This week I'm attending Afternoon Ceramics at the art center nearby. I skipped it on Monday in favor of a day at the beach with my friend but yesterday I arrived for class in clothes made for turning brown with clay stains.
I have attended something at the art center for at least one summer or vacation per year since fourth grade, except for last summer, when I did a five-week intensive dance program instead. But in any case, the teachers know me.
So I arrived about ten minutes early to find one of my former teachers digging in the recycled clay bin and slopping it onto boards to make it dry into clay that's fit for working with instead of just muddy slip. I offered to help because I love getting dirty in this way, and I needed to get my clean clothes flecked with clay already. "You grew a lot," she says.
While doing that I realized that someone who had been with me in the pottery classes I'd attended two years ago was in my class again. We reacquainted ourselves with each other and remembered our jokes. Since we've both been to Israel it was mostly about the messed-up-ness of security and terrorists in airports and trying to drag pottery wheels into the airport. It's probably the best time I've had in an organized class in a while.
I'd really forgotten how much fun it is to go somewhere with the intention of making art, to come with a group of people and get your hands so very dirty. I don't know if anybody else does this, but my friend and I start talking to the clay in the middle of conversations. Like, one minute we're talking about depression and then he says to the mug he's making, "Don't flop over, I'll kill you if you do," and we're talking about television. That doesn't happen without the occasional lunatic talking to random objects.
Today I'll go back and throw a few more pots. Ah, pottery. The most fun I've had in a while.
I have attended something at the art center for at least one summer or vacation per year since fourth grade, except for last summer, when I did a five-week intensive dance program instead. But in any case, the teachers know me.
So I arrived about ten minutes early to find one of my former teachers digging in the recycled clay bin and slopping it onto boards to make it dry into clay that's fit for working with instead of just muddy slip. I offered to help because I love getting dirty in this way, and I needed to get my clean clothes flecked with clay already. "You grew a lot," she says.
While doing that I realized that someone who had been with me in the pottery classes I'd attended two years ago was in my class again. We reacquainted ourselves with each other and remembered our jokes. Since we've both been to Israel it was mostly about the messed-up-ness of security and terrorists in airports and trying to drag pottery wheels into the airport. It's probably the best time I've had in an organized class in a while.
I'd really forgotten how much fun it is to go somewhere with the intention of making art, to come with a group of people and get your hands so very dirty. I don't know if anybody else does this, but my friend and I start talking to the clay in the middle of conversations. Like, one minute we're talking about depression and then he says to the mug he's making, "Don't flop over, I'll kill you if you do," and we're talking about television. That doesn't happen without the occasional lunatic talking to random objects.
Today I'll go back and throw a few more pots. Ah, pottery. The most fun I've had in a while.
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