October, 2013
The Potter Said
Carl Wooton
“There's nothing like the wet grain of clay
turning against the grooves in your fingers.
You feel the shape it's taking here"--he
stretched out his hands and touched
his fingertips together--"and it goes right
up your arms to your shoulders, until
whatever shape it's going to become
forms on the edge of your mind, long
before your eyes can see it, but you
know the shape doesn't come
from your mind, and not just
from the clay itself, either. It feels
like it's in the ridges of your fingertips,
until you reach a point—and there is
no way to know how long it will take,
or how many pieces of shapeless mud
you'll have to throw back before
you'll reach the point--that you know
the shape is not in your fingers and not
in your mind and not in the clay, not in any
thing by itself, but in all of them. There is
a time in the turning when the clay
and your fingers and your mind all seem
to touch one another, to empty themselves
of every shape you had ever thought of
in order to make a space for the sudden
happening of a new one. It's like playing
an instrument, even more like making
love, touching a woman's breasts
and feeling her respond, watching
small purple blemishes form
on the whiteness of her stomach and her
thighs when you touch her. Nothing whole exists
without the touching, you know"
The Potter Said
Carl Wooton
“There's nothing like the wet grain of clay
turning against the grooves in your fingers.
You feel the shape it's taking here"--he
stretched out his hands and touched
his fingertips together--"and it goes right
up your arms to your shoulders, until
whatever shape it's going to become
forms on the edge of your mind, long
before your eyes can see it, but you
know the shape doesn't come
from your mind, and not just
from the clay itself, either. It feels
like it's in the ridges of your fingertips,
until you reach a point—and there is
no way to know how long it will take,
or how many pieces of shapeless mud
you'll have to throw back before
you'll reach the point--that you know
the shape is not in your fingers and not
in your mind and not in the clay, not in any
thing by itself, but in all of them. There is
a time in the turning when the clay
and your fingers and your mind all seem
to touch one another, to empty themselves
of every shape you had ever thought of
in order to make a space for the sudden
happening of a new one. It's like playing
an instrument, even more like making
love, touching a woman's breasts
and feeling her respond, watching
small purple blemishes form
on the whiteness of her stomach and her
thighs when you touch her. Nothing whole exists
without the touching, you know"
