to: Craft > #09 - Break, Rebreak, Re-repair
Broken handle. Anchorage, Alaska, 2020
Mug: Peter Brondz
Photographer: Amy Meissner
Break, Rebreak, Re-repair
Amy Meissner
I tried mending the mug’s handle with Super Glue, but instead of joining the three pieces first, waiting, then reattaching the repaired handle to the mug body, I naively glued pieces from the top, one at a time, as if reconstructing a cantilevered arch. When I reached the bottom, of course the keystone-shaped space was too small to accommodate the last piece. Now I had to rebreak the top join, which had already set. With this gritty snap, I chipped more olive-green glaze and covered the handle with a murder of Super Glue fingerprints, all this rushing to return to a wholeness that was already lost.
The mug was a Christmas gift, one of four in the same family of olive and rusty-brown glazes with brush-swiped blooms of mustard rimmed with turquoise. Each mug had a different height and slightly different shape, but it was clearly a set. My family had secretly visited the little pottery studio in the Alaskan woods to pick them out, poking cash through the slot in the honor-system box before leaving. Their excitement spilled over on Christmas morning—a covering of mouths and sitting on hands because it was taking me so long to unwrap their careful tissue.
The broken mug is the greenest of the group, with a circumference that fits my curled hand perfectly. At the top edge, exactly where the handle meets the cup, a smooth raised ring of porcelain one inch from the top forms a ridge that holds the thumb and forefinger along its bottom edge and the flesh of the drinker’s lip along its top. The sides flare toward the stable base while ridges spiraling up the sides provide extra grip against the slick glaze. The inside is white except for half an inch around the top, which is olive and was always my marker for knowing when I’d poured the right amount of coffee.
I insisted no one load the new mugs into the dishwasher, where they would clank against one another and chip. One day, while I washed this one by hand with too much soap, it slipped and hit the enamel kitchen sink. Even now, hearing the three handle pieces rattle around inside the empty cup still makes me feel a little sick. Of course the Super Glue didn’t hold. Not only did the splintered handle feel like a massacre after my repair, but all the fingerprints, smears, and glue spillover became cloudy, separating right away from the shiny glaze like a glassy, peeling skin.
When I hold the mug at eye level now, the handle stumps look like a set of chalky frowns, with the potter’s final thumb-swipe at the base forming a pouty olive lip. The mug lives in the high cupboard above the oven, a nowhere space in my kitchen, waiting for a miracle epoxy and some kind of skill. As an extension of self, it remains here, a possession I can’t throw away, a reminder of my stubborn belief and the possibility of a second try.
Contextualization
In the third semester of Materials Lab, we wrote about various close encounters with craft objects, beginning with the premise that objects are ongoing and that our existence with them is intertwined. My interest in the craft of repair is influenced by this kind of codependency between people and broken objects. Whether we approach repair as experts or novices, the intention is the same: to prolong. The act of close looking at this broken object became an opportunity to explore my relationship to it and why I would care enough to repair, rebreak, and eventually, hopefully, re-repair.
Further readings
Belk, Russell W. “Possessions and the Extended Self.” Journal of Consumer Research 15 (September 1988): 139–168.
In this article exploring consumer behavior, Belk examines the relationship between possessions and identity, with states of “having, doing, and being” relevant to how we define ourselves. If objects are symbols of events and relationships, they form the language that becomes the narrative of one’s life. While acquisition is related to an object’s connection to self and positive identity, Belk claims theft or loss of possession can have the opposite effect. This is interesting to think about in terms of breakage and repair, as Belk posits that the creative act (art, craft, writing, thinking) after traumatic loss (of an object or an actual death) may be an attempt to extend the self in new ways in order to restore one’s perception of wholeness.
Martínez, Francisco. “Waste Is Not the End. For an Anthropology of Care, Maintenance, and Repair.” Social Anthropology/Anthropologie Sociale 25, no. 3 (2017): 346–350.
This essay works to define waste and explain our aversion to it as it relates to death. This helped me think about the perceived value of the discarded and how things associated with waste tend to absorb its negative qualities, which may provide a very human and vulnerable explanation for not repairing. Martínez explores the in-between state that repair occupies, as a brief or extended moment of the potentiality for new life or renewed relationship, an everyday act of care and commitment despite the way acts of repair push against societal values of efficiency and productivity. He argues the case for maintenance and repair as a way of overcoming the “negative logic” associated with abandoning both objects and people through what he refers to as repair’s “micro-power.” To me, this refers to the emotional quality repair imparts, whether rooted in achievement, relief, empowerment, autonomy, or care.
Biography
Amy Meissner
She/Her/Hers
Written By Heather K. Powers
Alaska artist Amy Meissner entered the MA Craft Studies program intent on bridging literal distance between herself and other thinkers and makers while connecting theoretical constructs to her own textile-based practice. After 20 years of living in the North, Amy is familiar with her embodied response to nature, the seasonal swings of daylight and darkness, and the wide fluctuation of temperatures. A vulnerable and threatened environment influences her definition of “place-based” materials, particularly items that arrive in a place and become stuck or are expensive to remove, such as garments, shipping containers, or plastic waste. This affects her approach to the craft of repair, particularly how and why objects are mended. A frugal, sustainable, and accessible consideration of material and tool selection is always present in her personal work and social practice teaching mending. No fancy imported needles, just reaching for what is at hand.