A few years ago, I stumbled into a pottery studio and wound up signing up for a wheel class. I had no natural affinity for wheel work, but it was fun—messy fun. My notable accomplishment was leaving each session with clay in my hair and very small, heavy-bottomed, slightly lopsided pots.
Eventually I got better—never particularly good—but better. I found the most satisfaction in freehand carving, sgraffito (scratching a design into colored under-glaze or slip), and other decorative techniques. The teacher put a ‘bug in my ear’ predicting I’d find my way to hand building, and after the pandemic, that’s exactly what happened.
Now, it’s part of my life! And it’s not the strange animal figures, useful-adjacent cups, or the containers with lids that (almost) fit that I’m enjoying … it is the PROCESS of making them. When writing, I hold myself to a high standard. I WORK. But in pottery I play—in 3 dimensions. And playing supports the writing!
It also makes me think in 3 dimensions and presents ‘engineering’ problems far outside my comfort zone. Everything becomes a potential tool, every day there’s a new problem to solve, things collapse, shatter, and flop over … And it’s still fun. I make new mistakes all the time. The oddest—and most wonderful—thing about this problem-solving process, is that it impacts my writing. I’m more adventurous, more experimental, and less afraid of the first draft not being perfect.
I don’t get clay in my hair anymore, but… I’m thinking with the sense of abandon that’s like clay flying!
