I Like Pot(s)

If you make pots for a living, it’s a statistical certainty that your personality will fall under the “quirky” category. The potter that teaches my class definitely matches this description. He’s a stocky man with a thick, scraggly beard, a severe stutter, and a tendency to over explain things. But he’s amazing at what he does. He pulls the clay into beautiful shapes with deceptive ease. As the pot spins around, small alterations in his hand positions produce stunning results. When I attempt the same, terrible, terrible things happen.

Yes, my pots are utter crap, but I have only had two lessons. Beginner’s handicap. Once I figure out how to keep all my cylinders from turning into wide, saggy bowls, I’m set.

My classmates consist of a coworker, a couple of mom-types, and a fat, tattooed biker. They’re all pleasant, unassuming folk. It’s turning out to be an excellent choice for a post-college-personal-enrichment activity. Spinning pots is messy, squishy fun. The brownish clay-water that dribbles out of my cupped hands looks like a chocolate smoothie. After each lesson my forearms, shirt, and pants are plastered with dried clay. It feels good to get dirty.

Maybe next I’ll try mud wrestling.