for the kiln to heat to temperature. It has to be switched on and off regularly for it mustnât heat too fast. It is a nuisance. Laborious. But it would be a use of the night that hangs so emptily ahead of her.
She picks up and taps the bottom of her pots, listening for the musical clink that tells her that theyâre quite dry. She hates them, the silly, smug shapes. What do they say? I am a mug. I am mask. I am hand-crafted. Buy me. That is what they are designed to say. I wonât make any more, she thinks. The egg-cups are not ready for firing. She should wait for them. But they are such trivial things. She breaks one against her bench. It splits easily.
She loads the kiln, and takes the bungs out to let the first moisture and gases escape as the pots begin to heat. Inside the peep-hole she puts some thermodynamic temperature cones. When the tip of the first one bends the temperature will be right for the bungs to go back in. She switches the kiln on. It hums faintly. She throws the bits of the broken egg-cup into a bin of dried fragments. The good thing about clay is that until it is fired it is green. It can be broken down, robbed of its edges: it can return to formlessness and be remade.
Tea
Nadia wedges some clay, turning it round and round, leaning all her weight on it, pressing into it with the balls of both her hands and then flopping it over, the stiff mass, waking it with her energy into a warmer plasticity. It is slick, grey clay, good, fat, stretchy, strong stuff. She slices through it with a wire, looks with satisfaction at the smoothness of the sliced surfaces, no grit, no pockets of air. It is even and dense. The wedging has tired her arms and shoulders; the muscles complain. She stretches back, one arm over her shoulder, one stretching up between her shoulderblades to catch the otherâs fingers, a yoga exercise to limber the back and shoulders, but her fingers slip from each other, ungraspable with their flaking film of clay.
And there it sits, a lump waiting to be assigned a form. There is no point, perhaps, but there is no point in leaving it either. No more point in a formless mass in her plastic-lined dustbin than in what it might become. The kiln hums in the corner, there is a little warmth leaking from it despite the insulation, and a hot baked-earth smell. She sat up most of the night waiting for the kiln to heat and now, in the morning, with sharp crumbs of sleep in the corners of her eyes, and undreamt dreams lurking in her head, she works.
And what will she make? She smooths her fingers over the surface of the clay. She thinks of Simonâs shoulder, its beauty in the pearly dawn light. And then his sleeping body stripped naked by her anger, anger which for a moment she canât recall. The same body has the power to move her in some moods, anger her in others. And sometimes there is indifference. It is me, she thinks. The capacity of Simonâs body to move me depends on my attitude, not on itself. She feels profound for a moment until her mother chips in: âBeauty is in the eye of the beholder,â the oldest and tritest of her cliches. Said in response to Nadiaâs complaint about her own lack of beauty. Said, leaning over Nadiaâs shoulder, gazing into the mirror with her, with an inflection that meant that while she didnât behold beauty herself , you never knew what others might see. And Simon thinks sheâs beautiful; sometimes he says that, and sometimes she is.
She fingers the cold pliant clay. Work, she tells herself, you must work. You must make something. She digs her fingers in and fashions a crude face, hollow eyes, a pinched ridged nose, a gaping mouth. It is an ignorant, frightened face. She screws her fist into it to eradicate the features. Despite the slight warmth from the kiln she is cold. She wraps her hands around the lump, pulls it away from the bench, smooths it into a pleasing shape. It is a curled shape, something entire. A
She picks up and taps the bottom of her pots, listening for the musical clink that tells her that theyâre quite dry. She hates them, the silly, smug shapes. What do they say? I am a mug. I am mask. I am hand-crafted. Buy me. That is what they are designed to say. I wonât make any more, she thinks. The egg-cups are not ready for firing. She should wait for them. But they are such trivial things. She breaks one against her bench. It splits easily.
She loads the kiln, and takes the bungs out to let the first moisture and gases escape as the pots begin to heat. Inside the peep-hole she puts some thermodynamic temperature cones. When the tip of the first one bends the temperature will be right for the bungs to go back in. She switches the kiln on. It hums faintly. She throws the bits of the broken egg-cup into a bin of dried fragments. The good thing about clay is that until it is fired it is green. It can be broken down, robbed of its edges: it can return to formlessness and be remade.
Tea
Nadia wedges some clay, turning it round and round, leaning all her weight on it, pressing into it with the balls of both her hands and then flopping it over, the stiff mass, waking it with her energy into a warmer plasticity. It is slick, grey clay, good, fat, stretchy, strong stuff. She slices through it with a wire, looks with satisfaction at the smoothness of the sliced surfaces, no grit, no pockets of air. It is even and dense. The wedging has tired her arms and shoulders; the muscles complain. She stretches back, one arm over her shoulder, one stretching up between her shoulderblades to catch the otherâs fingers, a yoga exercise to limber the back and shoulders, but her fingers slip from each other, ungraspable with their flaking film of clay.
And there it sits, a lump waiting to be assigned a form. There is no point, perhaps, but there is no point in leaving it either. No more point in a formless mass in her plastic-lined dustbin than in what it might become. The kiln hums in the corner, there is a little warmth leaking from it despite the insulation, and a hot baked-earth smell. She sat up most of the night waiting for the kiln to heat and now, in the morning, with sharp crumbs of sleep in the corners of her eyes, and undreamt dreams lurking in her head, she works.
And what will she make? She smooths her fingers over the surface of the clay. She thinks of Simonâs shoulder, its beauty in the pearly dawn light. And then his sleeping body stripped naked by her anger, anger which for a moment she canât recall. The same body has the power to move her in some moods, anger her in others. And sometimes there is indifference. It is me, she thinks. The capacity of Simonâs body to move me depends on my attitude, not on itself. She feels profound for a moment until her mother chips in: âBeauty is in the eye of the beholder,â the oldest and tritest of her cliches. Said in response to Nadiaâs complaint about her own lack of beauty. Said, leaning over Nadiaâs shoulder, gazing into the mirror with her, with an inflection that meant that while she didnât behold beauty herself , you never knew what others might see. And Simon thinks sheâs beautiful; sometimes he says that, and sometimes she is.
She fingers the cold pliant clay. Work, she tells herself, you must work. You must make something. She digs her fingers in and fashions a crude face, hollow eyes, a pinched ridged nose, a gaping mouth. It is an ignorant, frightened face. She screws her fist into it to eradicate the features. Despite the slight warmth from the kiln she is cold. She wraps her hands around the lump, pulls it away from the bench, smooths it into a pleasing shape. It is a curled shape, something entire. A
Similar Books
