Step on a Crack
Posted 16 July, 09on:
…and break your mother’s back. This mother’s back is breaking. Why did I decide to do two hours of gardening on the same day that I would be bent over a potter wheel for three hours? Not such a bright girl, eh? The garden desperately needed it. I would like to say it looks wonderful now, but “better” is more than generous. Gardening is not my forte.
Pottery, however, is something I could seriously get into. While subbing for the art teacher, I have dabbled with pottery. C took ceramics last year so he was able to more than dabble. The art teacher had a professional potter come for a few days as an artist in residence. David is fabulous, both as a potter and as an instructor. He teaches classes in his studio. I signed up the boys and me for classes. C was thrilled. J was somewhat forced because I think he will enjoy it and sometimes it is good to step outside the comfort zone.
Our first class this evening was a success. We all made at least two presentable bowls. David’s studio is in the woods, really in the woods. The last five minutes of the drive involved a dirt road, no street lights or cell phone signal. Eek! Cut off from my Blackberry was a bit frightful. On the positive side, we watched deer frolic as we hunched over our pottery wheels. We even saw a couple of young bucks strutting like a couple of teenagers.
I was one of those unfortunate children who was told that being left handed was evil, spawn of Satan and whatnot. Fortunately, I was able to learn to write right handed, but that left handedness rears its ugly head at times. David showed us how to place our hands to do different things. I followed along diligently. When he splayed my lump of clay on the wheel, I immediately reversed all of the hand positions. Instinctively, it felt better to do it left handed. I struggled to switch to right handed until David kindly flipped a little switch that reversed the direction of the wheel. Woo hoo! A left handed wheel. Suddenly, my hands knew just where to go. I guess those teachers didn’t beat all the evilness out of me with their rulers.
David’s studio is a tad disheveled, like most artist’s studios. There are tons of pottery pieces in various states of finished everywhere, bottles of glazes everywhere, bags of clay everywhere. I noticed a piece of fur on one table, but the lighting is a little weak and there is lots of stuff. I think to myself, “Odd to have a piece of fur out here. Whatev…” As I look for a place to put my purse, I notice the fur moved ever so slightly. It was a cat, a very old cat who was barely breathing. I was not sure this cat would make it until the end of class. She is twenty years old, deaf, and only breathes about three times a minutes, barely. As we were leaving, she lifted her with great exertion, and blinked at me. I think we can blind to her list of deficiencies. She let me pet her but I was afraid to be too vigorous because I would swear dry rot has set it. Poor, poor kitty.
I shall now go change out of clay encrusted clothes (pottery is messy business), take a few aspirin, and apply a heat pack to my aching back.