It has become less about the finished product and more about the process itself
Years ago, my son and I took a pottery class one Saturday afternoon. I agreed to take him – he wanted to try the wheel but was too young to go alone. I had no real expectations of the class, but as soon as I gripped the lump of clay and tried to centre it on to the plate, I was hooked. There was something primal about having my hands and clothes covered in smears of white. It brought me back to making mud pies as a child.
My son seemed to understand the properties of working with clay in a way that I didn’t but I still managed to cobble together some small pieces and left them to be fired, my name carved in the bottom. When I collected the glazed pieces , I laughed with the studio technician at how neat my son’s bowls were compared with my wonky ones. She suggested enrolling in a longer course but regular classes weren’t possible at that point in my life, so I shoved my indelicate pots to the back of my cupboard and forgot about pottery for a while.
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It has become less about the finished product and more about the process itselfYears ago, my son and I took a pottery class one Saturday afternoon. I agreed to take him – he wanted to try the wheel but was too young t...
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