I’m drinking coffee while writing this Artist statement—and I think it’s good to be in the moment, to be present. People seem to know it. I’m really, really enjoying this drink, the way it finely invades the senses, a feeling, for me, detached from the daily fluxes and recollections of life. Oh wait... in an instant, the cup I’m holding, holding my coffee. The undulation of the lip, the way my fingers connect with the handle, the weight and heat from the liquid inside, the texture of the glaze, the form dancing with the negative space between my hand, the way it escapes from my hand so I can freely type. In another instant, the visual components— color, the decorations that swirl around the surface, the placement of the handle. And all from my cup of coffee. I think about my pottery in regard to moments. It’s made for everyday use and for occasional use. For eating, drinking, storing, and just looking at. For being with people we love, and people who are just okay, and for being alone. When these things become so familiar we forget to see them, I want my work to remind myself and maybe, hopefully others experiencing the work to be in the moment too. But… what makes moments matter? Maybe it’s in their recollection and then reflection. The pot is also about decisions that can eventually be experienced. I really love pots. Especially teapots, mugs and large jars. Very old folky ones and new ones, too. I think they tell a little bit about who we used to be, and who we are. Pots, for me, in both making and experiencing, are moments and past moments considered, then intentionally and improvisationally tattooed onto the work. Like wincing into the sun then looking down for a moment making the world somehow different, rhyming with what it was before. In my work I want to show experience, but also other things, Thingness? Where big and small, beautiful and boring—come together in objects we see and use every day. We drink and eat and grow imperceptibly older as we dress our days /and pots/ with the flowers, birds, cats, quick ideas, long held beliefs, art, and coffee.
The year is 1992, It was a chilly December night, snow forecasted but holding off. It was this night Kyle Lascelle was born somewhere in New Jersey. Later Kyle developed a fear of heights and a love of deep-sea fish. He attended Arcadia University majoring in Philosophy. It was here when Kyle found his second love, making pots. After graduating Kyle moved to Rochester, NY with his third love Emma. He attended The School for American crafts where he eventually got his MFA in Ceramics. Kyle decided Rochester was nice enough place to settle down. He spends his days puttering around the house contemplating the weather, making pots, raising his two daughters, working as a studio manager at Flower City arts center, and occasionally teaching others to make and think about pots. He is still afraid of heights.