I'm running out of words
I can't write, anymore.
this.
This is all I want to do. My hands want to be in the clay. My mind is leaping forward to the glaze, to the final firing, to the product and how it will look.
The one on the left was a violent creation, forcing the clay through the square mat immediately after I threw the cylinder. I didn't think the walls would survive it. And smashed. Smashed from round to ovoid, the very bottom of the pot collapsing onto itself under the strain. so much weight settling into its lowest folds.
I smoothed a slab, suspended over the open top, to curve it, taking on the general shape of the pot, and then let everything dry to leather hard. Threw a series of spouts (there's a reject laying behind and between those two little creations) and began to contemplate handles.
I thought the square one was hideous when it got to the point where you see it, above. But wait til you see how the handle transforms the whole. I shaved the weight from the bottom, threw a simple lid, and now the form waits to be fired.
The smooth teapot to the right was a lovely surprise. There are subtle curves in the body that invite the back edge of your hand to settle there. As soon as I held the tiniest spout up to the corner, I laughed out loud and fell in love. The handle is from a discarded spout, so it tapers and arcs and does not behave as a normal handle should. This little pot has a tiny little lid with a pebble-like knob. If I could put only one pot into the wood firing workshop, this would be the one.
Tomorrow, I will throw more blanks to begin the process again, more teapots to find and bring to life. I'm looking for the edge: one side, purely beauty, the other, purely function.