He had such an easy way with clay. Effortless. No apparent strain of muscle or countenance. Watching him at his wheel, it was almost as easy to believe that the wet clay erupted spontaneously up from the wheelhead and his hands just happened to be there as witness to the miracle. His hands appeared not to be shaping, but as the exploring hands of a blind man as he learns contours and textures the only way he can.
I continued to watch as he filled a wareboard with pottery. The illusion never resolved. I continued to see the creator and his creation in reverse order. I continued to see the potter as witness, the pottery as something foregone that had merely leapt into dimension before my very eyes.
It's a rare potter I meet who couldn't watch another potter throw for hours.Delete
And that's how I fell in love with the art!ReplyDelete
That's exactly what I was thinking about when I wrote that. I was 18 and had just taken my first ceramics course when I came upon a potter working at a craft village in southern Indiana. I couldn't believe my eyes at what appeared magical. It inspired me to go back and learn more.Delete