the great pottery throw down
The potter brings her work up to the table. The hessian cloth hiding the birthday set or the lamp or the animal figure is lifted, and one of the judges begins to cry.
Through tears: it is absolutely brilliant.
The potter is tearing up and it gets me sniffling along with them because there are many risks involved, many things that could go wrong in making clay come to life. What starts off as a ball of beige earth begins to stretch and grow in the guidance of the potter’s hands into something they will dedicate to someone dear, perhaps something that represents themselves. But they have to mind the consistency of the clay so that it doesn’t crack.
They are halfway through the challenge now and the potter is sticking mini houses onto the moon-shaped jar. Ten minutes remaining. The clay has to be leather dry before it goes through firing at an unfathomable temperature of over a thousand degrees—an intense, unpredictable process. Two years ago, I started the secret habit of exhaling gratitude after I cross the road and sometimes, if I remember, when I awake. It’s sort of like pottery, this daily miraculous thing, this fragile form: you never know what’s going to happen inside the kiln.
This week, the potters are making self-sculptures. It is symbolic. It is emotional. One of the sculptures has cracked through the fire; it is still beautiful.
I want to think it means something, to build a vessel out of stories and effort and expose it to the sun. To pray it comes out intact. To carry on regardless. The judge is crying. I’m really proud of you for doing that.
Through tears: I love you for doing that.