Susan Arruda
I knew Jeffrey Kleckner for over 26 years. He was the truest friend and most authentic person I've ever known. Jeff was full of humor, caustic wit, intellect, depth, tireless dedication to his craft, and an incredible appreciation for beauty. Come to think of it, beauty was something that largely brought us together. Among many commonalities, we both found great comfort, peace and substantive satisfaction in that which is beautiful. This had nothing to do with gloss, pretense, slick surfaces or perfection. It was a kind of experience of beauty that moved us – from a birdsong to so much of the pottery that spoke to us, a weathered building facade, or an etherial lone cloud in the sky. Our relationship was inextricably linked to a way of being combined with a constant thread that ran through our shared history and love of ceramics. For me, Jeff has been one of the few outstanding constants in what has been quite a mercurial life.
With all of that understood within, I'm still struggling to find the beauty in this loss. Perhaps it is here, where we're all gathering to celebrate Jeff. Despite his modest, humble and private nature, he would be deeply touched and honored to know that so many people loved, admired and respected him and his life's work. A special “thank you” to my dear friend, Terry Gess, who has taken on this project to honor Jeff's memory.
No time in my life is as vivid in my memory as that of graduate school studies, where I first met Jeff. We became fast friends, and soon discovered that our shared experiences of the world were seen through a similar set of eyes; not only aesthetically, but that of a kind of consciousness and perception of shared truths and values. Despite working incredibly hard with focus pointed toward a common goal, at no other time in our lives did we feel more alive. We were both seeking to find or uncover our individual creative voices, which happened to result in an MFA. Jeff's work truly blossomed during that time and catapulted him forward with renewed vigor and a wellspring of ideas. Over the years, we very often reminisced about this indelible time. To this day, I still use so many of Jeff's one liners that I've heard him say for as long as I've known him. They always bring me right back to that time and place of memory. If I had a dollar for every time I heard Jeff say, “Pottery is a tough sport!”
Despite its challenges, pottery was Jeff's constant, his true north and safe harbor.
Looking at old photographs, greeting cards and correspondence from Jeff has been something that I've revisited over the last few months, as people often do after losing someone dear to them. This activity is at the same time comforting and confronting. These images and words have jogged recollections of specific and visceral experiences of Jeff that I hadn't thought of in a long time; one being a trip that I took to NYC with him back in 2003 or so. There was a major Oribe show on exhibit at The Met. After a great deal of nagging, I couldn't get Jeff to go to NYC alone and I couldn’t live with myself knowing he'd miss that once in a lifetime show. Despite my frustration, I eventually dragged myself over to Bethlehem from Massachusetts, where I was living at the time, and we took a bus into the city.
I couldn't believe the treasure trove of work in that vast collection, combined with other Asian ceramics of a similar time period, and had never seen him so transfixed. He spoke only in hushed tones with total reverence and described it as church. To bear witness to how important this experience was for Jeff and to share it with him was deeply impactful. As we made our way through the show, we invented a game called “What’s the Best Pot in the Room?”. After jotting down our choices, we discovered that we had each picked the same one every time. Next, we chose our respective favorite piece in each room, later guessing one another's. I got to pick 2 because I’m indecisive. They always matched up! What a great memory and testimony to how well we understood one another's aesthetic eye, love of ceramics and experience of beauty.
Another vivid image that recently grabbed my attention was a piece I've always loved, masterfully painted by Dana Van Horn in the mid-80's. “Jeffrey Kleckner at Work” is housed in the Metropolitan Museum of Art's permanent collection and featured in Jeff's obituary. The painting beautifully captures the quiet intensity, nuance and spirit of Jeff's process at the wheel. In it, I immediately recognize the endearing mannerisms of him leaning back to assess a pot in progress ‑ eyebrows raised, chin lowered and index fingers rubbing against his thumbs. I must've seen him do that 1,000 times over without thinking twice until now.
Lastly, I'd like to mention the namesake that Jeff called me since 1995, which was Woozie. That became my name ever since and it was as comfortable and familiar to my identity as Susan. I miss that name terribly, as I miss Jeff.
Susan Arruda
December 12, 2020
I knew Jeffrey Kleckner for over 26 years. He was the truest friend and most authentic person I've ever known. Jeff was full of humor, caustic wit, intellect, depth, tireless dedication to his craft, and an incredible appreciation for beauty. Come to think of it, beauty was something that largely brought us together. Among many commonalities, we both found great comfort, peace and substantive satisfaction in that which is beautiful. This had nothing to do with gloss, pretense, slick surfaces or perfection. It was a kind of experience of beauty that moved us – from a birdsong to so much of the pottery that spoke to us, a weathered building facade, or an etherial lone cloud in the sky. Our relationship was inextricably linked to a way of being combined with a constant thread that ran through our shared history and love of ceramics. For me, Jeff has been one of the few outstanding constants in what has been quite a mercurial life.
With all of that understood within, I'm still struggling to find the beauty in this loss. Perhaps it is here, where we're all gathering to celebrate Jeff. Despite his modest, humble and private nature, he would be deeply touched and honored to know that so many people loved, admired and respected him and his life's work. A special “thank you” to my dear friend, Terry Gess, who has taken on this project to honor Jeff's memory.
No time in my life is as vivid in my memory as that of graduate school studies, where I first met Jeff. We became fast friends, and soon discovered that our shared experiences of the world were seen through a similar set of eyes; not only aesthetically, but that of a kind of consciousness and perception of shared truths and values. Despite working incredibly hard with focus pointed toward a common goal, at no other time in our lives did we feel more alive. We were both seeking to find or uncover our individual creative voices, which happened to result in an MFA. Jeff's work truly blossomed during that time and catapulted him forward with renewed vigor and a wellspring of ideas. Over the years, we very often reminisced about this indelible time. To this day, I still use so many of Jeff's one liners that I've heard him say for as long as I've known him. They always bring me right back to that time and place of memory. If I had a dollar for every time I heard Jeff say, “Pottery is a tough sport!”
Despite its challenges, pottery was Jeff's constant, his true north and safe harbor.
Looking at old photographs, greeting cards and correspondence from Jeff has been something that I've revisited over the last few months, as people often do after losing someone dear to them. This activity is at the same time comforting and confronting. These images and words have jogged recollections of specific and visceral experiences of Jeff that I hadn't thought of in a long time; one being a trip that I took to NYC with him back in 2003 or so. There was a major Oribe show on exhibit at The Met. After a great deal of nagging, I couldn't get Jeff to go to NYC alone and I couldn’t live with myself knowing he'd miss that once in a lifetime show. Despite my frustration, I eventually dragged myself over to Bethlehem from Massachusetts, where I was living at the time, and we took a bus into the city.
I couldn't believe the treasure trove of work in that vast collection, combined with other Asian ceramics of a similar time period, and had never seen him so transfixed. He spoke only in hushed tones with total reverence and described it as church. To bear witness to how important this experience was for Jeff and to share it with him was deeply impactful. As we made our way through the show, we invented a game called “What’s the Best Pot in the Room?”. After jotting down our choices, we discovered that we had each picked the same one every time. Next, we chose our respective favorite piece in each room, later guessing one another's. I got to pick 2 because I’m indecisive. They always matched up! What a great memory and testimony to how well we understood one another's aesthetic eye, love of ceramics and experience of beauty.
Another vivid image that recently grabbed my attention was a piece I've always loved, masterfully painted by Dana Van Horn in the mid-80's. “Jeffrey Kleckner at Work” is housed in the Metropolitan Museum of Art's permanent collection and featured in Jeff's obituary. The painting beautifully captures the quiet intensity, nuance and spirit of Jeff's process at the wheel. In it, I immediately recognize the endearing mannerisms of him leaning back to assess a pot in progress ‑ eyebrows raised, chin lowered and index fingers rubbing against his thumbs. I must've seen him do that 1,000 times over without thinking twice until now.
Lastly, I'd like to mention the namesake that Jeff called me since 1995, which was Woozie. That became my name ever since and it was as comfortable and familiar to my identity as Susan. I miss that name terribly, as I miss Jeff.
Susan Arruda
December 12, 2020