Written by Barb Whitney
Ben Chamberlain was like a brother to me, and to many. He stood up at my wedding. That alone tells you something about our relationship. But it doesn’t tell you nearly enough.
Ben and my husband, Jon, were the best of friends. They shared a language of clay, of fire, of glaze, of music, and of ideas that stretched late into the night. They spent time making, testing, firing, refining. Ben’s wife, Elizabeth, and I orbited their relationship, learning, laughing, absorbing. Being part of that friendship was one of the great privileges of my life.
Pictured: Ben and Jon at Midtown Brewing Company
Ben taught me how to be present. The kind of present where, when the power goes out, you don’t complain. You open the bourbon and roast marshmallows on the stove. You turn inconvenience into ritual. Into memory. He taught me how to walk through a cornfield, how to dig clay, and how to swim in a vortex. We walked many paths together, even in hard seasons.
The world felt quieter then. More sane. As if simply being near him recalibrated things.
It is hard to put into words how much I miss him.
His motorcycle and leather jacket suggested one kind of story. His mind and hands told another. He was an unlikely, beautiful combination: part fire maker, part scholar, part craftsman. He built the bar for their wedding. Brewed the beer, too. And made the pottery. That was Ben: make it yourself, make it meaningful, make it shared.
He once saved me from a toaster oven fire at Pewabic. True story.
Pictured: Ben in his leather coat, just before a walk.
And, of course, he was an artist. We called him “The Potters’ Potter.” His work was refined: deeply methodical, skillful, and precise. The way he approached ceramics was intellectual and embodied. The lights at the firehouse across from Pewabic sometimes glowed late into the night when Jon, Ben, and many other potters were working.
Ben fired in Kentucky for a time, and when he returned to Michigan, a group of kindred spirits gathered to build his kiln. Of course it had to have a Pizzagama oven attached. For him, art and life were never separate. Some of the best pizza I’ve ever had came from that kiln.
Pictured: Ben tending the Pizzagama.
One of the gifts of being part of that Detroit clay community was access: to materials, to space, to one another as artists. There was always clay to wedge, kilns to fire, and someone willing to stay late to see what emerged. It was romantic in the truest sense. Not glamorous, but alive. We were finding our artistry. Choosing our life paths. Warehouses became studios. Bands emerged from unlikely places. The city fostered collegiality and camaraderie. It let you experiment. It let you become. Our Pewabic folks thrived in that space together.
Even twenty years after we first met, I learned something new every time I was with Ben. Music I had never heard before. Ways of seeing I had not considered. Techniques refined over years of discipline. He loved experimental cooking and refined glaze chemistry. And he was so very smart.
Pictured: Ben and Elizabeth Chamberlain
The world feels diminished because he is gone.
We had the chance to say so many goodbyes. And it could never have been enough. I also recognize that his absence is felt by many souls who shared his journey here.
Every morning, Jon makes me coffee, and I almost always drink it from one of Ben’s gorgeous tea bowls. It is an ordinary activity that brings me solace. There is such great beauty in his work. In the friendships he nurtured. In the way he shaped so many of us simply by being fully himself.
Pictured: Teabowl by Ben Chamberlain
P.S. I think Ben would like the paintings I am making now. They are more powerful emotional statements. Early on in our relationship, he encouraged me to allow the work to be more “raw.” I titled a work Raw, Ben. and later presented it to him. I channel his spirit when I’m at my best in the studio.
Pictured: Barb Whitney with her artwork, Kellogg Center
Barb Whitney
Artist. Educator. Administrator.
Barbwhitneyart.com
