I write all the time about art, and my relationship with it.  Still, it’s hard for me to explain the emotional response I have to pottery.  It’s been a lifelong dream of mine to learn to create pieces out of clay.  During covid, I had the opportunity to try.  A friend lent me his extra wheel, and I watched hours and hours of YouTube videos of people throwing pots.

It made sense in my mind. When I actually had the clay on the wheel, my hands didn’t understand.  The clay didn’t cooperate.  I mean, it didn’t do what I wanted it to do.  But clay is patient.  More patient than my mind, which was trying to reconcile the nature of clay with my clumsy fingers.  I was longing to make something.  Yes, longing.

Those ancient people that first discovered that mud could be formed and fired didn’t have YouTube videos or electricity.  They couldn’t order clay from an art supply store.  This is so much easier for me, and yet still so difficult.

I still don’t know what I’m doing, but I learn by trying.  One day, I believe I will either laugh or cringe at these early attempts, but for now, I use these objects that I’ve made, and they make me happy.  The permanency of ceramic makes me think that my art can survive long into the future.

I had this picture in my mind of drinking wine out of cups I had made… around a campfire with friends, touching these objects that serve a purpose.

I roast coffee beans.  I store them in lidded jars that I have made.  I drink the coffee out of cups that I made myself.  I store my tea in a canister that I created.  Nothing matches.  I eat egg rolls off of a plate with the names of my ancestors.  The names of my children.  I eat cereal out of bowls I made out of clay.  My cupboards are getting full.  I dream of getting rid of all the other ordinary dishes and having only handmade pieces to eat off and drink out of.