The Class — Page 14

Jan in the doorway of the studio, holding the apron (just handed to her by an unseen instructor — the apron is folded, cream canvas, a small dried-clay smudge on it from someone…

#01

The First Saturday

9:53 AM.

Door sage green, buzzer sticky. Two flights up. The studio smelled like wet stone and something under it — mineral, slightly cold. Instructor handed me an apron with a smudge that wasn't mine. Put it on. A costume for someone who knew what she was doing. I did not know. Sat at the wheel. Puddle from the last student. We were five, all strangers, all separately deciding this on different Thursdays. First Saturday somewhere new in a long time. The wheel was still. I was still. We hadn't, yet, been introduced.

#02

The Wheel

The wheel spins fast and I had to be slower than it.

I hadn't understood this. Pressed too hard. Clay went sideways. Instructor said "okay, hand off, hand off, off," and I lifted my hands. The lump was now an oval that was, somehow, also a triangle. Put my hands back on. The lump steadied. Instructor said "good — now don't move," the hardest instruction I've been given in years. I didn't move. The lump didn't become a bowl. It became slightly more itself.

Close-up of Jan's hands at the sink after class, washing clay off — slightly chapped, the clay caked in the lines, water running

#03

The Hands

Looked at my hands at the sink.

Dirty in a way they've never been. Clay packed into the lines of my palms. Water turned brown, then less brown. My hands came out the right hands. Felt like they'd done something. Dried them on the apron. The apron is for that. My hands were happy.

Jan and a woman in her early sixties at adjacent wheels, both leaning slightly forward, mid-conversation

#04

Ruth

Ruth.

Sixty-one. Eleven years at the wheel. Takes beginner classes for the energy — "the energy is the energy, you know," making a small swirling motion with a clay-covered finger. Week three she looked at my mug-attempt and said "you have good hands." I said thank you without deflecting. She said "don't get any ideas." Real laugh — from the stomach, not politeness. Ruth is my pottery friend. She doesn't know me outside this room.

Jan at her kitchen table at home, the cracked mug in front of her — a fissure running from the rim down to the base

#05

The Mug That Cracked

The mug I made in Week 2 cracked in the kiln.

Instructor told me on the way out of Week 3. "Wall too thin in one spot — it happens." I said okay and took the cracked mug home anyway. Set it on the table. Looked at it. Was briefly fifteen and bad at things. Then twenty-nine and bad at one thing, specifically. The specificity is the difference. I'll make another one. Thicker wall. The cracked mug is on the table. The mug was an attempt. The attempt is, also, a thing to keep.

Jan at her standing desk at home in the middle of a workday, looking out the window in the slightly faraway way

#06

The Wednesday Brain

Mid-brief, Wednesday.

Cursor blinking on paragraph three. Thinking about clay. How thin a wall can be before it cracks. Less water, more compression, longer centering. Opened a note, wrote it down so I won't forget by Saturday. The brief will get written. The brief is fine. On Saturday I will make a mug with thicker walls. The thinking-about-clay-on-Wednesday is happening to me. I'm letting it happen.

Jan's kitchen counter near the door, a small uneven hand-thrown bowl with house keys, lip balm, and a single AAA battery sitting in it

#07

The First Thing I Kept

Brought home the bowl I made in Week 4.

Uneven rim. Glaze pooled at the bottom in an honest accident. Put it on the counter by the door. Put my keys in it. Have been putting my keys in it every time I come home since. The bowl holds keys now. First thing I've made in twelve years that I kept. When the keys go in, they make a small ceramic sound the bowl invented. The bowl was ready for this. The keys didn't know it yet.

Jan and four other beginner-class people at a small group dinner at a Polish restaurant near the studio after the final class, mid-Friday-night small crowd

#08

The Last Saturday

Week 6 finished.

Instructor said "good work, all of you." Nobody was good. Everyone had gotten less bad. Ruth said pierogi place down the block and three of us said yes. Corner table, two hours. Talked about clay, then nothing, then clay again. Learned everyone's last name. Exchanged numbers. Promised to sign up for the next session. Probably will. Walked home in the cardigan. A yes I said six weeks ago, paying out.

#09

The Cup That Belongs

Made a cup in Week 5.

Glazed it in reddish-brown because it reminded me of the teapot. Fired, it didn't match — the glaze burnt redder than I'd expected. Different shape, different color. But the same family of objects. A small cousin. Poured tea into it this morning. Cup held the tea. Tea was the same tea. It doesn't need to match. It needs to belong. There's a difference.