Ever since Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze titillated their sexual appetite with the slithering clay of a potter's wheel, pottery lessons and the like have taken on a sensual mystique of their own.
Sensual, however, was the last impression that came to mind when, at last, these novice hands met clay.
I quickly replaced the romanticism of this genre with a genuine respect for the skill of the potter.
As is typical with any craft, preparation precedes art. There is cutting, weighing, and wedging, which is simply the process of kneading the clay to remove the air bubbles. In actuality, potters consider this process to be the opposite of kneading.
There are many different types of clay from course Terra Cotta to fine Porcelain. However, the most commonly used in a class environment is Greystone (Course, containing more sand) or a B Mix (Fine, but not as fine as porcelain).
Once the decisions and preparations are made, the potter is ready to “throw a pot” as they say.
Here is where I stepped in ready to sink my hands into the creation of a lifetime, to feel the sensual mystique and the satisfaction of knowing I would have one more accomplishment under my belt. After all, I considered myself pretty talented and coordinated. Ha!
With hands dipped in a mixture of clay and water, I soon found out who would become the satisfied benefactor.
From the moment the encouraging mentor handed me this lifeless clump of clay it became possessed.
It swayed, swerved, and slipped away from my trying hands. At one point, I thought it would take flight.
“Be firm,” I heard. “Control the clay, don't let it control you.”
Obviously, this hunk of 'sensual mystique' had other ideas. The clay must be placed and pressed firmly on the wheel in order to prevent the wheel from spinning underneath it, a feat I found impossible to perform.
Try as I might to seduce this possessed spirit into submission; it wasn't until the Master placed his hands around mine that the spirit purred. He was able to stabilize and center the clay as best he could after the trauma of my touch.
The magic continued to emanate from his hands as he formed an impression in the center and caressed either side of it with his fingers. Together they worked in harmony toward a common goal.
Once again, I tried to emulate my mentor and once again found the clay very uncooperative. My fingers would not glide as the masters had. In fact, they dragged along like a dog on a leash. Regardless of the way I adjusted my stroke, the result was still the same.
I realized that if this piece of clay had any hope of becoming a wonderful creation, I must abandon my idealistic ability and turn it over to the Master. He had paid his dues and earned his right to control and for that, the spirit of the clay was eternally grateful.
