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The idea is that the pottery is heated to the point where the glaze or surface finish has melted. Once it is melted the pottery is removed carefully from the kiln in its red hot or orange state. It is then cooled down rapidly.
The raku method can be used to fire pottery and sculpture. In theory, you can raku fire any shaped ware. However, raku pottery goes through dramatic temperature changes, and the form is put under considerable stress. Therefore, ware that is evenly made and relatively thin tends to survive the process more successfully.
If you are doing naked raku, you need to lift pottery out of the kiln extra carefully. It is important to avoid knocking the slip and/or glaze from the surface. If the slip gets damaged it can ruin the carbonized patterns created in the reduction chamber.
This deed highlights only some of the key features and terms of the actual license. It is not alicense and has no legal value. You should carefully review all of the terms and conditions of the actuallicense before using the licensed material.
To this general happiness there was one exception. I remember nothingearlier than the terror of certain dreams. It is a very common troubleat that age, yet it still seems to me odd that petted and guardedchildhood should so often have in it a window opening on what is hardlyless than Hell. My bad dreams were of two kinds, those about spectresand those about insects. The second were, beyond comparison, the worse;to this day I would rather meet a ghost than a tarantula. And to thisday I could almost find it in my heart to rationalise and justify myphobia. As Owen Barfield once said to me, "The trouble about insects isthat they are like French locomotives--they have all the works on theoutside." The works--that is the trouble. Their angular limbs, theirjerky movements, their dry, metallic noises, all suggest either machinesthat have come to life or life degenerating into mechanism. You may addthat in the hive and the ant-hill we see fully realised the two thingsthat some of us most dread for our own species--the dominance of thefemale and the dominance of the collective. One fact about the historyof this phobia is perhaps worth recording. Much later, in my teens, fromreading Lubbock's Ants, Bees and Wasps, I developed for a short time agenuinely scientific interest in insects. Other studies soon crowded itout; but while my entomological period lasted my fear almost vanished,and I am inclined to think a real objective curiosity will usually havethis cleansing effect.
Out of doors was "the view" for which, no doubt, the site hadprincipally been chosen. From our front door we looked down over widefields to Belfast Lough and across it to the long mountain line of theAntrim shore--Divis, Colin, Cave Hill. This was in the far-off days whenBritain was the world's carrier and the Lough was full of shipping; adelight to both us boys, but most to my brother. The sound of asteamer's horn at night still conjures up my whole boyhood. Behind thehouse, greener, lower, and nearer than the Antrim mountains, were theHolywood Hills, but it was not till much later that they won myattention. The north-western prospect was what mattered at first; theinterminable summer sunsets behind the blue ridges, and the rooks flyinghome. In these surroundings the blows of change began to fall.
Here my first stories were written, and illustrated, with enormoussatisfaction. They were an attempt to combine my two chief literarypleasures--"dressed animals" and "knights-in-armour". As a result, Iwrote about chivalrous mice and rabbits who rode out in complete mail tokill not giants but cats. But already the mood of the systematiser wasstrong in me; the mood which led Trollope so endlessly to elaborate hisBarsetshire. The Animal-Land which came into action in the holidays whenmy brother was at home was a modern Animal-Land; it had to have trainsand steamships if it was to be a country shared with him. It followed,of course, that the medieval Animal-Land about which I wrote my storiesmust be the same country at an earlier period; and of course the twoperiods must be properly connected. This led me from romancing tohistoriography; I set about writing a full history of Animal-Land.Though more than one version of this instructive work is extant, I neversucceeded in bringing it down to modern times; centuries take a deal offilling when all the events have to come out of the historian's head.But there is one touch in the History that I still recall with somepride. The chivalric adventures which filled my stories were in italluded to very lightly and the reader was warned that they might be"only legends". Somehow--but heaven knows how--I realised even then that ahistorian should adopt a critical attitude towards epic material. Fromhistory it was only a step to geography. There was soon a map ofAnimal-Land--several maps, all tolerably consistent. Then Animal-Land hadto be geographically related to my brother's India, and Indiaconsequently lifted out of its place in the real world. We made it anisland, with its north coast running along the back of the Himalayas;between it and Animal-Land my brother rapidly invented the principalsteamship routes. Soon there was a whole world and a map of that worldwhich used every colour in my paint box. And those parts of that worldwhich we regarded as our own--Animal-Land and India--were increasinglypeopled with consistent characters.
Of the books that I read at this time very few have quite faded frommemory, but not all have retained my love. Conan Doyle's Sir Nigel,which first set my mind upon "knights in armour", I have never feltinclined to reread. Still less would I now read Mark Twain's Yankee atthe Court of King Arthur, which was then my only source for theArthurian story, blissfully read for the sake of the romantic elementsthat came through and with total disregard of the vulgar ridiculedirected against them. Much better than either of these was E. Nesbit'strilogy, Five Children and It, The Phoenix and the Wishing Carpet,and The Amulet. The last did most for me. It first opened my eyes toantiquity, the "dark backward and abysm of time". I can still re-read itwith delight. Gulliver in an unexpurgated and lavishly illustratededition was one of my favourites, and I pored endlessly over an almostcomplete set of old Punches which stood in my father's study. Tennielgratified my passion for "dressed animals" with his Russian Bear,British Lion, Egyptian Crocodile and the rest, while his slovenly andperfunctory treatment of vegetation confirmed my own deficiencies. Thencame the Beatrix Potter books, and here at last beauty.
It will be clear that at this time--at the age of six, seven, and eight--Iwas living almost entirely in my imagination; or at least that theimaginative experience of those years now seems to me more importantthan anything else. Thus I pass over a holiday in Normandy (of which,nevertheless, I retain very clear memories) as a thing of no account; ifit could be cut out of my past I should still be almost exactly the manI am. But imagination is a vague word and I must make some distinctions.It may mean the world of reverie, day-dream, wish-fulfilling fantasy. Ofthat I knew more than enough. I often pictured myself cutting a finefigure. But I must insist that this was a totally different activityfrom the invention of Animal-Land. Animal-Land was not (in that sense) afantasy at all. I was not one of the characters it contained. I was itscreator, not a candidate for admission to it. Invention is essentiallydifferent from reverie; if some fail to recognise the difference that isbecause they have not themselves experienced both. Anyone who has willunderstand me. In my day-dreams I was training myself to be a fool; inmapping and chronicling Animal-Land I was training myself to be anovelist. Note well, a novelist; not a poet. My invented world was full(for me) of interest, bustle, humour, and character; but there was nopoetry, even no romance, in it. It was almost astonishingly prosaic.[1]Thus if we use the word imagination in a third sense, and the highestsense of all, this invented world was not imaginative. But certain otherexperiences were, and I will now try to record them. The thing has beenmuch better done by Traherne and Wordsworth, but every man must tell hisown tale.
I cannot be absolutely sure whether the things I have just been speakingof happened before or after the great loss which befell our family andto which I must now turn. There came a night when I was ill and cryingboth with headache and toothache and distressed because my mother didnot come to me. That was because she was ill too; and what was odd wasthat there were several doctors in her room, and voices and comings andgoings all over the house and doors shutting and opening. It seemed tolast for hours. And then my father, in tears, came into my room andbegan to try to convey to my terrified mind things it had neverconceived before. It was in fact cancer and followed the usual course;an operation (they operated in the patient's house in those days), anapparent convalescence, a return of the disease, increasing pain, anddeath. My father never fully recovered from this loss.
Children suffer not (I think) less than their elders, but differently.For us boys the real bereavement had happened before our mother died. Welost her gradually as she was gradually withdrawn from our life into thehands of nurses and delirium and morphia, and as our whole existencechanged into something alien and menacing, as the house became full ofstrange smells and midnight noises and sinister whispered conversations.This had two further results, one very evil and one very good. Itdivided us from our father as well as our mother. They say that a sharedsorrow draws people closer together; I can hardly believe that it oftenhas that effect when those who share it are of widely different ages. IfI may trust my own experience, the sight of adult misery and adultterror has an effect on children which is merely paralysing andalienating. Perhaps it was our fault. Perhaps if we had been betterchildren we might have lightened our father's sufferings at this time.We certainly did not. His nerves had never been of the steadiest and hisemotions had always been uncontrolled. Under the pressure of anxiety histemper became incalculable; he spoke wildly and acted unjustly. Thus bya peculiar cruelty of fate, during those months the unfortunate man, hadhe but known it, was really losing his sons as well as his wife. We werecoming, my brother and I, to rely more and more exclusively on eachother for all that made life bearable; to have confidence only in eachother. I expect that we (or at any rate I) were already learning to lieto him. Everything that had made the house a home had failed us;everything except one another. We drew daily closer together (that wasthe good result)--two frightened urchins huddled for warmth in a bleakworld. 2b1af7f3a8