I was a Neo-Leachian. I, too, lured in unsuspecting students into a web of terror so horrifying that I can barely describe it now without risking the unthinkable danger of undoing the countless years of Post Leachian therapy that I have been so fortunate to receive. If that were to happen I surely would be cast into an unending cycle of despair so profound that even the sight of a John Gill “Ewer” could not bring me out of it. None the less, I must tell my story.

I guess I should begin at the beginning. Some years ago, as I got out of my car, I was abducted by several odd looking beings covered in white dusty clothing. I was blindfolded and taken to their workshop, some miles off in the woods. It was a large dimly lit room, filled with wheels, dirt and thousands of identical bowls and cups that lined the walls. They forced me to work in a musty room day after day, mixing clay until my nose was so clogged with dust and silica that I found myself falling into a misty trance. I have little memory of the events that followed but I do remember sweeping floors for 10 hours a day, “Until I learned how to sweep” they would say. Really, I found out later, it was to stir up the noxious dust thus entrapping other victims into the trance like state that I had fallen. Then, I remember kicking the master's wheel for 14 hours a day. That lasted for about six years, or “until my concentration was properly developed,” they would say. Later, I found out that my master had secretly stashed away money to buy a dozen Brent CxC wheels that he kept hidden in his little anterior room where he had a dozen or so frisky apprentices who worked all night long making thrown and altered pieces destined for export to the lucrative Californian market.

Does that sound ridiculous? Well unfortunately it is true, all of it. It could happen to you just as it is probably happening right now to some of the best members of our ceramic community. Who is responsible for this atrocity and how can one escape, you ask? The Neo-Leachians are to blame. They are a renegade band of malcontent artist wannabe's who exist within the small band of creativity known as the “Hamada/Leach Zone.” Of course, not all followers of the esteemed Leach /Hamada tradition are Neo-Leachians, only the extreme few whose artistic sphincters are so tightly compressed that any deviation from the artistic formula causes a hemorrhoidal attack so large that the subsequent blood loss would make the Exxon Valdese spill look like a small spit ball that is ejected from your mouth when you say something like, pre-pugged plug. They are the ones whose anemic creativity causes them to choke at even the mention of trying something different from standardized formula of their master, whose work was revolutionary, some 70 years ago. They can be heard chanting, generally in a high pitched, whinny squeal, “beauty, form, and function...,” over and over. The mantra is an effort to divert you from the reality of their mediocre plagiarism.

If you are unfortunate enough to encounter a Neo-Leachian without the protection of your gallery representative, beware. They are a wild-eyed bunch of idealists, extremely adept at preying on your artistic uncertainties. Any weakness in your personal aesthetic will be instantly sensed by their ever vigilant clay police. Just go along with their rambling until you can duck into the nearest modern art gallery. That is the only place that you will be safe from them. They can't step foot in any modern gallery without coughing and gagging from the horrific sight of unfettered innovation which forces upon them the realization of their total denial of their own cultural heritage. Coming to terms with their denial, not one of them is willing to risk.

In the unlikely event that you cannot find a gallery, then the best thing you can do is to tell them that you have to be off to defoliate several acres of old growth forest to fire your next kiln load of cups and bowls; tell them that your pots are so in tune with nature, you won't be able to see them in the ashes and dust of the after firing because they blend in perfectly.

If, for some reason that doesn't work, then tell them that you forgot that you have to go dig 4 tons of clay for your great grandchildren's nephew's son's cousin, who will surely be continuing the lineage of mindless repetition that you have so generously passed on. The mere mention of the continuation of the lineage will fill them with such glee that they will enter a trance and begin reciting passages and lists of rules that they, somehow, erroneously gleaned from their daily recitations of the all knowing training manual, the Unknown Potter.

They will begin by claiming that the clay must be wedged for four hours per one pound ball and only in the spiral method. Clay is never bought from the store or mixed in those awful electric gizmos that de-air the clay because everyone knows that will take out the spirit of beauty in their work. They will continue by insisting that one should never use electric wheels because that takes away from the naturalness of the process, which is the job of the studio slaves, oh, I mean the studio apprentices. They will mention that no work can be sold for over $25.00 nor can it have anything but a square stamp as a signature. It would be unnatural. This diatribe may go on for hours, so either plan your escape at that time or start dreaming of your next sculptural clay exhibition, the thought of which may wake them from their rambling.

One way to identify them before being captured is through the sound of their fierce arguing. They often fight over the ownership of found bags of Albany slip. Also, you may find several of them arguing among themselves about whose cup is better. The conversation may go something like this:

All I can say is BE VERY CAREFUL that you don't get caught up in the advanced logical syllogisms that they employ. They are a very deceptive bunch.

Again be careful; if during one of these intense arguments, one of their small brains becomes dislodged, which has happened, it can fall into one of their nasal cavities. Once so located, it can easily be crushed by the insertion of their clay encrusted index finger. This incident would probably go unnoticed, if it weren't for the involuntary response it sometimes causes - involuntary wedging. This is only a problem if there is no wedging board available bacause their reaction is much in the same frenzied manner as a chicken with its head cut off. Without a wedging board, there is no telling what type of destruction might occur.

Whatever you do, don't mention to them that you are an MFA student! That would send them into such a frightfully violent rage that you would undoubtedly find yourself in hundreds of unrecognizable chunks scattered in a moldy recycling vat. The mere thought of someone studying for only six years and being able to create whatever they want and then having the audacity to sell it for more than $25.00 causes the veins in their head to bulge in a pulsing and pounding rhythm so strong that it could be mistaken for a Snoop Doggy Dog song. Their work, the “Master Potter's” work, which is a result of 25 years of back breaking, finger numbing, repetitious tedium, is surely more “beautiful and naturally in tune” than anything a young upstart could ever make. Any hint that it isn't just might send them off screaming to the post office to apply for a job. So be very careful. I think that we can all imagine the horrible sight of a Neo-Leachian armed with a list of postal rules.

I only tell you this story because I, too, was a Neo-Leachian and have entrapped victims like you. It is a terrible crime that I have committed and I only hope that by telling my story I can prevent countless others from falling victim.