My first bowl collapsed after eleven seconds. My second lasted a little longer and then flew off the wheel and hit the wall. The teacher, a quiet woman who had been throwing pots for forty years, said only: again.
I went back every Thursday evening for six months. I threw roughly a hundred bowls. I kept four.
Clay is honest. If your hands are not centred, the clay is not centred, and no amount of willpower can fix it once the wall starts to wobble. You have to stop, cut it off, and start again. Again.
What I learned had little to do with pottery. I learned to slow down at the exact moment I wanted to hurry. I learned that the beginning, the centring, decides everything that follows. And I learned to throw away work without feeling that the time was wasted.
The four bowls I kept are not beautiful. One of them is slightly oval. I eat breakfast from it every day.
