It was a hot summer day when +Meghana Singh and I stepped into the pottery class. The building was very old, with narrow staircases. The narrow hallway was lined with the pots and mugs of all sorts and in various stages of existence.
The room where we were to take our class had no air conditioning. There were fans running and windows open. It was a BYOB class, we forgot to bring our B - oh well.
There were six students. The teacher was a young college student with a nose ring that was oh so pretty. She was majoring in ceramics. In an alternate life I might have done that.
The feel of the clay on the hand felt like coming home to something. Like kneading dough for bread, but not quite. We shaped and messed up and reshaped out bowls many times. A slight press of the hand would thin out the wall of the bowl. A little harder press would create an unsightly lip. It was over soon. I wanted to do this all day.
This was a multiple day process. The bowls will dry for two weeks, then we will come back and glaze. Then they will be baked(is that the right term? Fired?) again and then we can finally bring them home.
I had to inscribe how I summed up this experience at the bottom of the bowl.
I meant to go back and do this often. This was 2-3 years ago. I haven't made the time to go back. I do miss it.
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