My college opened a shiny new student activities building my senior year, which included a ceramics studio. The studio was conveniently located inside the pool hall, so that if you had one of those late-adolescent blitzkrieg change of allegiances you could lurch from hippie-chick mudpie-making to louche table-lounging without even having to put on a sweater. On the other hand, the big windows between the two areas made it hard to hide from your erstwhile boon companions. Neither room was provided with natural light, and both reeked of the Hardees down the hall, so pursuing either activity could really give you that lost weekend feeling.
The pottery classes were a co-production with the local Y, and were taught by a fearsomely genuine specimen named Jim. Jim had a big beard, an aggressively round belly, and lived nearby in a squatty house with a yard full of raku pots. He was universally beloved and his classes were highly recommended; several of my friends had taken them and had all manner of thick, honest vessels to show for themselves. So I plunked down my fee and showed up full of dreams of becoming down-to-earth; I have a sickly feeling I even wore overalls. Our first lesson was on how to center the clay. It was also my second, third, and fourth lesson, and would, no doubt, have proved the entirety of my syllabus if I had not given up on the wheel at some point and started attacking the clay with a rolling pin instead.
I just couldn’t get it, and to be honest, jolly Jim wasn’t much help. The mirth would drain from his face when he saw my hand go up in the air, and he'd lumber over, shoo me off of the wheel, plunk himself down, and lean his considerable bulk into the clay. No matter how far off tilt I’d gotten it, it would spiral into perfect symmetry in a matter of seconds—I swear he employed his stomach somehow—and then he’d lean back, grunt with satisfaction, and say, “See?” And I would grin like an idiot, because I did see, although seeing wasn’t really the problem, and then he’d heave himself up and I’d sit down and try to make a vase or a bowl or some such with my nicely pre-centered clay—totally cheating—and of course I’d wreck it. Rinse, lather, repeat, as they say.
I wasn’t used to this variety of ineptitude, and it stung. Was it my skinny wrists? Cheap clay? Poor instruction? Well, there were plenty of little chicks in the class, and we were all using the same clay and being taught by the same dude, so that wasn’t it. Whatever the problem was, the wheel completely defeated me, and I slunk off—conveniently not having far to go—to get my friend Josh to teach me to play pool instead. Which I wasn’t any better at, although this, at least, was predictable, given my previous struggles with geometry and with concentrating and trying to look cute all at the same time.
Anyway, I wish I could wrap this all up into some kind of redemption story and tell you that I've faced down my clay demons and created the beautiful bowl you see here, but the truth is it's a wedding gift from my lovely and talented friend Jess. (To see an example of her chuppah-holding skills, see the "miscellany" album. Can this girl do it all, or what? She's got a really good evil eye for fourth graders, too.) Jess took up pottery about the same time I tried it, I think, but apparently she got that centered thing because she kept at it. I have a beautiful starry mug that she made for me years and years ago; since she was worried that the glaze wasn’t safe I made it my bedside cup, where it holds cough drops and earplugs and…ohh, neveryoumind. I am assured that this bowl is food-safe, though, and look forward to filling it up with all kinds of colorful comestibles.
Here's a closeup of the little leafy decor:
And here's my favorite part:
What was I thinking?
