Years ago I studied short story writing at UVIC with Bill Valgardson. At the beginning of each weekly class, he greeted us with these words: ”Writers write. That’s what we do.” He looked around the table at each one of us. Then he asked the question: “Who was a writer this week?” Inevitably there was a pause, as we all tried to avoid eye contact. Finally someone’s hand would slowly rise, like a young bird taking its first flight. A twist of a smile or a fleeting tic might flit across the brave student’s lips. Mr. Valgardson would pin the volunteer with his laconic gaze and ask: “So. What did you write?” If you hadn’t written anything, he made it very clear you were not a writer.

When I was studying pottery with Wayne Ngan, I entered the studio each morning with one objective. I wanted to be a potter.  I’ve told the story in a previous post of the fifty-plus-fifty tea bowls. It was Wayne’s way of saying that to make one good pot I had to make a lot of pots.

Wayne Ngan vase. Oil Spot glaze. It was still warm from the kiln when I purchased it. He said the glaze was like the skin of a seal.

Both these teachers – and many others before and after them – have tried to instil in me the value of the the “3 Ps”: practise, patience and perseverance. They taught me that good work arises from good craftsmanship and good craftsmanship is the product of producing pots or stories that come from a strong heart, a clear eye and a dogged dedication to the practise of art.

Oh, there have been moments when I have worked hard at a particular piece that should have been put out of its misery long before, and I might have sat back and said, “That’s good enough.” I remember walking into a coffee shop one evening and seeing one of the first slab teapots I had ever made. There it sat on a shelf behind the cash desk, an ungainly and unbalanced thing half hidden in shadows. I asked the owner of the shop the story behind the teapot. Someone had given it to him but he never used it, he said, because “it never seems to pour worth a damn.”

I paid for my coffee and left, feeling embarrassed and ashamed. I knew that teapot was not the one I wanted to make.

Wayne Ngan teapot. Shino glaze. It makes good tea and definitely pours worth a damn.

Tonight my neighbour, Jason Olsson, is busy in the kitchen, repairing the countertop. The counter was originally built using poor materials and the faucets badly plumbed. The leaking water has rotted the wood around the sink. Jason is a journeyman carpenter and I am enjoying watching him work. He knows what he is doing and he works carefully. He plans each step of the process, then executes the plans with precision and skill. He’s very proud of a drill he bought years ago that has survived a dip in the ocean. He speaks fondly of a saw he purchased on UsedVictoria.com. He understands his tools and values them for what they help him do. His carpentry is honest and solid and dependable. Which is exactly the way I would describe Jason. He’s an excellent craftsman and a good neighbour.

Good enough is not good enough. I have written those words on the wall of my studio to remind me of the shopkeeper who owns a teapot that doesn’t pour worth a damn. It’s the quality I see in Jason’s work. And in Wayne Ngan’s pottery. It’s there in Bill Valgardson’s short stories. It’s what I look for every time I pick up a coffee mug or look at a painting or listen to Bill Evans play the piano. It makes me very happy when I find it.