Makoto Yabe
My second year of grad school was rough: I was in a failing relationship, was lacking faith in myself academically. I was in the middle of three years of heavy courseloads and wasn't seeing the beginnings of research in my near-future. One day, hanging out in my boyfriend's kitchen, his roommate showed up with a dozen oddly shaped ceramic cups that he had made in a class across the river. I was intrigued. I wanted to try out three dimensional art. So I joined his ceramics class. A few times a week, I put all my crap aside, walked across the river and got my hands muddy for a few hours.
Makoto Yabe was my instructor. He was a 40-something japanese artist who had been teaching ceramics in the US for something like 20 years. He was battling stomach cancer and, when I met him, was worn out from the chemotherapy. He couldn't remember my name and spent much of our class resting in a chair, hanging out with us. Makoto was positive and always honest. He never gushed over my pieces, which were asymmetrical, heavy, small, and had holes in the bottom of them. There was no pressure to create beautiful things. When it came to using a pottery wheel, I was a slow learner. Makoto showed me that each piece has its own character and it is this personality that makes some pieces stunning. He was an incredible artist. I was inspired by the beautiful colors he pulled out of the earthy glazes. He could throw a perfectly symmetrical proportioned bowl but when he finished it, it was always unique. In the warm, welcoming environment he fostered in the studio, I kept trying.
For Christmas that year, my family members received sharp, heavy little bowls. The following year, everyone got (functional) coffee mugs. By the end of a year I was rowing with intramural crew and had started rock climbing. School got better. By the end of the summer, I had shelved ceramics. Makoto was getting better. I could wait and take the class again when I was less busy.
My heart broke this afternoon. I received an email from the studio. Makoto didn't get better. He died on Monday. He will be missed.
Makoto Yabe was my instructor. He was a 40-something japanese artist who had been teaching ceramics in the US for something like 20 years. He was battling stomach cancer and, when I met him, was worn out from the chemotherapy. He couldn't remember my name and spent much of our class resting in a chair, hanging out with us. Makoto was positive and always honest. He never gushed over my pieces, which were asymmetrical, heavy, small, and had holes in the bottom of them. There was no pressure to create beautiful things. When it came to using a pottery wheel, I was a slow learner. Makoto showed me that each piece has its own character and it is this personality that makes some pieces stunning. He was an incredible artist. I was inspired by the beautiful colors he pulled out of the earthy glazes. He could throw a perfectly symmetrical proportioned bowl but when he finished it, it was always unique. In the warm, welcoming environment he fostered in the studio, I kept trying.
For Christmas that year, my family members received sharp, heavy little bowls. The following year, everyone got (functional) coffee mugs. By the end of a year I was rowing with intramural crew and had started rock climbing. School got better. By the end of the summer, I had shelved ceramics. Makoto was getting better. I could wait and take the class again when I was less busy.
My heart broke this afternoon. I received an email from the studio. Makoto didn't get better. He died on Monday. He will be missed.
posted by Michelle at 9:01 p.m.
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