Personality: Donna Penoyer
Each newsletter I'll interview a metal clay personality. Get to know this artisan and how they stay creative! A dose of inspiration!
Date started working in metal clay: January 2005. My first time touching metal clay was in a certification class. I sometimes research something a little too much before trying it, and after two years of reading intensely about metal clay, I was thoroughly hooked and chomping at the bit.
Certified:
PMC
January 2005, PMC Connection old Level 1, Wendy Schuster
October 2005, PMC Connection old Level 2, Mary Ann and Ken Devos
October 2006, Rio Rewards, Tonya Davidson
January 2010, Rio Rewards, Tim McCreight
Accomplished in what media in addition to metal clay:
It’s funny how one thing leads to the next. I got started making jewelry via silk painting. I took up silk painting because I saw some irresistible bottles of dye on clearance for 25 cents apiece and bought the whole batch. I wasn’t even a visual artist at the time, just had to have those wonderful little bottles of color. So I bought a book to teach myself how to use them. After hemming some scarves I’d painted, I was left with tiny swatches of beautifully colored silk that I couldn’t make myself throw away. These led to my developing a style of silk jewelry based upon origami, teaching myself how to make and use findings, and on and on from there.
But to answer your question, you won’t get me to say “accomplished,” but I have fiddled extensively with polymer clay, wirework, metalsmithing, woven beadwork, silk painting, and fabric arts, and a little less extensively with Faux Bone, concrete, enameling, epoxy resins, ceramics, handmade paper, and general mixed media. No matter what other materials my curiosity leads me to try, working in metal clay is the thing that gets my heart racing and my mind focused.
Bio:
I had tools in my hands at a young age, learning simple crafts from my parents and admiring their skills in sewing, weaving, blacksmithing, and woodworking. It was from them I learned to invent what was needed or imagined, pay attention to details, and value a job well done. I also studied music and was drawn to the stage as a singer and actor, participating in theater productions and writing plays and poems. Intending to become a poet and English teacher, I earned a degree in creative writing and literature from Ohio University and attended graduate school at the University of Denver. Instead, I ended up finding my performing niche as a stiltwalker, turned to the study of clowning and physical theater, married a professional fool, and moved from crafting words to once again working with my hands. Then metal clay came along, and most of my creative energies became channeled there.
Today people know me as “The Whistle Lady” for my sculptural, wearable metal clay whistles. I am a founding member of the Western PA Chapter of the PMC Guild and teach nationally at The Bead & Button Show, Haystack Mountain School of Crafts, Touchstone Center for Crafts, and Society for Contemporary Craft in Pittsburgh. I have written articles for PolymerCAFÉ and Art Jewelry magazines, and my work may be seen in Robert Dancik’s book Amulets and Talismans and other upcoming publications. My whistle ring “Journey Companion,” about trusting and befriending the creative process, is currently on the cover of PMC Guild Annual 3. I live in Pittsburgh with my husband, Drew Richardson, otherwise known as Drew the Dramatic Fool.
Website:
www.donnapenoyer.com
www.donnastilts.com
What is your inspiration now? Do you have a muse?
Like most artists, I find inspiration in lots of places. In the midst of those things, there are some seeming contradictions.
On one hand, my imagination can’t help but go to the complex. I’m not an engineer, so sometimes I bite off more than I can chew, but that doesn’t stop me from admiring people who truly do have a knack for making mechanisms, inventing bizarre musical instruments, conjuring objects that unfold or transform, or creating amazing kinetic sculptures that seem almost to come to life. Someone like Reuben Margolin, with his intricate and beautiful wave sculptures, is fascinating to me. Gears, cranks, hinges, things that move or make sound, I love them. They live, perform, and interact.
On the other hand, I’m a reformed poet, so you’ve got to expect that I am also moved by simple, poetic gestures, especially when the artist pays attention to his or her materials and listens to what they have to say. One name I might pick out of a hat would be Andy Goldsworthy, who selects a natural environment, looks at the materials before him (rocks, petals, twigs), and imposes himself intuitively, coaxingly, most often without any tools but his hands, to develop a pattern or shape. After that, his sculptures quietly exist and then are slowly subjected to time and the environment, eventually decaying or being carried away by wind or water.
Complex or simple, I’m definitely 3D-oriented. Things you can hold in your hand, especially human-made things, pull me in right away. In museums, I fly by the paintings and drawings and head right for the antiquities. I like old things that show not only marks from the maker but also wear from the users--objects that tell a story from their connections to people. I’m intrigued by the ancient concepts of adding marks to a piece not just to decorate it but to infuse it with life and power, to record the process of making, and to transmit stories as the object passes hands.
That’s where whistles come in. Originally, I was attracted to them for the technical challenge of making them work, for their capacity to carry a secret or surprise, and for the moment of childlike joy they would give me when they made their notes. Later, in addition to those things, they opened up a world of associations to explore within various cultures and time periods: ancient clay toys, Plains courting flutes, boatswain’s pipes, the Chinese practice of attaching whistle clusters to live pigeons. Consider native people’s connections between breath, sound, air, and the divine, and you start to uncover rich material to feed your imagination and intriguing traditions to honor.
What is currently on your bench/workspace?
And now for something completely different, in progress: a large, spiky cage bead. Electron microscope images and artist renderings of HIV, anthrax, and smallpox virus. At the back, ten plastic boxes with dividers, full of miscellaneous metal clay greenware parts and pieces in progress, on stacked plastic shelves. In front of that, metal clay tools strewn about, bits of tracing paper, cardstock templates, a few erasers and cured polymer clay slabs I just carved, a cup with clay syringes (no water left, oops), a jar of syringes with a lid (plenty of water at the bottom). In the far corner, some ancient polymer clay veneer slabs, uncured, wrapped in plastic and stacked in a pile. A cheese slicer. A set of large drill bits.
What project/direction are you working on now?
Right now, I’m working on projects that are one-of-a-kind, such as a collaboration with the amazing glass artist Darlene Durrwachter-Rushing (it’s been thrilling to work with you, Darlene!), the Master Muses assignments, and my first set of Master’s Registry projects. I’m also trying to develop limited editions, or variations on a theme, that I can be happy making over and over. There are lots of possible means for me to market my work, starting humbly with the Etsy shop I hope to create soon, and some local galleries I’d like to be represented by, but I never seem to have enough work to sell, so I’m hoping to move a little more toward the production end of the spectrum in the next couple of years.
How much time do you average at the bench per week?
I’m going to creatively avoid answering that question. I don’t think there’s such a thing as an “average” picture of my life. I absolutely love to teach, so most of my focus in the last few years has been on developing my classes rather than on a regular studio schedule. I spend a significant amount of time on the road traveling to workshops and stilts gigs, but even those things ebb and flow with the seasons and the economy. When I’m away, I carry my sketch book with me, which really helps to keep the ideas flowing and the passion alive. At home, I try to get into the studio a few hours every day, but even that doesn’t always happen. As many of you know, it’s very tough being completely self-employed, and any discipline comes from sheer will and that overwhelming drive to explore, to understand, and to create.
What's the average time you spend on a piece?
It really varies, from half an hour to two weeks, months, even years. I’m what you might call a starter, whereas finishing is something I have to force myself to do. I think perfectionists rarely feel finished with their work, and explorers get bored if they stay in one place too long. Instead, I put pieces aside and let my subconscious swim with them. As a result, I might come back to the piece with a fresh perspective or a different direction to follow. My work ends up changing quite a bit from initial concept to finished piece, and I’m happy that way--because a dialogue with the material starts to develop. Starting off with an exact plan, with all the decisions made ahead of time, would be dull for me and deadening for the materials. To try to coax life into the work, I invite “failure” into my process, and that takes time. If you count the hours I’m actually cutting/shaping/pasting/sanding/breaking/repairing (yes, I do that, too), a typical piece might take a matter of hours. But I count the set-aside time, too--my hands might be working on something else, but I know my brain is still engaged with the piece that is resting.
Do you sell your work? Where?
I’ve been pretty low-key about selling my work, but I feel it’s wise to ramp that up a bit. I participate in one really lovely local art fair each September, and I sell my work at holiday fairs and year-round at Pittsburgh Center for the Arts. I’m really hoping that by the time this Q & A appears, I’ll have an Etsy shop, too. When I feel my studio practice has developed a steady pace, I’ll approach more galleries (both physical and online). I think an important way to increase my productivity will be to find ways to stop putting so much pressure on myself to make each piece a precious, masterful object. When I get in that mode, it’s stifling--instead of making me feel grand, it actually has the opposite effect of crushing my ego. When I can simply embrace the process of working with my hands and keep playing and moving forward, that’s when my work and I blossom.
Where do you get your new ideas?
From practice, practice, practice. Ideas don’t pop into my head from nowhere, so it’s not enough just to sit and think, or even to sit and look at other artists’ work--I have to get going and do, whether it’s drawing, pulling some materials together and saying “what if,” or sliding into the rhythm of familiar repetition. Ideas come at those in-the-middle-of-things moments when my hands are busy, my heart is open, I’m humble before the amazing materials I get to play with, and I’m paying good attention to what is going on.
Do you keep a sketchbook and how do you organize it?
I keep several sketchbooks, in several forms. I have three-ring binders, which are easy to take things out of and put back into, arranged chronologically so I can see where I’ve been. I have a smaller, spiral-bound sketchbook that travels with me around the house and on my trips. I have legal pads for workshops I’ve taken. And I have a box by my bench, into which loose drawings float continuously until I get them taped somewhere in a binder. So far, my notebooks contain pretty much only my own drawings. I tend to look briefly at outside sources of inspiration--they’re everywhere!--but not to collect them. My hunch is that that would be too big of a project for me, and then I’d never get anything else done.
Are there places or things you avoid that zap your creativity?
Only when I get overstimulated. That takes a lot, but it does happen. I love the hubbub and excitement of the classroom and thrive on striding eight-feet-tall in a crowd, but once in awhile afterwards I need to switch modes and find a quiet, calm place. That rarely happens in the studio. I love getting caught up in the electricity of creative flow. But then again, I usually don’t listen to music in the studio, I try to keep caffeine to a minimum, and I tend to stay to myself. I have a hard time creating when other people are around. I can either carry on a conversation with someone, or make something, but not at the same time. So at playdates I either just sit and chat or stay intensely focused on my own work--I hope my friends don’t take it personally.
Do you have a ritual before you begin to create?
If I need a transition, I find it extremely helpful to practice my own version of what Eric Maisel, a terrific creativity coach who has written many books for artists, calls “incantations,” from his book Ten Zen Seconds. The simple combination of positive, grounding statements and long, significant breaths helps unite the mind and body and return me to a safe, calm, centered and strong place that’s a great starting point for making art.
What do you collect?
Unfortunately, everything, in case I might need it.
How do you rejuvenate your creativity?
I draw jewelry doodles (which is amazing to me--before jewelry, I was never much of a draw-er). I make beaded beads, with needle and thread, in my comfy chair. I sort things, looking at each one and really taking it in. I say goodbye to a piece of greenware that’s never going to make it to the completion stage because I no longer am interested in it, and I rehydrate it into clay. I look at pictures in books and magazines, maybe once in awhile on the Web. I try to imagine what my students would like to learn next, and invent a new project for a class. I search for new textures. I make pretty things that don’t have to matter, like little flowery earrings. I look at all the metal clay greenware parts in boxes on my bench until one of them speaks to me and says, “Now!”
What would your perfect creative day be like?
Absolutely everything else I needed to do would be done, except to play, so I’d have no distracting thoughts from my to-do list hanging around. (You said perfect, right?) The sun would be streaming in the windows, I’d wake up before everyone else, have one perfect cup of coffee, do some yoga to feel focused and energized, and I’d put on my racy apron that Deb Weld’s mother made. My studio would be extremely tidy and well-equipped, with a home for each thing and a place to do each process, but not crowded, so that at lunch time, there’d be room for dancing.
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