We were lucky to catch up with K.T. Tauches recently and have shared our conversation below.

K.T., thanks for joining us, excited to have you contributing your stories and insights. Are you happier as a creative? Do you sometimes think about what it would be like to just have a regular job? Can you talk to us about how you think through these emotions?

My first distinction in elementary school, was to be selected for “special art class.” I was so proud to be excused from the regular classroom on Fridays, walking past the other desks, knowing I had been identified as an Artist! But, what did that identification mean? What was my culture projecting onto me? How would I internalize it?

I taught summer art camp as a teenager and noticed that when children began to read and write proficiently (about first and second grade), most of their drawing skills began to atrophy. They no longer needed to draw pictograms to illustrate their ideas, because they had graduated to words. In our culture at that time, words were still dominant over pictures (that has since changed). But there were a few, like me, who continued to draw, paint, make and build things outside of the dominance of words and logic. We were the “Artists.” Like practicing an innate occult language, we were the ones who kept and honed the ability to used our imaginations to manifest images, a magical and sacred skill indeed.

In ancient (pre-capitalistic) indigenous cultures, “Artists” were not professionalized. Their personal expression and creative talents were often greatly valued, whether their expertise was with the non material as shamans, dream interpreters, or creative problem solvers, or as master materialists in the traditional sense: makers of pot, baskets, tools, textiles, etc. But they were likely also participating in the mundane tasks necessary for the group to survive.

As a young creative of my generation, there were few professional paths I knew to take as a maker. Many of the options that appealed to me — like Art teacher, hairdresser, gardener, potter, carpenter, sign painter, seamstress, cook–were looked down on because of their low earning power, low social status, and emphasis on hard physical labor. Yet, on the other end of the spectrum (or as I like to say at the top of the pyramid), there was the slim chance of “making it” as an elite fine Artist, producing things for Contemporary museums and galleries. Of course, this was a culture with which I had very little real exposure.

The one thing I knew was that I did not want a regular job, or for that matter, a regular life. I wanted to be surrounded by interesting people, social interactions, and use my creativity to make, do and influence things in the material world.

Awesome – so before we get into the rest of our questions, can you briefly introduce yourself to our readers.

Raised with practical middle class values, I was highly discouraged from going to Art school, which was my dream. Typically, everyone feared I’d never make a living. So I became a graphic designer, making art for average people, instead of Art people.

In my senior year of high school I moved with my parents from a commuter town outside of New York City (the Art capitol of American) to a conservative suburb of Houston, TX. But, the next year, I escaped to University in the nearby city of New Orleans. Pre-internet and social media, I found myself in an entirely new Southern locale, further separated from the idealized Contemporary Art track. I immediately fell in love with my new city, which was clearly a cultural mecca of an entirely different sort.

I muddled through my college years, developing an identity making indie graphics for fellow students on campus. The early 90s was a perfect time to learn computer programs in the open labs — I taught myself Adobe Illustrator [I] and Photoshop [I]. Kinkos had a cheap photocopy shop on campus, very close to the library. It became my public workroom and creative publishing center. It was the first of many make-shift alternative Art schools for me. I had been intimidated, or perhaps fatefully steered away from pursuing a career in Contemporary Art. Instead, I explored the new technologies available to me and discovered that making computer images for others was a skill in great demand. After graduation, without an official design degree, I pursued graphics work, hustling to become a freelance designer.

Let’s talk about resilience next – do you have a story you can share with us?

By the time I was 30, I was relatively well known in my small community as a print designer for the Arts, a niche I found to be a much better fit than straight-up advertising. So many young creatives are fed into the lucrative advertising and marketing industries for practical careers, but those businesses couldn’t be a more soul-less place for young idealists to lose their faith in making art. I quickly found if I had to represent or sell a product I disapproved of, the job ended in self-sabotage. Whereas, I could believe in “Artists” and thus put my heart into working specifically for that sector.

I had settled in Atlanta, still very much a burgeoning, wonderfully abandoned city–although it was hardly a design center. I made a respectable living. I had my own independent business with the freedom to pursue indie creative projects on the side. Though I worked directly with many people in the Art community, I soon realized my own contributions (and medium) were not recognized as that of an Artist. Design and communications were still seen as professions of service. If I wanted the status, respect, and ability to have authority over my own creative content, I would need to make paintings, installations, or sculptures.

My creative position within society as a graphic designer made me meta. My medium worked to represent the Arts and its institutions, and yet was not Art itself. And, because I was making images for hire, I did not have the last say over my work. Frustratingly, I made extra efforts to show clients what was possible, often creating alternative ideas for free, even curating shows, or writing exhibition statements for clients in order to inject innovation, inspiration, or organization. In this way, I became involved in Art, but more as an undercover, unappreciated agent, not as something official. Thus, I became a useful cog at the base of the Art pyramid, with the childish dream–like everyone else laboring at the bottom of that system–that I would climb up.

Ambitiously, I went back to Art school, with the intention of finding a place for myself within that system. I needed some added authority–perhaps with an MFA I could become an Art professor and/or gallery artist. This time I attended local, state university, which I could easily afford given my income as a designer.

It was a great time of expansion and exposure for me. I spent hours in the library finding images, researching artists, discussing ideas with my peers. I learned which materials I liked to work with, finding myself in sculpture, and began working in clay, which I absolutely loved! But I did not let myself go too far. My middle class values intervened again: I knew if I pursued working in clay, I’d end up with a low paying profession and even less power. In the early 2000s, Pottery was still very much a demeaned medium, not unlike graphic design. What was with me? Why was I consistently drawn to the most undervalued, labor-intensive creative practices? I said to myself, “When I’m older. . .I’ll do ceramics.” For now I’ll stick with the paying creative job I have.

I could see that my entrepreneurial spirit was not a good fit at University and thus my dream of MFA fizzled. The system was not unlike the corporate culture I already navigated in my business, except it made less money, and was an extremely competitive field. My long held myth of the University being a radical bastion of free thinkers was debunked. With no regrets, I jumped off . . . Re-invigorated, I was ready to just practice Art for a while. I had a new appreciation for the freedom my design work gave me to pursue loftier goals, with it’s flexible schedule and relatively high pay. I discovered that most practicing Artists had other paying jobs, were independently wealthy, or otherwise supported by others. The truth was that very few made a living with it.

What’s a lesson you had to unlearn and what’s the backstory?

Another 20 years passed. But, eventually my energy to pursue Art while making a living began to wane. I moved up and around the local Art ladders, taking risks and “achieving.” I was in countless group and solo shows, curated exhibitions, ran gallery spaces, wrote about Art, worked with wealthy foundations, sat on boards, gave out money awards, engaged in wild artist-initiated experiments, helped artists coming up behind me, helped raise money for non-profits. . . while also maintaining my design practice. More and more I butted heads with the powers of the social elite and fine Art traditions, who continued to exclude me. I was losing precious time and personal power. At this point, my focus was almost entirely projected onto others instead of my own self expression. How did this happen?

On the inside, however, I had preserved the wild and “untrained” creative self. I had naively side-winded into an Art world with which I ultimately did not resonate. I was always someone with a high value around local community and hands-on sweat equity. Why was I aspiring to get picked up by some elite international Art system? Would I even like that life? I started to wonder, “What if I just put my energy towards a realistic, disciplined, personal Art practice?” How could I do that, especially so late in life? Then I remembered my intention about working with clay as an older person. . . “Well,” I thought, “I am older!” And signed up to start pottery at 44 years old.

I was intentional and serious about this decision, but it was also great therapy! Ceramics was tactilely rewarding, satisfying my love of form and surface design in the physical world. And with this work, I started to step away from the computer screen, which had become toxic. I did not try to grandstand or gain favor with power. I did not take classes from established authorities. I just gave myself the time to fall in love with the material. I knew I had a special talent for this, and in short order, committed to it for life. The more I practiced, the more I knew what to do. And, contrary to my previous experience in the “Arts,” making ceramics did not drain me. Here, I made all the decisions without outside edit and little judgement. It inspired and challenged me, and in turn I knew I could inspire others with my passion.

I’m now almost 54. I have my own pottery studio in a rustic 1890s historic house, with students and a thriving practice. I design a lot of functional work as well as some sculpture. I basically do whatever I want. Occasionally, I run into the old Art people in my community, and I can tell some of them feel weird for me. But I stand proud. The cool people get it. In a digital age, pottery’s never been more appreciated. I find that people are eager to have beautiful, lovingly crafted hand-made objects. I have also been surprised with how many people are eager to make things in clay themselves. It feels so ancient, humble, and intimate –adjectives that are quite the opposite of Contemporary Art. Finally I’ve found a comfortable place from which to make art on my own terms!

Ironically, as I age, I connect more and more with that joyful and utterly creative inner child within who is so excited to make art and share it.

Contact Info:

• Website: www.house-of-tau.com
• Instagram: @houzz_of_tau