My ceramics endeavor has gotten off to a shaky start. I’ve come to the Kiln Rooms in Peckham, south-east London, dressed as Demi Moore, star of the film Ghost and the most famous pottery scene ever captured on film. My instructor, David McGuire, wonders aloud whether I should have worn a tank top. What about a tank top?
I’m shocked to learn that he’s never watched the movie. “Everyone always mentions Ghost when you say you’re a potter!” he winces, almost physically in anguish. I’m not sure why he believes Patrick Swayze is wearing a tank top in the movie.
Then then, when I look at the footage, I see that I’m not dressed like Demi Moore either. Is it merely a matter of principle for McGuire to refuse to see Ghost? He concedes that it’s possible. I strongly advise you to watch it; it’s vintage Whoopi Goldberg.
“Should we get started?” he asks.
The instruction starts with some physical exertion, such as pressing and rotating the clay in a technique known as ram’s head wedging. Wedging the clay eliminates air pockets, preventing the final product from bloating or exploding in the oven.
I say, constantly thinking about pizza, that it’s like kneading dough. It’s the contrary, since kneading provides air to dough, notes McGuire sheepishly.
He has a great Donegal accent, which makes it simple to understand corrections. Also, I’m considering baking a quattro formaggi tonight, which will almost likely result in bloating and perhaps an explosion.
It’s time for us to go toe-to-toe. McGuire is seated behind a parallel steering wheel, as if he were a driving teacher. I toss wedged clay into the motorized wheel’s center, hit the foot pedal, and we’re off and running.
McGuire guides me through the process of coning and doming, which involves lifting the clay up into a little tower and then pressing it down into a sourdough form. It’s almost magical, molding clay by just placing one’s palm at its edge and letting the wheel do the rest.
From an elbow jammed into the hip for support to microscopic calibrations of fingers, it is muscular and exquisitely controlled at the same time. Judging angle, pressure, and speed is also difficult. Using a damp sponge to prevent the clay from drying out and becoming excessively wet.
I’m attempting to create a bowl, but if it turns out to be terrible, we’ll refer to it as an ashtray. An ashtray may be anything.
I was expecting a comedic buckaroo with floppy clay flying all over the place. Instead, the spinning wheel’s unending rotation of spherical clay inside concentric rings seems like peering into eternity.
Throwing is a gateway to mindfulness because once the wheel is spinning, you may either tune in or spin out. “Look at your hand, not the clay,” McGuire says, just as Bagheera warns Mowgli not to look into Kaa’s eyes in The Jungle Book. I could sit and watch the earth spin indefinitely.
The idea that people were created from clay with life breathed into it occurs in the Qur’an, the Bible, and the Yoruba religion’s cosmologies. When McGuire adds that breathing clay dust causes silicosis, whatever heavenly pretensions I have are shattered.
Later, I perform a brief, terrifying internet search for the disorder, in which ingested silica causes blue skin and lung failure since it is too small to be seen in regular light. “Single exposure is fine,” he thinks, “but when students blow on their glaze, I think to myself, ‘You’re killing me.'”
The idea that people were created from clay with life breathed into it occurs in the Qur’an, the Bible, and the Yoruba religion’s cosmologies. When McGuire adds that breathing clay dust causes silicosis, whatever heavenly pretensions I have are shattered.
Later, I perform a brief, terrifying internet search for the disorder, in which ingested silica causes blue skin and lung failure since it is too small to be seen in regular light. “Single exposure is fine,” he thinks, “but when students blow on their glaze, I think to myself, ‘You’re killing me.'”
Because of the annealing process, which involves a long cooling process after kiln fire, it will be weeks before I see my final cookware. Time moves slowly, yet it can accomplish a lot.
When I return, I’m greeted with the most lovely tiny dish. Even, smooth, and glazed in a deep blue hue. Something more is on my plate.
It’s unforgivably unattractive, thick, and monstrously heavy. The colors are bland and uninteresting. In some spots, it’s rough and cracked, while in others, it’s jagged. It’s not even close to being an ashtray.
Potters spend their whole lives honing their skills. It would be an insult if I showed here on a Tuesday and threw away a Ming vase. For no reason, I’ve gone into Morrisons looking almost exactly like Demi Moore (Semi Moore?).
But I believe I should give it another go. Pottery is meditative as well as crafty; elemental but serene, earth, water, and fire all beckon one to quiet down. It’s old, yet it’s exactly what we need right now. Even though I’m too lazy to Swayze, I’m still in love.
Thanks to Rhik Samadder at The Guardian whose reporting provided the original basis for this story.
