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Cold grey streams dispersed, then gathered the glacial silt, ground it into fine earthen sludge and lowered it into subterranean veins. (Clay has a memory. In spite of its transubstantiation through abrasion and pressure, it guards its stilly hold, its particular recollection of its molten genesis.) The potter knows this. After countless augerings into the gravelly stream-bed, his bony bit finds the clay's keep. Shovelled and heaved into dampened skins, it is hoarded in stream-bank bins to await the wedging rediscovery of its fluid potency. Slapped and battered, the pug is unceremoniously splatted onto the center of the wheel's gritty disk. Balancing and opposing his hunching back's wrench over his pendulous foot's kick at the wheel, the potter's thumbs and palms squeeze the wetness to pull it up into form; into function. Then with a sinewy slice and a gentle lift, he adds to its spiral the feathering touch that details; the clinkering fire that tempers the setting and the lowering of the silt. Glowing in the fiery glare, the glaze of grime on the artist's sweat-streaked, kiln-burned face cracks into triumphant grin as he grunts the lift and tongs the graceful urn up into the cold world of use and beauty. Ages pass. A keening cry of discovery celebrates the unearthing of the urn's ashen shards lifted gently out of the bony dust. |
