Many years ago, I was in downtown Detroit on St. Patrick's Day. My family, being the type to enjoy both libations and the fine arts in equal measure, decided to go from HopCat...to Pewabic, of all places. It made perfect sense at the time. I wasn't exactly drunk, but I wasn't exactly sober either.
While appraising a sugar bowl I fully intended to buy, my tipsy ham-hands dropped the lid onto the stone floor. Miraculously, it didn't shatter; it split into three clean pieces. I stood there, mortified, as if a giant neon sign had appeared above my head blinking OVER-SERVED.
A very kind and gracious staff member heard the soft crash and approached. She gently said, "It's okay! Typically, when this happens, we just ask that you pay half." So basically, I got the sugar bowl I was already planning to buy for 50% off. Since the lid was only somewhat fractured, I glued it back together with ceramic epoxy. I kept it for another five years, until our cleaning guy accidentally broke it whilst doing his rounds.
He offered to pay for it. I laughed, replied, "Hell no," and told him the same story. Then I placed a hand on his shoulder and said, "I think it's trying to tell us something. It's ready to fly off to the big kiln in the sky." We wiped our tears, played Taps, and let it go.
Now, I'm not saying you should go around gently breaking things at Pewabic to snag a sweet discount. I'm just saying that's a very understanding policy for a pottery studio to have. And I have plenty of other things from here that I paid full price for without a second thought, especially gifts.
You know that family member or friend who is impossible to buy for? They already have everything, or they're too picky, or you just don't know them well enough yet to get a good read? Buy them something mid-range at Pewabic. It will be one-of-a-kind, timeless, artsy, AND functional. I swear on my life, this has worked for at least four different pain-in-the-ass gift recipients. They all still display their Pewabic pieces proudly, as if they'd snatched them in a fevered bidding war at Sotheby's.
Someday, when I hit it big, my dream is to own a sprawling home in Indian Village (painted matte black, much to the dismay of the local historical society). My gothic mansion will be kitted out with Pewabic tile in every room, and I'll begin pronouncing the word "vase" in the most pretentious way imaginable. People will never guess I started life Downriver.
In my spare time, I'll volunteer at the nearby Waldorf school, teaching children calligraphy, rosemaling, and eurhythmy. I'll host lavish picnics on Belle Isle featuring a menu of duck confit sliders with foie gras aioli, black truffle deviled quail eggs, and a giant macaron sculpted to resemble the Uniroyal Tire. All washed down with champagne sabraged with an ice-skate.
I mean, it's not like I've given it a ton of thought or anything. Just a fleeting notion. read more