March Prompt: 2 Potter at the Wheel

I wanted to write about an old potter who spent her life shaping clay with her hands.

Her hands would have to be strong, to knead clay into pliability; they would have to be sensitive, to feel out minute differences in the clay; they would have to be agile, to shape the material into the form she wants.

Most of it would be muscle memory.

Imagine: She dips her fingers into water and flicks it onto the lump that is on the wheel. Her foot presses on the pedal. She doesn’t even think about the pressure that she needs to exert. As the wheel turns, a shapeless lump slowly takes on the form off a plate; a bowl; a vase; a jar. A firm press narrows it or flattens it. A gentle stroke alters an angle or a curve. As she creates, she would have to keep in mind what she wants out of this. She has to be intentional and purposeful.

I know nothing about pottery.

I don’t know anything about how long it takes to finish a simple bowl. I don’t know how fast the wheel should turn. I don’t know how wet the clay should be.

Would her hands be dry from clay? Would her cuticles be brown or red from the stain of her clay? Is it easy to scrub clay from under her nails?

What kinds of aches and pains would she have? She is constantly bent over, her head at an angle, her hands exerting force. Her knees are bent because she has to work on a stool. Perhaps she would have arthritis in her fingers and wrists. Perhaps her lower back twinges when she stands. Maybe her ankles would be puffy and stiff at the end of the day.

A potter would surely have a great sense of symmetry and volume. She should know at a glance how wet or dry her clay is. She probably can weigh it out in her palms without needing to consult a scale. Perhaps she would have myopia, given how her work would be up close all day.

This is a solitary job for the most part. Even if there were other potters, they would each have to focus on their own task. At the end of the day, the work is placed on a tray to air dry until they are ready for the kiln. When it comes time for the kiln, she would have to gauge how hot it is supposed to be.

Does she move the trays herself? Her hands would have to be steady. Her gait would have to be sure. Days of work rely on her not to fall.

I think this old potter knows the strength in her arms, the skill in her hands, the strains in her body, the precision of her vision, the accuracy of her judgment.

When she began as an apprentice, did she look at her masters and think, “This is the life I want for myself”?

When did she first hold a lump of clay in her hands? How long did it take for her to learn its temperament and qualities? Did she watch her masters churn out pieces without flaw, out of the corner of her eye? How was she taught? With gentle words or stern reprimands? The scars on her hands – did they come from her own practice or were they inflicted by impatient teachers? Or perhaps the kiln was unforgiving, the wheel unsympathetic, the tools unwelcoming to a novice's hands?

I know nothing about being a potter. I assume that skill comes with intentional practice. I assume experience accumulated through hundreds of failed attempts and thousands of mediocre outcomes led to her being able to make something that she be reasonably proud of. Maybe ten years into making something every day finally gave her a moment, when she could sit back on her mud-stained stool and say, “Yes, that is what I wanted to make.”

I wonder if she thinks about the next challenge. Maybe she is happy making plates and bowls for everyday use. Maybe she wants to create something so fine that it could be displayed in a gallery or a museum.

I want to write about a potter. I know nothing about making pottery.