An Interview with Cover Artist Sara Mann

am very drawn to repeat designs and circles like mandalas. I feel them and dream about them. Several years ago, in a special dream, I was standing with my husband by an old stone wall in the Jewish quarter of the old city of Jerusalem. I noticed a lot of leaflets on the walls, and a gathering of many people. I did not hear what they said, but there was a lot of body language. My curiosity drew me closer, wanting to know what was going on. Then the picture switched. 
     A man resembling a holy man or an old rabbi pulled out of the crowd and led me by the hand into an empty room that was filled with sacredness and Shekahinah (the female form of the Holy Spirit). I was just standing there. There were no artificial sounds, no spoken words. The man centered himself in the room and started spinning--very slowly at first and then gaining speed. 
     As he started spinning, I started to experience the feeling of spiraling higher and higher up, up and up, and then all of a sudden "boom" --an abrupt halt. Calmness enveloped me. I felt entirely content. It was fantastic--a really warm, good feeling. The only words he said were, "This is what it's all about, this is what life is about." 
     I woke up completely exhilarated and excited, wondering what this was about--this most incredible movie I have ever seen and experienced. That morning at the studio, while decorating a place, I understood what my work is about. Finally I could explain in a feeling what I am doing with these repeat designs. It goes back to rhythm and song, although I cannot sing it or write it or play it. 
     When I first moved to Willits, I was very drawn to Sufi dancing. It is the most wonderful experience. Whenever I watch or participate in Sufi dancing, or any kind of repetitive movement it brings me to tears. This happens with certain types of music, too--Sufi music, Kleizmer music, gypsy music and above all sichars. Although I was not raised with music or dance, I remember my grandmother singing to me in Ladino (the dialect spoken by Spanish Jews). This touched me very deeply, and was a strong influence in my early life. When my grandmother could barely stand or walk, she would dance. I feel these invisible roots connecting me to this depth of experience. 
 

 
My studio is my temple; that is why I really feel so high here. I need a lot of quiet and harmony around me. I can't work if anybody is around. I need to be totally alone. 
     I feel that life is a gift, and so is the ability to create and allow that "something" to come through me. It is as if the work just does itself. Sometimes I dream of a specific design for a pot or a vessel. For instance, I saw a double-walled vessel with the outside wall carved and decorated with insects, pomegranates and flower designs. Hearing myself laugh out loud woke me up. I remembered the dream instantly and said, "Wow, thanks a lot, really." The challenge and excitement of following this dream was not good timing, since I was preparing at that time for the exhibition at the Grace Hudson Museum. I did take time out to do a small version of what I saw. I threw a double-walled goblet on the wheel and carved the outside wall as in the dream. In figuring out how to do this, I just told myself to take it one step at a time. 
     Last fall I visited my parents. My dad was very, very ill and I zoomed over not knowing if he would make it. When I returned, I had a hard time getting back into my work. Then I started to get more and more excited and very emotional. I made a simple plate and started experimenting to see what would come out. The design had an insect with two wings and background shadows of two wings, suggesting its mate. Even though I didn't recognize this at first, it contained notes from my mind. I see the two sets of wings as life and death--how close they are together, and what a fine line there is in-between. I read it symbolically, after the fact. 
     Decorated in fire colors (underglazes) are eighteen flames. The number eighteen stands for the Hebrew word chai, which means "alive." And there are eight flames for death and rebirth, four above and four below. This is a very strong piece for me, and as I understood it within myself, I had a break-through. My work began to flow again. 
     I notice a lot of patterns using the numbers three, seven, nine, eleven and eighteen. These numbers feel strong to me. They have to do with my life cycles. 
     Designs come easily to me. The problem is that ideas flood my being and I sometimes see the next faster than I can physically handle. Then I have to leave everything in the studio because it is too overwhelming. I take a break and come back. 
 

 
 
I made my first decorated plate when I was about fifteen. I remember it vividly--a repeating design of open hands all around the plate. My teacher looked at it and said, "This is a Mayan design. Where did you see it?" I responded, ""What is Mayan?" Up to that point, I had not seen any South American art, but obviously she saw a strong influence of something I had not seen before. For many years after that I intentionally avoided looking at other art, so as not to be influenced. Now that I have my own style and feel strong about where I am, this is not an issue. 
     I have worked in clay on and off since high school. I have always been drawn back to ceramics more than to any other craft. One of the directions I am very involved in right now is contemporary Judaica (Jewish ceremonial objects). They seem to have a universal appeal. Some people use my menorahs as altars. For example I make a very non-traditional menorah design using architectural forms. They have something like an aqueduct at the bottom with clay stones where I tuck candles in. I fill this up with water and put a couple of flowers in to float. When the candles are lit they make reflections. Putting all these elements next to each other (earth, air, fire and water and spirit) creates an entirely different effect and feeling for a ceremonial object. 
     My mother and father are sabras (Jews born in Israel). I grew up in a very secular home although my grandparents were observing Jews. My great-grandfather, whom I had the honor to know for a short period of time when I was a young girl, came from Russia. I used to watch him during tefilat shacharit (early morning prayers), which was always a mystery to me. Yet I feel that he has a lot of influence in my work and life. While working on one menorah, my mind drifted to a memory of him on a particular Sabbath morning when he was over eighty years old. He walked out to the balcony overlooking the garden full of flowers my father had planted. He said to me, "Look at this! Isn't this beautiful! The angels came at night and painted these flowers for us!" For him, life was a miracle. His comment opened my eyes to see things differently. When I look at things in the world, I see more than what appears. 
     As I was decorating this menorah, I added a little angel holding a paintbrush. A couple I met at a show was interested in this piece but the angel disturbed them. It was just like a kid's painting, totally in contrast to the rest of the menorah. When I told them the story of my great-grandfather, they looked at each other and said, "We want it!" 
     So there needs to be depth in work whether from an experience, tradition or some emotional foundation. Otherwise, what is it standing on? It has to have some kind of interest; otherwise it is very shallow. 
     My maternal grandparents immigrated to Palestine from Russia and Romania, and my dad's roots are Judeo-Spanish--tracing back to the inquisition. His parents immigrated from Turkey. They were moderately observing Jews. In my early childhood I was with them every Sabbath and holiday. Although I didn't get much of a formal religious education, I was absorbing so many impressions, sounds and smells. When it's a holiday, you feel it everywhere in the air. Everybody dresses in white, and there are flowers and fragrant herbs. Everything is clean and quiet. The country just stops. It is beautiful. 
     When I moved here, I think I got homesick and missed my family, the language and the daily things, the familiar sounds and smells. So I started to get more and more involved in Judaica, reading and exchanging with people, not in a religious sense, but for the sake of tradition and foundation symbols. 
     I love symbols. They are so universal. With God, it's the same. Just as there are many ways to get to San Francisco, there are many ways to get where we are going spiritually. Unfortunately, people turn this into a horrible issue and forget the essence. Religious misunderstandings create conflicts and hatred. It's hard for me when I hear what's happening in Israel. I know the places. I ask, "What for? What's the point? Isn't the same sun rising and setting for all people? But I go back to my work and feel that this is the place I can be my best and make people feel good. This is the way I can contribute something. 

 
I was raised in a minimalist lifestyle with no TV, little radio and no storebought toys. My play with childhood friends depended on creativity, inventiveness and imagination. My mother and aunt were wonderful role models. In order to make Purin costumes, the were masters of invention, creating something out of nothing. I have an early memory of my mother showing me how to embroider using a piece of cardboard in which she had punched holes. 
     After spending a year in a standard high school, I transferred to an art high school. I went to study ../graphics, but after my first class in the ceramics studio, I changed directions. Towards the end of my second year, I dropped almost everything that didn't interest me and became totally absorbed in ceramics. 
     After graduation, I worked in a ceramics factory and also experimented with many other crafts. I also had my own studio. At one point, after working on the potter's wheel, I hurt my back. I decided to temporarily let go of being an artist, and for the next three years I changed my focus to making money and acquiring self-discipline. I would sometimes work ten to eighteen hours a day and not feel tired. An analogy I can make is walking up stairs. There comes a point when I can't go one more step, so I stop. Then by taking one extra step, something happens and I can move on. This realization has helped me many times in my life. 
     I got my own house in Israel but I didn't have a studio, so there was no space for my art. It is hard to find a place for a potter's wheel, kiln, and sufficient electric installation. At that point I decided to just get straight jobs. I managed a flower shop and a jewelry gallery in the old city in the Jewish quarter and I was very successful. Then I decided to either build a studio as an addition, or take a couple of years to travel with my son, Zohar. At that point, I had been a single mother for about seven years. 
     I always wanted to travel. My parents used to nickname me "Gypsy," and on the holiday of Purim when kids dress up, my mother would dress me as a gypsy. I wanted to see different peoples, cultures and crafts. I felt that my eight-year-old son was old enough to enjoy traveling. So I rented my house out in Israel and put my jobs on hold. That was in 1981. We spent a month in Greece, another month in India and then traveled to the United States. I didn't plan on immigrating. 
     I will never forget the day we landed in San Francisco. That was the scariest day of my life! Here I am with a kid and $500 in my pocket! I kept saying to myself, "Don't worry, you can't fall off this planet. You can always go back home." We stayed in San Francisco for about three months, but the city wasn't for me. I longed for the country. I was limited financially, and by my legal status. 
     At that point, I went to visit Orr Hot Springs with a friend. I had the most beautiful time. That night, while lying awake, looking around and listening to the water under the cabin, I realized I had to either move to the countryside or go back to Israel. It was either one or the other. 
     My son and I talked it over and agreed to give this area some more time. After we returned to San Francisco we had an opportunity to visit a family in Willits. I fell in love with the area. It was exactly what I wanted. We got snowed in for a couple of weeks, seriously! It was fantastic and b'hsert (meant to happen)--a definite turning point in our lives! 
     I became friends with the family we were visiting and ended up moving into a funky trailer on their property which was our first home in Willits. It was very difficult and wonderful at the same time! After a little over a year, I got my first car which gave me a new sense of independence. We started to meet more people and to get more involved with this wonderful community. 
     In 1982 we rented a place in town. Shortly after we moved, I met my present husband, Tom Mann and things started to change again. We joined our families, and immediately moved out of town and started a new life together. We've been together  for fifteen years now--thirteen years married. My family's emotional and physical support has allowed me so much time to invest in creativity. In the past ten years we have been restoring an old home and making a garden; I have been teaching, showing in exhibitions and making yearly trips to Israel. Each time I return, the urge to have a show there becomes stronger--as a gesture of giving back to my homeland. 

 
Re-establishing a studio in California was challenging at first. I carried on with the techniques and approaches I knew from Israel but was challenged by new clays and glazes. Even the names were different and foreign. It felt as if I had to re-learn everything. I have made many breakthroughs in my work over the last ten years. This is because I have dedicated myself day after day to ceramics. My discipline comes from knowing inside myself that I need to do this. As long as I can do it, I will. 
     I use various combinations of wheel-thrown clay, rolled slabs and slab-built architectural forms. I sometimes drape clay over bound forms, hand made of altered forms. I can change a shape by cutting it differently or move it around with dowels, blocks of wood, or found objects. This is where my experimentation takes place. Shaping the clay with my hands, throwing on the potter's wheel, or incorporating decoration into it, is similar to the experience of giving birth. Both are very magical, fascinating, and uplifting to a very special place. through water, air, fire and a spark of spirit, a handful of earth is being transformed and brought to life. 
     I plan my designs very little, with brief outlines marked very lightly in pencil. A lot is freehand, and the geometry I use is simple--drawing circles and dividing them roughly by eye or with a template. I like to let the design flow. The repeat designs are like dancing or reciting a mantra. I feel the rhythm. 
     In Israel, most ceramists tend to use earth colors--colors that are very toned down and "tamed"--and so did I, until I discovered commercial glazes shortly after I established my studio in Willits in the late 1980s. Up to this point I had used a blue-and-white style a lot. For me, blue was a conservative color, deep and subtle, with a very contemporary feeling and design. When I discovered underglazes, I started flying. I needed brighter colors to break through certain barriers, to experiment, to play and to challenge myself. I worked with colors like red, orange, and yellow, which I call fire colors. I apply layers of underglaze with sponges and brushes to achieve special effects. This year, for some reason, I went back into more blue, combined with fire colors and others. My mania is detailing layers of designs in color and sgraffito (a technique of etching into leather-hard clay). I notice that I often work with negative space. 

 
I am very drawn to Hebrew letters. I don't have the same feeling about English writing because I don't understand or feel English in the same way. There are meanings in addition to the definition of a word in Hebrew. Every little thing has meaning--the physical forms, their relations to numbers, each letter in relation to the next letter, the way the words are put together and so on. It's very fascinating. 
     My hand, the clay, the colors, the designs, the sounds and the rhythm all go together in relationship to something I can't explain. I'm not intellectual about it. As a matter of fact, I can read a book ten times and not be able to tell you about it, but I can understand it and feel it. So I do little things inside the designs that are subconscious, and sometimes a person will notice it years later. I may look at the piece and ask myself, "What did I do there?" Information comes from inside or outside at the right time when I need it. 
     I sometimes use a single letter or word in my work. I may look at the letters in the mirror to see what this will bring up in me. Sometimes I use phrases--but not the same ones that others use automatically on menorahs or plates. I look for what means something special to me, in hopes that people will relate to it--phrases from songs, praising melodies, blessing melodies or prayers. 
     One piece with two interwoven hearts, hands and other symbols says in Hebrew, "Open for us a gate at the time of closing the gate, for the day has turned." This is a very rough translation. This statement, used for Yom Kippur, a holiday of fasting and reflection, refers to how we finish or close a cycle. It is like closing one door so we can open another one. When the day turns, sunset leads to sunrise. I called this circles in motion--the feeling of no beginning and no end, movement that never stops--movement and repetition. this is like the process of things, the metamorphosis of people, of plants, and of flowers. I look at the sunflower and see how first it is all green, and then the green part starts opening; then the leaves die and turn yellow. The cycle is like a dance. The plant goes back into the seed, and the seed wakes up again. Our bodies are like this and we are the whole universe--a microcosm.