Fire Dragon: Lee Horus Clark
Yo on Lee.
Fire Dragon: Lee Horus Clark
by Yolande Clark
The first time I saw Lee Horus Clark, he was sitting against the wall of our scruffy North End Halifax cafe, sunning himself; a lithe cat, lean and brown, tattooed, dreadlock-haloed. Within a week, I had quit my job and we hit the road in the dilapidated pickup, on our way to the backwoods of western New Brunswick, to fire the Little River Anagama.
This is woodfired pottery of such immediacy and poise, that one is struck on first glance, as though by force. Here is a sensuous tsubo, a chocolate sundae of a pot, with epicurean icing in iridescent cream. To the left stand a series of vases, and luminous tokkuri, whose delicate pursed lips are chapped with sprinklings of blue-gray ash, casual indentations and abundant streaming cerulean tears. Assured slashes confidently disorder unique yet perfectly proportioned tea-bowls. That which looks deceptively substantive, even heavy, is airy when held in hand. Stunning firebox pots show cratered areas in metallic purple, viridian, and a mellifluous, oceanic black. These evoke ancient archaeology but possess an energy and edge that is undeniably contemporary--an incredible collision of earth and cool, sophistication and the primitive. Another distinct body of work include a series of emotive, figurative sculptures. Exposed yet dignified, these chronicle the scope and fragility of human response, rendered with extraordinary feeling. Showered in dripping jewel hues, they are raw and gestural, yet emphatically expressive. At times anguished, all are highly affecting in the power of their stance. Astoundingly, there is no applied glaze on any of these pots or figures. Their ineffable colour, and textured landscapes are a result of eight, nine, and sometimes ten days of firing which involves stoking the firebox every three to five minutes for the entire duration.
My first firing. We arrive in Carleton County in early fall, but already the countryside has acquired all the range and colour of flame. After careening down a winding mud-hole cratered logging road, the Little River Anagama seems to heave into view. Mediaeval in tone and scope, the kiln is magnificent and disastrous. There are broken pots strewn everywhere, scattered shards and half-burned drifts of wood. The sad remains of an outdoor kitchen sags, and pottery sits, nonchalant, on every available surface. The effect is romantic, anarchic, eccentric. We're home.
Lee Horus Clark was born in 1976, the year of the Fire Dragon, to evangelical Christian parents, who, while supportive, remain somewhat mystified by--though increasingly proud of-- Lee's passion. His father, a respected and highly principled sustainable forestry manager (the last of his kind in a province hurtling towards widespread industrial logging practices) taught him how to start a fire at age 4. By 12, he was working in the woods alongside his dad. At age 14, he had decided on his own version of Buddhist tolerance, and that he didn't want to be a lumberjack, but an artist.
Lee created the first incarnation of the kiln, a hikarigama, at age 21. He built it by hand, on his father's land, with no money, bricks from an uncle, and with help from his then-partner and fellow potter Alison Gayton. He had excelled as a student at the New Brunswick College of Craft and Design, and developed a reputation for being a renegade, pushing the boundaries of the material and the equipment with intense glaze firings, and all-night studio sessions. He was also recognized as a major talent in all areas including gas reduction firing and glaze chemistry. But upon discovering the anagama and the work of Shiho Kanzaki in particular, he knew he had found his spiritual calling. He renounced glaze work altogether and went back to the forest. "Getting good results from wood-fired pottery takes sublime effort." He says. "I feel more connected to the work because there is more of a personal interaction. You can create any glaze, but when I first saw natural ash glaze, and understood what it was, it was all I ever wanted to do. This is where it's at. It's alchemy, magical. sacred: a one shot deal, and a process that I find incredibly fulfilling. There is a deeper sense of mystery. Even afterwards, looking at it, it's difficult for me to comprehend how it came about." Lee values the intrinsic honesty of the process, as well as his increasing independence from a reliance on fossil fuels. This work is the antithesis of mass production, in a rubric all its own. For Lee, this method is the only way to create in accordance with his strong personal code and his need to live on the razor's edge of drama, danger, excitement, tragedy and beauty.
Despite his enthusiasm, the first several firings in his newly built kiln were lackluster and disappointing. He had been following conventional wisdom, and dutifully consulted his cones and pyrometers during his firings, adjusting the stoke frequently in attempts to reach temperature. Nothing seemed to work. Finally, he wrote to Shiho Kanzaki, and the Shigaraki potter open-heartedly invited Lee to visit his studio in Japan, and to observe and participate in a firing. This was a turning point. Afterwards, Lee returned to New Brunswick, threw away his cones and pyrometers, and established his own approach to the uniquely instinctual yet highly disciplined philosophy of firing that the older artist lives by. He found that without technological paraphernalia, he was able to read the kiln and to respond to the subtle messages it gives to those who care to listen, look, hear, trust and surrender.
Surrender is key, and transformation is inevitable. During firing, Lee himself is transformed. Although at times he has found himself firing solo, he is the consummate kiln master. He remains relaxed but focused even under the most strenuous of circumstances, and quietly, gently and imperceptibly even, commands respect from the visitors in attendance. The only rule out here is Don't Get Burned. In preparation for a stoke, he dons the well-worn leather welding jacket, gloves and bandanna. His spontaneous outbursts of joy are a strange poetry. He sings and chortles to the forest. As he approaches the door of the firebox, his movements are balletic, showing a physical grace and agility that mirrors the elegant dexterity of his pots. He dances back and forth in front of the flame with a ferocious lightness. The vessels are lit from within, bathed in flame and glistening with natural glaze. Lee burns along with them. He is in his element, and fearless.
The kiln is left to cool for eight days, then we are back in the forest to unload. By the glow of candlelight, from the maw of the kiln, a cup is passed to me. Held up against the flutter of the tiny flame, the cup is a translucent little handful, illuminated, magnificent. Winter-white and asymmetrical, the piece is feather-light; immaculate while awash in azure rivulets. I am moved and soothed by this object borne of so much passion. "Sweet". Lee says, marvelling, delighted. "Just sweet."
We made it to Flagstaff Arizona in four days, for the International Woodfire Conference, 20+1 years of Tozan Kilns, held at the Northern Arizona University. This is a few days after unloading, and the truck is packed with freshly fired pots. As Lee stood (without slides or a prepared speech) in front of a crowd of some of the most prominent and well-respected woodfiring potters in the world, a frisson ran through the audience as he quietly described his way of firing that hearkened more to the historical and spiritual roots of the art form than the analytical methods that seemed to dominate the conference--methods that to us, seemed rather staid. There were some murmurings of dissent from established potters, but as Lee passed around a vase and a bottle however, a hush fell in the room. "Some embrace the aesthetic, but not so much the spirit." Lee says. "That is one way of doing it, but for me, woodfiring is my religion. Spirit leads to aesthetic. The kiln teaches you about being true to yourself and others. It teaches you about never giving up and the value of failure as much as success. The Zen master whacks the dozing student with a stick. The kiln burns you when you are not really there. To think that you are at any time fully in control is folly. For me, focussing on cones and pyrometers take away from the relationship."
From the tiniest guinomi, to the larger sculptural vessels, Lee's work has immense presence. The influence of Yakishime tea-ware, and the classical Japanese standards of technique, balance, volume and contour, are present, unabashedly. But these elements are tempered by a freshness, sensitivity and a sense of composure that makes for a highly original voice. Never derivative or cloying as some North American anagama pottery can tend to be, Lee's body of work is unmannered, confident, attuned and authentic.
Lee has fired with Kanzaki and Karl Beamer, and many other well-known potters in North America. He has designed, built and consulted on the construction of kilns in Canada and the US including an anagama for Joe Bruhin in Arkansas. He appeared in Claude Gagnon's recent documentary film about Shiho Kanzaki, "The Fire Artist". His work is represented in the permanent collection at the Beaverbrook Gallery, Fredericton, and celebrated tea masters own his pottery as does the King of Bhutan and some Hollywood actors. Despite these and other achievements, he is ever modest, with little inclination to expatiate upon his work. He throws, sculpts, and fires for the joy of it, free from striving or self-consciousness. When I press him for an expanded statement, he grins, cocks his wildly uncoiffed head and says "Past Modern". Then his smile softens. "I just do this because I have to. I must."
by Yolande Clark
The first time I saw Lee Horus Clark, he was sitting against the wall of our scruffy North End Halifax cafe, sunning himself; a lithe cat, lean and brown, tattooed, dreadlock-haloed. Within a week, I had quit my job and we hit the road in the dilapidated pickup, on our way to the backwoods of western New Brunswick, to fire the Little River Anagama.
This is woodfired pottery of such immediacy and poise, that one is struck on first glance, as though by force. Here is a sensuous tsubo, a chocolate sundae of a pot, with epicurean icing in iridescent cream. To the left stand a series of vases, and luminous tokkuri, whose delicate pursed lips are chapped with sprinklings of blue-gray ash, casual indentations and abundant streaming cerulean tears. Assured slashes confidently disorder unique yet perfectly proportioned tea-bowls. That which looks deceptively substantive, even heavy, is airy when held in hand. Stunning firebox pots show cratered areas in metallic purple, viridian, and a mellifluous, oceanic black. These evoke ancient archaeology but possess an energy and edge that is undeniably contemporary--an incredible collision of earth and cool, sophistication and the primitive. Another distinct body of work include a series of emotive, figurative sculptures. Exposed yet dignified, these chronicle the scope and fragility of human response, rendered with extraordinary feeling. Showered in dripping jewel hues, they are raw and gestural, yet emphatically expressive. At times anguished, all are highly affecting in the power of their stance. Astoundingly, there is no applied glaze on any of these pots or figures. Their ineffable colour, and textured landscapes are a result of eight, nine, and sometimes ten days of firing which involves stoking the firebox every three to five minutes for the entire duration.
My first firing. We arrive in Carleton County in early fall, but already the countryside has acquired all the range and colour of flame. After careening down a winding mud-hole cratered logging road, the Little River Anagama seems to heave into view. Mediaeval in tone and scope, the kiln is magnificent and disastrous. There are broken pots strewn everywhere, scattered shards and half-burned drifts of wood. The sad remains of an outdoor kitchen sags, and pottery sits, nonchalant, on every available surface. The effect is romantic, anarchic, eccentric. We're home.
Lee Horus Clark was born in 1976, the year of the Fire Dragon, to evangelical Christian parents, who, while supportive, remain somewhat mystified by--though increasingly proud of-- Lee's passion. His father, a respected and highly principled sustainable forestry manager (the last of his kind in a province hurtling towards widespread industrial logging practices) taught him how to start a fire at age 4. By 12, he was working in the woods alongside his dad. At age 14, he had decided on his own version of Buddhist tolerance, and that he didn't want to be a lumberjack, but an artist.
Lee created the first incarnation of the kiln, a hikarigama, at age 21. He built it by hand, on his father's land, with no money, bricks from an uncle, and with help from his then-partner and fellow potter Alison Gayton. He had excelled as a student at the New Brunswick College of Craft and Design, and developed a reputation for being a renegade, pushing the boundaries of the material and the equipment with intense glaze firings, and all-night studio sessions. He was also recognized as a major talent in all areas including gas reduction firing and glaze chemistry. But upon discovering the anagama and the work of Shiho Kanzaki in particular, he knew he had found his spiritual calling. He renounced glaze work altogether and went back to the forest. "Getting good results from wood-fired pottery takes sublime effort." He says. "I feel more connected to the work because there is more of a personal interaction. You can create any glaze, but when I first saw natural ash glaze, and understood what it was, it was all I ever wanted to do. This is where it's at. It's alchemy, magical. sacred: a one shot deal, and a process that I find incredibly fulfilling. There is a deeper sense of mystery. Even afterwards, looking at it, it's difficult for me to comprehend how it came about." Lee values the intrinsic honesty of the process, as well as his increasing independence from a reliance on fossil fuels. This work is the antithesis of mass production, in a rubric all its own. For Lee, this method is the only way to create in accordance with his strong personal code and his need to live on the razor's edge of drama, danger, excitement, tragedy and beauty.
Despite his enthusiasm, the first several firings in his newly built kiln were lackluster and disappointing. He had been following conventional wisdom, and dutifully consulted his cones and pyrometers during his firings, adjusting the stoke frequently in attempts to reach temperature. Nothing seemed to work. Finally, he wrote to Shiho Kanzaki, and the Shigaraki potter open-heartedly invited Lee to visit his studio in Japan, and to observe and participate in a firing. This was a turning point. Afterwards, Lee returned to New Brunswick, threw away his cones and pyrometers, and established his own approach to the uniquely instinctual yet highly disciplined philosophy of firing that the older artist lives by. He found that without technological paraphernalia, he was able to read the kiln and to respond to the subtle messages it gives to those who care to listen, look, hear, trust and surrender.
Surrender is key, and transformation is inevitable. During firing, Lee himself is transformed. Although at times he has found himself firing solo, he is the consummate kiln master. He remains relaxed but focused even under the most strenuous of circumstances, and quietly, gently and imperceptibly even, commands respect from the visitors in attendance. The only rule out here is Don't Get Burned. In preparation for a stoke, he dons the well-worn leather welding jacket, gloves and bandanna. His spontaneous outbursts of joy are a strange poetry. He sings and chortles to the forest. As he approaches the door of the firebox, his movements are balletic, showing a physical grace and agility that mirrors the elegant dexterity of his pots. He dances back and forth in front of the flame with a ferocious lightness. The vessels are lit from within, bathed in flame and glistening with natural glaze. Lee burns along with them. He is in his element, and fearless.
The kiln is left to cool for eight days, then we are back in the forest to unload. By the glow of candlelight, from the maw of the kiln, a cup is passed to me. Held up against the flutter of the tiny flame, the cup is a translucent little handful, illuminated, magnificent. Winter-white and asymmetrical, the piece is feather-light; immaculate while awash in azure rivulets. I am moved and soothed by this object borne of so much passion. "Sweet". Lee says, marvelling, delighted. "Just sweet."
We made it to Flagstaff Arizona in four days, for the International Woodfire Conference, 20+1 years of Tozan Kilns, held at the Northern Arizona University. This is a few days after unloading, and the truck is packed with freshly fired pots. As Lee stood (without slides or a prepared speech) in front of a crowd of some of the most prominent and well-respected woodfiring potters in the world, a frisson ran through the audience as he quietly described his way of firing that hearkened more to the historical and spiritual roots of the art form than the analytical methods that seemed to dominate the conference--methods that to us, seemed rather staid. There were some murmurings of dissent from established potters, but as Lee passed around a vase and a bottle however, a hush fell in the room. "Some embrace the aesthetic, but not so much the spirit." Lee says. "That is one way of doing it, but for me, woodfiring is my religion. Spirit leads to aesthetic. The kiln teaches you about being true to yourself and others. It teaches you about never giving up and the value of failure as much as success. The Zen master whacks the dozing student with a stick. The kiln burns you when you are not really there. To think that you are at any time fully in control is folly. For me, focussing on cones and pyrometers take away from the relationship."
From the tiniest guinomi, to the larger sculptural vessels, Lee's work has immense presence. The influence of Yakishime tea-ware, and the classical Japanese standards of technique, balance, volume and contour, are present, unabashedly. But these elements are tempered by a freshness, sensitivity and a sense of composure that makes for a highly original voice. Never derivative or cloying as some North American anagama pottery can tend to be, Lee's body of work is unmannered, confident, attuned and authentic.
Lee has fired with Kanzaki and Karl Beamer, and many other well-known potters in North America. He has designed, built and consulted on the construction of kilns in Canada and the US including an anagama for Joe Bruhin in Arkansas. He appeared in Claude Gagnon's recent documentary film about Shiho Kanzaki, "The Fire Artist". His work is represented in the permanent collection at the Beaverbrook Gallery, Fredericton, and celebrated tea masters own his pottery as does the King of Bhutan and some Hollywood actors. Despite these and other achievements, he is ever modest, with little inclination to expatiate upon his work. He throws, sculpts, and fires for the joy of it, free from striving or self-consciousness. When I press him for an expanded statement, he grins, cocks his wildly uncoiffed head and says "Past Modern". Then his smile softens. "I just do this because I have to. I must."
