellent choice.
On the way out to the car, sweet wee Kitten started foaming at the mouth. I did an about face and returned to the clinic.
"How odd," said the vet. "He must be allergic to the tinsel toy we gave him. Let's just take that away..." He removed the silvery tinsel ball from the carrier and sent us on our way.
Later that evening, Kitten was still hyper-salivating, and he refused to eat or drink. I phoned the vet, who agreed to meet me at the now closed clinic to re-evaluate the cat. He decided that perhaps Kitten was younger than originally thought and was having a reaction to the flea medication. Together, we gave Kitten a warm bath using Dawn dish detergent--apparently the mildest vet-recommended soap available for washing cats. As we finished, Kitten leaped out of the sink and hung from my sweater, warm and soaking wet.
Thus Kitten learned how to stare water in the face and never blink.
That night, to keep an eye on him while keeping him away from Larry Fafner, I nestled Kitten into a cushioned shoe box and pulled him under the covers with me.
Thus Kitten learned that sleeping under the covers is the bees knees.
On Saturday, Kitten continued hyper-salivating and still refused to eat. Back to the vet we went. The vet taught me how to force feed the cat using a syringe and extra moist prescription canned food. It worked alright at the clinic, but at home, it was another matter. At feeding time, I sat on the edge of the bathtub with the shower curtain drawn, held Kitten in my lap, pried his mouth open, and forced the food in--whereupon he shook his head to keep the food from going down, spraying food all over me and the shower. For a very sick kitten, he achieved remarkably thorough coverage.
I know all of this happened in mid-November, because it followed closely on the heels of another November event. On November 3, I had worked late and then gotten drawn into watching state election returns online. My office was across the hall from some practice rooms, and one of my students dropped in to chat after he finished practicing. When he saw that I was watching election returns, the conversation turned to politics. A little voice in my head said "don't talk to students about this." Another little voice responded "it's OK, your students are adults. They're in college. You can have respectful conversations."
I adopted Kitten about a week after that--the same week that I returned essays to my undergrad theory class. The student with whom I had the conversation on election night got a B-. The B was for the paper itself, and was generous because I was new at being a hardass; the minus was for the peer-review he was supposed to have provided for a classmate, in writing, but didn't. The week I adopted Kitten, the student angrily informed me that he was going to sue me because I had graded him down for being a Republican.
My department chair was extremely supportive. He advised me to listen to voice #1 next time, but stood by me during the craziness with Righteous Student. It was a rough way to end the semester.
Enter Kitten, to cheer me up and keep Larry Fafner company. But Kitten was still quite ill on Sunday. By then, my choices seemed to be either to return him to the pound--where surely they'd euthanize him--or to hospitalize him. I linked Kitten's survival to my own, not knowing whether Righteous Student would succeed in destroying my fledgling career. So back to the vet Kitten went, to be force-fed and re-hydrated by the experts.
Kitten survived, and so did I. The vet phoned on Monday to tell me Kitten was finally drinking on his own. By the time I picked Kitten up on Tuesday, his name had become Homer Wells--an orphan cat named after an orphan named after a cat. Those familiar with John Irving's The Cider House Rules recognize "Homer Wells" as a profoundly pro-choice choice. Righteous Student was transferred to a TA's class, where, alas, he shifted his harassing energy onto his new teacher. I imagine he has wreaked a life of righteous havoc ever since.
Homer Wells, the cat, went on to achieve great things in his life and most certainly learned to "be of use." A vociferous and territorial defender of unmatched socks, he became the namesake for my avatar (mom2homer) when I wanted to assimilate with other moms on a parenting listserv. In midlife, Homer learned how to use the toilet, sorta, and before age and arthritis caught up with him, he was an expert catcher of mice and bats. In his old age, he figured out how to do unexpected things with computers.
Homer Wells
One of the first things I did in Lawrence was adopt a cat. I had grown up with female cats--Cuddles, Grimalkin, and Charcoal--and I fully intended to adopt a female cat and to name her Fafner.
I took it as a sign that the humane society had a cat named Madison--the same name as the town of my doctoral alma mater. But there, next to her, was a big schmusig orange tabby named Larry--the chummy name of the town of my current professorial gig. Larry was so very schmoozy that he ended up coming home with me and becoming Larry Fafner. He made it his habit to sleep at night curled around my head, purring. He was a lovely cat.
Larry Fafner came with free tape worms that required, in quick succession, a bad vet, a change of vets, a good vet, and several hundred dollars to resolve. Two short months later, when I decided to adopt a second cat to keep Larry Fafner company, the good vet gave me some financial advice: look more thoroughly for signs of health in the adoptee, and bring him/her straight from the pound to the vet before bringing him/her home to Larry.
So, three days in a row, in mid-November 1998, I visited the Lawrence humane society. On Wednesday and Thursday, I played with multiple adorable kittens, leaning toward a sweet little tabby I thought I would call my own--until, on Friday, I decided he was perhaps more wild than Larry would tolerate, and I settled on a jet black kitten named Luke instead.
"We usually require cats to be here for eight days before adopting them out," the pound administrator told me cheerfully, "and Luke has only been here for seven; but that's OK, we'll let you take him." Thus it was that Luke and I headed to the vet that very afternoon. The vet said the cat needed a flea dip, so I left him there and went home to think about a new name while they de-pested him.
When I returned late that afternoon to pick up Not-Going-to-Be-Named-Luke Kitten, he looked content and clean in his carrier. The staff at the clinic had fallen in love with him and, oohing and ahhing about his adorableness, confirmed I had made an excellent choice.
On the way out to the car, sweet wee Kitten started foaming at the mouth. I did an about face and returned to the clinic.
"How odd," said the vet. "He must be allergic to the tinsel toy we gave him. Let's just take that away..." He removed the silvery tinsel ball from the carrier and sent us on our way.
Later that evening, Kitten was still hyper-salivating, and he refused to eat or drink. I phoned the vet, who agreed to meet me at the now closed clinic to re-evaluate the cat. He decided that perhaps Kitten was younger than originally thought and was having a reaction to the flea medication. Together, we gave Kitten a warm bath using Dawn dish detergent--apparently the mildest vet-recommended soap available for washing cats. As we finished, Kitten leaped out of the sink and hung from my sweater, warm and soaking wet.
Thus Kitten learned how to stare water in the face and never blink.
That night, to keep an eye on him while keeping him away from Larry Fafner, I nestled Kitten into a cushioned shoe box and pulled him under the covers with me.
Thus Kitten learned that sleeping under the covers is the bees knees.
On Saturday, Kitten continued hyper-salivating and still refused to eat. Back to the vet we went. The vet taught me how to force feed the cat using a syringe and extra moist prescription canned food. It worked alright at the clinic, but at home, it was another matter. At feeding time, I sat on the edge of the bathtub with the shower curtain drawn, held Kitten in my lap, pried his mouth open, and forced the food in--whereupon he shook his head to keep the food from going down, spraying food all over me and the shower. For a very sick kitten, he achieved remarkably thorough coverage.
I know all of this happened in mid-November, because it followed closely on the heels of another November event. On November 3, I had worked late and then gotten drawn into watching state election returns online. My office was across the hall from some practice rooms, and one of my students dropped in to chat after he finished practicing. When he saw that I was watching election returns, the conversation turned to politics. A little voice in my head said "don't talk to students about this." Another little voice responded "it's OK, your students are adults. They're in college. You can have respectful conversations."
I adopted Kitten about a week after that--the same week that I returned essays to my undergrad theory class. The student with whom I had the conversation on election night got a B-. The B was for the paper itself, and was generous because I was new at being a hardass; the minus was for the peer-review he was supposed to have provided for a classmate, in writing, but didn't. The week I adopted Kitten, the student angrily informed me that he was going to sue me because I had graded him down for being a Republican.
My department chair was extremely supportive. He advised me to listen to voice #1 next time, but stood by me during the craziness with Righteous Student. It was a rough way to end the semester.
Enter Kitten, to cheer me up and keep Larry Fafner company. But Kitten was still quite ill on Sunday. By then, my choices seemed to be either to return him to the pound--where surely they'd euthanize him--or to hospitalize him. I linked Kitten's survival to my own, not knowing whether Righteous Student would succeed in destroying my fledgling career. So back to the vet Kitten went, to be force-fed and re-hydrated by the experts.
Kitten survived, and so did I. The vet phoned on Monday to tell me Kitten was finally drinking on his own. By the time I picked Kitten up on Tuesday, his name had become Homer Wells--an orphan cat named after an orphan named after a cat. Those familiar with John Irving's The Cider House Rules recognize "Homer Wells" as a profoundly pro-choice choice. Righteous Student was transferred to a TA's class, where, alas, he shifted his harassing energy onto his new teacher. I imagine he has wreaked a life of righteous havoc ever since.
Homer Wells, the cat, went on to achieve great things in his life and most certainly learned to "be of use." A vociferous and territorial defender of unmatched socks, he became the namesake for my avatar (mom2homer) when I wanted to assimilate with other moms on a parenting listserv. In midlife, Homer learned how to use the toilet, sorta, and before age and arthritis caught up with him, he was an expert catcher of mice and bats. In his old age, he figured out how to do unexpected things with computers.
Good night, you kitten of Kansas, you cat of NC.
September (?), 1998 - April 5, 2016
Friday, March 18, 2016
Yet more on the Potters' Penguin Project
Finally, the Potters' Penguin Project information you've all been waiting for!
1. Deadlines:
The deadline for our initial penguin push (>1500 penguins) is June 21, 2016. While the Potters' Penguin Project is likely to continue collecting penguins after that date, we have set this initial deadline so we can gauge, relatively soon, both the number of penguins likely to join our colony and the amount of space they will occupy; having a date will also help us as we contact exhibit locations. (Plus, it's winter solstice in the southern hemisphere, the darkest time of year for penguins.)
UPDATE 6/22/16: We have 804 penguins in the colony! We have two more deadlines: October 15, when we hope to pass 1,500, and December 15, when we'll do our final colony census. Thanks to all who have contributed so far!
2. What charity should this project support?
There are many organizations doing excellent work advocating to combat global warming. We've consulted with friends who are active in environmental law, green building, and biology, and among their recommendations, the following organizations stand out:
* Natural Resources Defense Council, http://www.nrdc.org/about/
* Earthjustice, http://earthjustice.org/about, "because the Earth needs a good lawyer"
* The Union of Concerned Scientists, www.ucsusa.org
* and Saving Species, www.savingspecies.org (not penguin-specific, but we recognize that biodiversity is important and that we all share the same planet)
If you have strong feelings about any of these organizations, please let us know!
3. Rules of the colony:
* Penguins should be handmade out of clay. Mixed-media penguins are welcome if clay is the main ingredient.
* All species of penguin, real or imagined, are welcome in the colony. Design, firing method, etc., is up to individual makers.
* Penguins should be less than 10 cm (3.9 inches) tall.
* Penguins must stand on their own, i.e. without needing to hang from or lean against a wall.
* We have no official standards of penguinness: if makers think their creations look like penguins, we'll consider their creations penguins (although we reserve the right to clothe penguins engaged in X-rated behavior).
* We're aiming for "green" (consider single-firing, low-temp firing, etc.), but not greenware: please fire your penguins to reduce the risk of damage during transportation.
* If I've overlooked something obviously important, please let me know!
4. The fine print:
We're trying to find a lawyer who can tell us (preferably for free) whether we need to put any of this into legalese (anyone know anyone?). In the meantime, you should know that...
* All donated penguins to become part of the Potters' Penguin Project, as described on this page and http://mightoughtashould.blogspot.com/search/label/penguins. The Potters' Penguin Project is a community art project to create and exhibit >1500 clay penguins, in order to make the impacts of global warming on distant places more immediately tangible to both makers and viewers.
* After the colony has been exhibited (we're aiming for at least three locations), we will either donate the penguins directly to, or sell them on behalf of, one of the above charities, or one that does similar environmental advocacy. All proceeds will go to said charity.
* If, after reasonable effort, any penguins don't sell or are declined as donations, remaining colony members may be donated to a charity doing environmental advocacy in Durham, NC (where the Potters' Penguin Project originated).
* We are unable to return donated penguins to their makers.
* Participants are responsible for the costs of their materials, firing, shipping, etc.
5. Fame and glory:
We would like to include makers' names in the text that will accompany the Potters' Penguin Project. Please send us your name with your penguins. If you'd prefer to remain anonymous, let us know. We will do our best with record-keeping, and apologize in advance if we inadvertently leave anyone's name out.
6. Getting your penguins to the project:
Please contact me via g e e k p o t s a t g m a i l d o t c o m to arrange delivery/pick-up/shipping.
1. Deadlines:
The deadline for our initial penguin push (>1500 penguins) is June 21, 2016. While the Potters' Penguin Project is likely to continue collecting penguins after that date, we have set this initial deadline so we can gauge, relatively soon, both the number of penguins likely to join our colony and the amount of space they will occupy; having a date will also help us as we contact exhibit locations. (Plus, it's winter solstice in the southern hemisphere, the darkest time of year for penguins.)
UPDATE 6/22/16: We have 804 penguins in the colony! We have two more deadlines: October 15, when we hope to pass 1,500, and December 15, when we'll do our final colony census. Thanks to all who have contributed so far!
2. What charity should this project support?
There are many organizations doing excellent work advocating to combat global warming. We've consulted with friends who are active in environmental law, green building, and biology, and among their recommendations, the following organizations stand out:
* Natural Resources Defense Council, http://www.nrdc.org/about/
* Earthjustice, http://earthjustice.org/about, "because the Earth needs a good lawyer"
* The Union of Concerned Scientists, www.ucsusa.org
* and Saving Species, www.savingspecies.org (not penguin-specific, but we recognize that biodiversity is important and that we all share the same planet)
If you have strong feelings about any of these organizations, please let us know!
3. Rules of the colony:
* Penguins should be handmade out of clay. Mixed-media penguins are welcome if clay is the main ingredient.
* All species of penguin, real or imagined, are welcome in the colony. Design, firing method, etc., is up to individual makers.
* Penguins should be less than 10 cm (3.9 inches) tall.
* Penguins must stand on their own, i.e. without needing to hang from or lean against a wall.
* We have no official standards of penguinness: if makers think their creations look like penguins, we'll consider their creations penguins (although we reserve the right to clothe penguins engaged in X-rated behavior).
* We're aiming for "green" (consider single-firing, low-temp firing, etc.), but not greenware: please fire your penguins to reduce the risk of damage during transportation.
* If I've overlooked something obviously important, please let me know!
4. The fine print:
We're trying to find a lawyer who can tell us (preferably for free) whether we need to put any of this into legalese (anyone know anyone?). In the meantime, you should know that...
* All donated penguins to become part of the Potters' Penguin Project, as described on this page and http://mightoughtashould.blogspot.com/search/label/penguins. The Potters' Penguin Project is a community art project to create and exhibit >1500 clay penguins, in order to make the impacts of global warming on distant places more immediately tangible to both makers and viewers.
* After the colony has been exhibited (we're aiming for at least three locations), we will either donate the penguins directly to, or sell them on behalf of, one of the above charities, or one that does similar environmental advocacy. All proceeds will go to said charity.
* If, after reasonable effort, any penguins don't sell or are declined as donations, remaining colony members may be donated to a charity doing environmental advocacy in Durham, NC (where the Potters' Penguin Project originated).
* We are unable to return donated penguins to their makers.
* Participants are responsible for the costs of their materials, firing, shipping, etc.
5. Fame and glory:
We would like to include makers' names in the text that will accompany the Potters' Penguin Project. Please send us your name with your penguins. If you'd prefer to remain anonymous, let us know. We will do our best with record-keeping, and apologize in advance if we inadvertently leave anyone's name out.
6. Getting your penguins to the project:
Please contact me via g e e k p o t s a t g m a i l d o t c o m to arrange delivery/pick-up/shipping.
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