​​

Sculptor or clay artist? And does the distinction even matter?

ISRAEL: There is a definite distinction; I was ‘raised in clay’ on the

potter’s wheel, and I teach wheel-throwing once a year. I studied

with master throwers: Byron Temple at Pratt Art Institute, and David

Kuraoka at SF State University. My sculpting process is often described

as slow-motion throwing;   I construct my pieces from large coils,

moving around the piece as I build. The alchemy of glazing, from

formula to application to kiln firing, requires years of dedicated practice.

So clay is my foundation. However I agree with Rene Di Rosa that “it's

not what it’s made out of, but what it’s made into.”

​

Are these creations left deliberately open-ended?

ISRAEL: Every piece has a story. I grew up reading Andre Norton’s sci-fi, telepathic, post-apocalyptic beasts. I was a city child exposed each summer to the fields, woods and barnyards of Maine. My  imagination was free to roam. I had pet fish, mice, an opossum, cats, a chicken, dogs and birds, and I spent enchanted moments watching wild animals as well. What continually fascinates me is how an intensely personal piece gets claimed by the audience as their own story, when the details informing the work are unique to me. I don't need to make the work general for it to communicate broadly. 

​

Is the artist is creating her own unique spirituality?

ISRAEL: I was raised by a painter and a writer from sharply different cultures, and the compromise they sought was fellowship in the Society of Friends, or Quakers. From an early age, I was taught universal tolerance, global pacifism, and fair sharing of resources. Probably the most powerful message was recognition of the divine spark in everyone, everywhere. I also benefited from sitting in silent group meditation for an hour each week, which developed my thinking and imagination through freedom from distraction.” 

​

What is it specifically about the medium of clay that you connect with as an artist? 

ISRAEL The tactile aspects and freshness of clay are irresistible, and the process is a metaphor for human life. There is an inherent paradox when working with such a responsive material. Traces of touch – fingerprints, knuckle marks – are formed with relentless fidelity. That intimate contact of hand and clay remains, beyond the process, beyond the life of the artist - a permanent record of impermanence.