Anger Room

“Anybody can become angry—that is easy, but to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way—that is not within everybody’s power and is not easy.” –Aristotle

I stare into my bisque-fired, not yet completed, mug and press gently with my finger: a thin, hairline crack at the bottom of the vessel. It holds firm. This is more than I can say for myself of late. I feel as if my feet are hovering just above the earth, just shy of true, solid, balance. I carefully turn the piece over and assess the bottom noting no signs of breakage. I scan the ceramics studio for the instructor; I’m hoping for an expert’s opinion, but he’s discussing glazing technique — crowded in the corner near a small group of potters and stacks of gallon buckets filled with glaze.

I glance at my workspace filled with wax, sample glazes, paint brushes and a small collection of bisque-fired vessels. Four mugs and a bud vase need my attention.

I dip my brush into a small jar of glaze filled with glassy, sporadic crystal speckles and apply a single layer to the bud vase. I use the bristles of the brush to spread and divide crystals throughout the piece knowing that each crystalized speck will eventually combust and melt into circular-shaped glazed stars under the heat and pressure of the kiln.

I’m glazing my fourth mug when I get the instructor’s attention. And without looking at my piece, he says, “Cracks will only get bigger.”

“Another one for the rage room” I say with a hint of a laugh as he moves on.

“Could be” he says with a smile, but we both know it’s up to me.

*********

It’s an interesting concept— rage rooms, or as some call them anger or smash rooms. I first heard about rage rooms years ago when NPR did a story about a studio where people went to purposefully smash and break things.

The studio was described as an indoor two-story courtyard of sorts where individuals were invited to drop plates, or stacks of plates, contained within canvas sacks off the balcony. Additionally, people could shatter their dishes with a hammer or other dish-crushing tools.

The part I found fascinating then and now is this: prior to destroying dishes or breakables, people had the option to intentionally write or draw on their shatterable pieces: those in the NPR story wrote letters to ex-boyfriends, listed personal frustrations and circumstances— perhaps whatever they felt needed metaphorical smashing in their lives.

It’s wonderfully unclear if this process is healthy, helpful, or truly cathartic, but what I love about the existence of rage rooms is this: it saves space for anger.

I tap the mug with my fingers noticing how the sound changes as I move from the thick base to the thin mouth but I know bisque-fired clay all sounds the same when it shatters across concrete or crumbles under a lug-sole Chelsea boot. And if the music is loud enough, it doesn’t make any sound at all.

I set my glazed mugs on a shelf near the kiln and prepare to transport the hairline-crack mug home by carefully wrapping it in scraps of magazine paper. I know it will eventually and soon dissolve into dust. And somehow, knowing this leads me back to the earth where I am grounded, free, and at peace.