THE CLAY

Submissive. Yet, unapologetic. It does not ask too many questions. It somehow feels that the clay is a feminine entity. With every push & pull, the clay I hold foolishly bears the pressures of my hand. I say, foolishly, as I feel it shouldn’t. It shouldn’t bear the prints I leave on it. It shouldn’t unveil the robe of pain I slyly pass onto it. Every gesture. Every mark. Every experience.

THE CLAY THAT SPINS

Pottery makes me calm. It helps me focus on something. You keep doing it, it keeps happening. It’s rather intuitive. It's hypnotic. It makes me feel something. As I see myself create a small dimple, digging deep into the clay, I feel my mind alter with it. The symmetry, that bears every stroke of the finger, records my emotion and traps it. The change is immediate. I’m still confused about what stirs up at the wheel. Why I feel what I feel. It’s aiming towards a goal, but not quite thinking about it.

THE CLAY THAT BEARS

I was given a task. “Make Straight Cylinders.” But every time I took the pot off the wheel, I had this sudden urge to play with it. Push it, tear the wet clay, pull it, pinch it, break it. This desire of meddling with the original form, it said something.  It probably reflects how the mind urges to break rules, conceptions and assumptions. I feel that the act of throwing is rather empowering. It is an act of holding a sense of power, to have it bend, stretch, fold, mold just the way you desire. It’s a subtle ‘manipulation’ of sorts. A kind of manipulation that lets you leave a mark on the world. It is rather patriarchal. Or the call of repressed femininity.

THE CLAY, THE MIRROR

The clay assumed my touch, and formed a beautiful cylinder. As I got it off the wheel, I realized what a mistake it had been to not let the clay run free. I then realized, that it is this desire of mine to break free, that I want the clay to adopt in the face of every push. I’m shaping the pots, yet ready to destroy them. I’m constricting myself, drawing borders, erecting walls for myself; so I can bear the sight of it getting it destroyed, thus destroying my own barriers. I’m trying to prove that I’m breaking free, when in fact, I weld the very cage to suit my needs. I had let myself free through the clay.

THE CLAY THAT TALKS

As my fingers pass through the clay… it talks back to me. It’s unapologetic. It fights back… then this beautiful object emerges. The clay talks to me. It makes me feel present. As it records every subtle movement, it also reminds me that I cannot take it for granted; cannot overdo anything, cannot push it more than it can take. It does fight back. It listens to me. Everything else washes away with its presence. It sucks up all that I feel, and very gently presents it to me, asking me to look within.

I AM THE CLAY

It’s teaching me to be like itself. Be strong enough to bear the exterior, but also maintain a core. Vulnerable, yet tough. It’s tough to maintain a core, when you don’t know which ingredients could taste delicious together. It’s tough to maintain a core, when you don’t know if you should quickly whisk the ingredients or let them rest in the fridge. Once the clay tells me what I need in the recipe, I’ll share it with you.

THE CLAY I DEFEND

I AM THE CLAY; And so I defend. I don’t want to choke the clay. I want to be its cheerleader. I want it to blossom. I don’t want to choke myself. I want to be my own cheerleader. I want to blossom. Does it matter if you leave the pot, or the clay, as is? Why can’t I leave it raw, without firing it to make its composition permanent? I like the way it looks. Like a baby, just off the wheel. Unpolished. Unrefined. Like an innocent child.  I won’t say that sprinkling a little rouge on the cheek, painting your lips a dark maroon would make one look ugly. But appreciate the wrinkles, I’d say. The freckles that adorn your face. It makes you look real.