I.
I wake up early on a Saturday morning and commute to the University. There isn't much people around during the weekends, it was an easy ride. At the second street, the jeepney stops and I step down from the rusty old thing and breathed fresh air. The leaves from the years old tree rustle and I hear some birds in the background. It reminded me of the rural landscape of my childhood.
The building sits in the far corner of the compound. I walk towards it with an umbrella at hand, humming to a song stuck in my head since I waked up. Oddly, it was Cosmic Love by Florence + The Machine today. I see a figure that gestures a wave at me and a slight smile. And this is how fourteen weeks of my Saturday mornings begin.
II.
We get clay from a black bag and start kneading it. I still haven't gotten around to kneading properly even today. I try to avoid it as much as possible. It is a laborious task, repetitive, and well, I'm just not patient enough and want to start forming pots already!
There are usually five students in the morning session. It is an odd thing to be with the company I have. My usual shyness awkwardness is accentuated by the presence of professors who, for today, become the students. Our facilitator, Anton, is also a guy almost my age.
He does a demo on the pottery wheel and we, his students, eagerly watch as he makes a ginger jar. I am not entirely new to pottery, I must tell you. But it always amaze me to see another person working with clay. A simple fascination at how one's way of doing things can be different from mine or from other potters I have known, and yet, it is still the same process of centering, opening, lifting and forming. It is in him though that I became more aware of the details that make a pot different or better from another. From a slight angle of the wooden rib, the placement of the fingers, the importance of a leveled pot, to the dryness of clay, it all mattered. A far cry from my mindset of "whatever goes". Unaware, it makes a habit out of me as the days go by.
III.
I walk the usual road to the ceramic studio. Truth be told, the wind in the campus blows a certain sadness that reminds me about an incident some years past. The University plays with my emotions. A street, a sound, a scene. I wanted to forget, but I still remember.
I work on my lump of clay and it doesn't follow. It might be that the clay is too soft and hasn't aged yet. Or it might be me that refused to grow up.
IV.
The mastery of this art form isn't about how long have you been doing it. To some, it comes naturally like they came straight out of an Anagama. Several years into ceramics and I still consider myself a beginner. My control over clay is still questionable and often inconsistent. Still so much to learn and improve! Today though, I managed to make four bowls with one casualty, this is enough to put a smile in my eyes.
V.
It was a mess all over, like a scene in an apocalyptic movie where the people have evacuated the city. It was the Lantern Parade the day before, which left the campus into a wasteland of flying fish, horses, wrecked ships and gigantic paper cockroaches. Only two students came today this quiet Saturday morning. Anton reads a book while we go about our business with mud. The other student plays her songs on speaker. I made my pots. One. Two. Three... The time came by fast and we had to say goodbye. Only today, the chapter ends. Oh, if only this goes for one more hour or day or month.
I walked out the studio and hear the rustle of leaves from years-old trees. I looked back and smiled.
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Note: I don't know why I didn't take blog-worthy pictures for this but we do live first before writing, yes? I hope the narrative is adequate to let your visual imagination work. Sorry for the grammar inconsistencies, I am not a good writer :)
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