I didn't want to post on collections two times in a row, but I just learned last week that Frankoma Pottery is officially no more. Founded in 1933 by potter John Frank, its name came from the combination of his last name and his state of Oklahoma, the source of the clay he used. And I think it's the combination of elements that I love so much. Frankoma can be anything you want, in a way. It can be craft, or kitsch, or both. It can celebrate nature or deco or a cowboy boot. It can be moss green or carnival red or calamine lotion pink. It can be gorgeous or absolutely awful.
And it's been something I could collect now, instead of that elusive Someday (after I win Powerball). Which I do not play.
And I can use it. It holds things. It's not just for show.
It was kind of comforting to know that it was still being made, out there in Oklahoma. That there were still molds for Congressional mugs and Lazy Bones butter dishes and Wagon Wheel pitchers. But now that Frankoma is finite, it might be even more special when I walk through a flea market and know that somewhere, somewhere here there's a little green vase with the price tag stuck on with scotch tape, and it's patiently waiting for me.
John and Grace Lee Frank's wonderfully funky home here...