Photo courtesy of Dr. Lillian Bridwell-Bowles
“Theuth Plagiarizing Seschat”
In Plato’s enduring dialectic work The Phaedrus, Socrates shares the myth of Theuth, the ancient Egyptian god of writing, who wished to give his gift—“a potion for memory and for wisdom”—to the people of Egypt. To this request, Thamus, the King of Egypt, replied that actually, the gift of letters would be “an elixir not of memory, but of reminding . . . the appearance of wisdom, not true wisdom.”
Such explorations and critiques of language and the ways it is effectively used were central to Dr. Lillian Bridwell-Bowles’ curriculum as a professor of rhetorical history for forty-two years, as well as her research of it—which culminated in five books and dozens of publications. So, it should come as no surprise that one of her early endeavors into ceramics brought forth an elaborate depiction of Egypt’s sacred scribe.
But, skilled in the art of deconstruction as she is, the potter-professor re-examined the famous myth, asking herself, “What’s missing here?” As is so often the case, what was missing was the story’s woman. “In the Egyptian pantheon of gods and goddesses, surely there was a woman,” Bridwell-Bowles said. “And I found her.” So, she set about creating Seschat, the far-lesser-known goddess of writing and wisdom. “And then, I imagined that [she and Theuth] had probably crossed paths, and I thought about how in so many stories, the woman is a bigger part of the inspiration, or even a major contributor, and never gets the credit. So, this is what I did about that.” Thus, the work of art: “Theuth Plagiarizing Seschat”: Seschat pictured writing out hieroglyphs (which, in one spot, translate to “Lilly”), Theuth writing his own opposite her, looking over his shoulder to copy her work.
“In the Egyptian pantheon of gods and goddesses, surely there was a woman,” Bridwell-Bowles said. “And I found her.”
This mingling of historical reference, mythology, feminism, and play repeats itself as a theme across Dr. Bridwell Bowles’ artistic works—which she has committed herself whole-heartedly to since her retirement in 2017.
Jordan LaHaye Fontenot
Dr. Lillian Bridwell-Bowles in her garage-turned-ceramics-studio.
“I have had an artist inside me my whole life,” she said. “But she was trapped in academia.” Not that she didn’t love her work in academia, she was sure to emphasize. After all, her studies are what brought her into the museums and archives where she has gathered so many of the styles and motifs that adorn her work: the story of Theuth, the Moroccan lotus, Walter Anderson’s birds, and perhaps most profoundly the signature Arts & Crafts designs of Newcomb Pottery.
[Read a profile on Baton Rouge sculptor Becky Gottsegen and her work here.]
In 2017, Dr. Bridwell-Bowles co-authored a study titled “Women, Work, and Success: Fin de Siecle Rhetoric at Sophie Newcomb College,” published in the Peitho Journal. A marriage of her academic expertise in rhetoric and gender studies, this project also connected her to some of the most significant women ceramic artists in American history through letters and interviews in the Newcomb Library’s archives.
The simple naturalistic motifs of the Newcomb style, which most often reflected the flora and fauna of Louisiana, quickly made their way into Dr. Bridwell Bowles’ bursting notebooks of inspiration, joining pages of Art Noveau-style sketches hummingbirds, dragonflies, seashells, trees of life, and birds. And all of these, at some point in time, have found a place upon the countless jars and pots and coffee mugs and statues crafted in her garage-turned-pottery studio, overseen by a poster emblazoned with George Ohr’s motto: “No Two Alike”.
So while her studies and her academic explorations certainly find their way into her work, Dr. Bridwell-Bowles believes their influence on her art is more subconscious than rhetorical. “It informs my tastes,” she explained. “I know enough to enjoy interesting things, but it’s really my aesthetic creativity that takes over in the studio. I don’t process anything intellectually at all.” Coming back to Theuth, she pointed out another ceramic portrait of the god, in which she had dressed him dressed as a woman. “I did this because … well, because I just wanted peacocks on him for some reason,” she said, pointing to the elaborate feathered designs on his skirt. “I just felt that.”
“I know enough to enjoy interesting things, but it’s really my aesthetic creativity that takes over in the studio. I don’t process anything intellectually at all.” —Dr. Lillian Bridwell-Bowles
[Read about artist Ben Peabody's rich symbolism and the talismans of addicts' experiences.]
And while the impulse to create can at times be so simple, at other times it runs deeper. For example, Dr. Bridwell-Bowles said upon hearing Amanda Gorman’s poem the day of President Biden’s inauguration, she knew she had to make Gorman. The tiny effigy, with her bright yellow coat and red headband, is instantly recognizable—unglazed and fresh from the kiln. Dr. Bridwell-Bowles said she calls her, “Rebirth”.
Jordan LaHaye Fontenot
Dr. Lillian Bridwell-Bowles' goddesses
Dr. Bridwell-Bowles said upon hearing Amanda Gorman’s poem the day of President Biden’s inauguration, she knew she had to make Gorman. The tiny effigy, with her bright yellow coat and red headband, is instantly recognizable—unglazed and fresh from the kiln. Dr. Bridwell-Bowles said she calls her, “Rebirth”.
Towering above her more functional bowls and coffee mugs are Dr. Bridwell-Bowles’ goddesses. The tall dignified creatures, each in their own eclectic headpiece and attire, are in many ways the centerpieces of her body of work. In recent years, a particular goddess has captured her imagination: The Goddess de Gombo. She first envisioned her okra goddess after a visit to Whitney Plantation, where her guide told a story of the Ghanaian women who had been enslaved there. “These women in Ghana, they were running, hiding in the jungles from the slavers,” she said. “But they knew they would be captured, it was inevitable. So, what they would do is weave okra seeds into their hair, so that when they got wherever they were going to be taken, they could plant them for their children. Just amazing.”
On the day I visited, she had just pulled a batch of work from the kiln to discover that many of the pieces in it had exploded. “That’s only happened twice since I’ve been doing this,” she said, supposing that it could be the batch of clay she had bought, or the fact that the weather has been cold lately. It’s devastating, she said, to lose your work like that. But, she pointed out, gesturing across the broken pots and bowls, then to the corner where two of her okra women stood proudly: “The goddesses survived.”
Don’t miss her profile on LPB’s Art Rocks on Friday, March 19 at 8:30 pm, repeating Sunday, March 20 at 5:30 pm.
