When I was a kid my mom worked with ceramics. She had a business, out of our home, where she made incense holders, "pencil pots" and other small, hand-made items that sold pretty well in the late '60s and early '70s. We grew up in Oakland, California, where there was plenty of access to clay, glaze materials and used kilns to buy. When we moved out into the Sierra Nevada foothills in 1970 suddenly it was a lot more difficult to find supplies for making pottery. I remember dad bringing truckloads of clay up from the Bay Area to keep us stocked. But occasionally we would make trips into the local town to pick up materials. I remember being astounded at what I saw in these "Pottery Shops" — row after row of corny slip-poured white ceramic figurines and vases lined the shelves. Then there were small bottles of pre-made glazes in racks, and cheap paintbrushes to apply them with. People would buy the pre-made ceramic item, buy some paint, put paint on the damn thing, and then (if they didn't own a kiln, which was likely since they're not cheap) they would return the item to the shop for firing. Having grown up playing with clay, making my own funny creatures, and watching my mom combine ash and chemicals to make unique glaze formulas, I couldn't believe that this was the same art that we knew and loved. It seemed as lame as the paint by numbers kits relatives would give you on your birthday or Christmas.