My Deaths Head Hawkmoth Bowl

Paint your own pottery places have been such a huge source of disappointment for me as an artist. There's seemingly no respect - no consideration for the efforts made by those who attend and pay the exorbitant prices that such places charge for the chance to adorn a single piece with something of your own making and design.
They never bother explaining anything to you in a way that you would actually need to understand to paint a piece of pottery to your own satisfaction as an artist.

Paint your own pottery places seem to cater to the most droll and obnoxious of devil-may care individuals. Its a kitschy artless thankless act that people consider so beneith them really and leave to their kids to get excited - slap a few colors on - get bored and then have their pointless doodles immortalized in glaze or else create some idealistic "aww" look at your tiny hand prints (if they bothered to keep the piece or it even lasted that long sort of a snooze fest.

Its because it really takes ALOT of effort to make painted pottery worth a damn. & nobody goes in thinking... ah yes... I'm going to work on this piece... for the next six months and take pictures of my progress all the while so that I don't loose track... and ceaselessly continue until this place suspects me truly demented.. at best. 

My first attempt absolutely broke my heart. I worked so hard on the damn thing. A tiny little bowl. I was ridiculed and laughed at by the few acquaintances who'd invited me for caring so damn much, I took my time and let them leave without me and continued until the place closed and then walked home without a ride all so that I could spend as much time as I could. 
I rushed back the next day only to be completely crushed. 
Even though I left specific instructions that I was NOT done painting the piece and was vehement that they DO NOT begin to glaze it. The bastards did it anyway- and when the piece came out it was completely COVERED in muddy brown dry-clay glaze so thick I couldn't possibly see the design underneath that I had been working on. I sat and cried and the MOTHER F*CKERS had the NERVE to laugh at me. I was twelve maybe thirteen years old. 
It was my first time at a paint your own pottery place and I knew my family would never take me to such a place or spend that kind of money on something that meant little- or nothing to them. I had fully intended on making that tiny bowl sacred and turning it into a scrying mirror. I was so excited about the idea. 
I wanted my own scrying mirror and had wanted one for so long... 

Angry and resentful in conflict with bitter sadness and feeling like I could not possibly complete the piece, (considering the fact that I absolutely could no longer see the design I was working on), and being far too young to have the conviction or the adult-back up support to point out that my money had been waisted and that they ought to give me some considerate compensation for the fact that they ruined my piece and caused me great emotional distress after assuring me that they would NOT be glazing it- and in fact would not even TOUCH the piece until I gave the ok- which they were completely false about (likely due to writing me off as being just a kid)
I was devastated but determined. I looked at the upraised areas in the glaze and guessed my way around what I had left to paint of the design. 

After It was glazed and finished I came back for it with little hope in my heart for the thing... & I learned several things about painting pottery- That if you want a solid color 5 separate coats just isn't enough, that lines painted by brush and by hand are so incredibly thin and transparent they can scarcely be seen, and that shading/blending of colors is practically impossible. Paint your own pottery places are basically having you pay as high a price as they can get you to pay to allow you to play tempra-color finger paint with the cheapest things they can pass off as being nice. The pottery is cheap- the glaze is cheap and the paint is the cheapest stuff for painting on pottery with that the world has to offer. 

So I see now why serious artisans, and people who care about their art don't bother often with the damn places. I am definitely among that group though I do sometimes think about it for few and far between special occasions. Otherwise I only endeavor at making the effort any longer if someone else invites me - and especially if someone else is paying for the pleasure.

The particular bowl above was created on just such an occasion. I was invited to a paint your own pottery bit and came rather unenthusiastically. I decided then and there that day that I did not want to return and make the extraneous efforts that I have made in the past and so I decided to keep it simple and stark. Something I very much dislike about other people's paint your own pieces is the lack of color though. I know its difficult and obnoxious and almost hardly worth it but I always want strong color in my pieces- I often choose dark colors as well, I still need to learn to add one more layer than I think is good enough but I was generally satisfied with the coloration of this pieces exterior rim. It was the interior that I had decided to focus on. I tried using a puff paint technique method without giving up too much detail and though I was apprehensive and the outcome still has a touch of juvenility- I have to admit I enjoy this piece quite a bit for what it is.
I believe I was maybe 16-17 years old.

In reflection I have to admit that I admire it now for its longevity and endurance even with its chips and cracks. It survived the fire in 2012 and that means a great deal to me. At the point of this posting the piece is about twelve years old.

It was only my second painted pottery piece and my second bowl. I have not ventured to try again yet though I did try my hand at a mask after this. I have not pictures of that piece which I gave as a gift to a cousin. 

The first bowl I described earlier, the other piece I painted was much smaller, it was all painted a dark blue with a tiny translucent fae painted in its basin a pale crescent moon and three stars. Though it didn't turn out as I expected I grew very fond of that piece as well. I used it as my bleeding bowl - any time I bleed significantly I let the blood drip into it and then dry there. My hope was that it would at some point be coated in blood and be dark enough that I could pour a thin layer of water over it to make it shine and then It would be my perfect scrying mirror. One day while escaping from my home as I often sought to do in those days, I was carrying it in my hands admiring the thing when I had to run for a bus and dropped it on the asphalt. It split right in half. I was sad but it also seemed special. I would have kept it- but it disappeared along with many of my personal items after I ran away from home and the police tore through my room- and then my mother came in and got rid of everything that was leftover and not to her liking. I never got a picture of it and never saw it again.