A jug full of tears

The scent was earthy, damp, and musky as I held the sticky wet clay in my hands. I threw the ball on the wooden block to begin the wedging to make the clay smooth and pliable. It felt hard and I pushed my arms against my body forcing the strength down to the heel of my hand to flatten and fold. Kneading and shaping the clay until the shape of a “ram’s head” appeared. I pushed my fist and folded repeatedly to remove any air bubbles. I waited for the elasticity to begin, and I knew it was ready now to be put on the wheel. But was I?

Some days everything just seems to fall into place, neatly and nicely without you trying to hard and other days nothing works out as you planned no matter how well you work at it. But then something happens to change the mode of that disappointment. This was one of those days. Perhaps I should start at the beginning.

I had not worked in the studio for a long time. Well, I had worked, cleaning up the mess, stacking James canvases against the wall, throwing empty paint tubes that lay about like remnants from an orgy of mad painting. Jars on the floor, containing who knows what, hiding in every nook and cranny. The mineral turpentine bottles and of course the many old worn paint brushes. And then there was putting ancient forgotten treasures into boxes ready to be given away to the Salvation Army as soon as James had gone through them. The boxes were still there two years later, as “something I might be able to use one day”. But I had not done any real work at the wheel for a long time. My potting wheel was standing in the corner in front of his mother’s cedar cabinet that I had draped an old bedspread over. It did not belong there but there was no room in the house. I cleaned my wheel quite often, getting rid of the cobwebs and dirt, and I loved the sound when I pressed my foot on the pedal to make the turntable spin. It was like opening a window into something new and exciting, a feeling that got to me every time and I yearned to touch the sticky wet clay with my hands and let the rhythmic motions of the wheel soothe me. It must have been at least two years since I had attempted to make anything. Ever since my arm started aching after that summer of intense swimming. The x-ray showed bursitis, arthritis and a partial torn ligament and the cure they said was rest. The pain was worse at night, it seemed like every little movement triggered it and I had learned to put up with it. Which meant giving up the things I loved, like swimming and pottery. But there was something else that also prevented me from returning to the wheel.

Two years later I stood in front of my wheel with a lump of terracotta clay that James had bought to use for a sculpture. I weighed it in my hand as I took in the scent of damp earth through my nostrils. And that was enough to get me started. The old black apron on the hook at the door still had some dried clay on it and I wrapped it around me before I sat down on the vinyl kitchen chair. The tools were in front of me, the rolling pin, spatula, turning tools, sponges, nylon string tied with two clay beads at the ends, knifes and rulers. It was all there in the toolbox and in the blue ice cream container.

“Get the air bubbles out”. It was so important. I threw the ball onto the metal turn table, moistened my hands with water as I gently pressed the foot on the pedal. The old familiar sound of the clank, and the wheel began to turn. I pushed my arms against my body and transferred the weight to the middle of the ball. I pressed into the center and with one hand steadying the ball, I slowly moved the clay upwards and watched as it was rising and taking shape. Everything was quiet except for the relaxed humming of the wheel and the sound of water as it softened the clay and it all came back to me, like riding a bicycle after many years. The therapeutic motion, calming releasing the tension in my body, my hands and arms became at ease, and I could feel myself again bringing back focus and engagement in this timeless movement.

The dampness of the cold wet day outside in the courtyard fogged up the window and I paused to look out at the streams of water trickling down the glass. That is when it suddenly appeared. A man’s face was looking in at me, pressing his nose against the glass. He disappeared for a second or two before appearing again. I could see a mouth that appeared to laugh while the nose was still pressed against the glass. I starred in horror, and I began to feel very scared. James was at work, and I was alone at home. Who was that man in my courtyard? I could not take my eyes away, starring in disbelief as he starred back at me with that smile. My foot eased off the petal and it became quiet. I could not move. It was almost impossible to see his face as his breath fogged up the glass and then a hand wiped away the water and for a second or two, I could see him, clearly. My heart jumped. My old friend Eugene, the potter! His eyes, nose, smile, even the long curly hair, and I could hear his familiar giggle from outside. I froze and my hands felt numb. It could not be. Eugene was dead! He died a couple of years ago. The silicon in his lungs had killed him. Pottery, the thing he most loved, killed him. It could not be. Was somebody playing a joke with me?

There it was again, the giggle that I knew so well. This was for real. The chill went into my bones as I slowly stood up to walk to the door. I had to find out what was going on, but I should have known when I opened the door there would be nobody there. Drops of rain fell through the shade cloth, drizzling down on the monstera in the pot by the studio door. It was cold and damp as I moved towards the window to look in. Sure enough, there was a small smear of an imprint of a hand on the foggy glass and I looked through it onto my chair and wheel where my clay cylinder was beginning to loose its shape. I hurried inside again and this time I locked the door behind me. I was shivering not only from the cold but also from fear and I grabbed the old cardigan and draped it around me. My hands were covered in wet clay, I wiped them on the apron, still focused on the window, but there was no one there.

I thought it was too late to do anything with my failed attempt at working the clay, so I cut it off the wheel and placed it on the board next to me. Perhaps I could turn it into something later. I started kneading another ball on the wood block, I knew I was being watched but when I looked at the window there was nobody there. That is when I started to think I had imagined everything.

“Remember to get the air bubbles out! As they say, shape it as a “ram’s head”.”

The giggle. It was Eugene! And there was his face again, blowing air on the window, laughing, and throwing his head back. I could hear the voice clearly and something told me not to be scared but to be open and come to terms with whatever was happening. I kneaded, the “rams head” appearing slowly again, my tears burning behind my eyes.

“That’s it! Let the tears mix with the clay, bring life to this cold, wet, dead earth.”

“Eugene!” I half murmured to myself. “This can’t be!”

My eyes focused again on the window, but my hands never let go of the clay. It was as if the clay itself was the connection between us, and it had become alive again. The invisible thread between two people who had shared secrets over a potting wheel.

“It all turns into water, you know and then into dust, is it not the way of all things?”

I bit my lip hard. His voice was so familiar, yet something from the past that could not be. But it was. His face was there in the window. I wanted to run out and hug and hold him, but I knew the moment I stepped outside the door, he would be gone.

“That’s enough now.” I said to myself.

“You got the air bubbles out, time to start. And make this one something special, just for us!”

The clay shaped itself as it does when you focus and take control, but you must still let the clay have a life of its own. He watched as I worked, and he giggled. The happy giggle I knew so well.

“That’s it, firm now…steady. Don’t let it collapse, you’ve got it! Keep it there.”

My tears were running freely now over the clay and into the cylinder that now started to take the shape of a jug without a spout.

“Keep it centred, don’t let it fly off the wheel. Watch what you are doing! Remember you are the driver!”

The belly was forming, and I glanced one more time at the window before I pulled the neck up between my fingers. I saw his face through my tears, he was pressing his nose against the glass again. It made him look like an old troll and I suddenly started laughing.

“Hey, you’re going off the road mate! Watch what you’re doing!”

“I can’t help it.” I yelled. “You look so funny out there. Like troll, a funny laughing happy little troll!”

It was as if the words had released a valve and the tension within me, and the emotions began to pour out as I started talking.

“You left us in the blue. You never even stayed for that last exhibition, and what was I to do without you? You just faded away in front of my eyes. Here one day and gone the next! All that was left was what I found in the kiln, and all the bits of clay in the studio with your fingerprints all over them. The smell of your dirty overalls and gumboots covered in dry clay. Your tools laying all over the wheel, it had not even been cleaned. “

It was quiet, except for the soothing sound of the humming of the wheel. I did not dare to let go of the clay; I thought it would break our fragile communication, so I hung on, steered by the need to protect, and nurture this delicate new vessel I was bringing into life. The shape was getting thinner now, I was scared it would collapse.

He was still there, smiling. That warm loving smile that could light up the saddest of days as it had done for me so many times.

“I could not clean up after you. I let you stay there in the dirt, the dry clay, the beautiful mess in the studio with Patsy Cline on the cassette tape and the last batch of glaze in the ice cream container. I let your tools rust until there was no water left in your bucket and I never touched the clay again. It grew hard, dry and became stone.”

I cried now, my emotions running wild, open, and hard as I eased the pressure off the pedal. The jug was taking shape, at least for this session before I was to fine tune it. I paused before I cut it from the wheel to place it on the wooden tray in front of me. One last look. He was there. Not smiling now. Just looking.

“Remember it is just like snow, eventually it all turns into water and the clay turns into dirt and returns to the ground. There is nothing to be afraid of, it all continues, one way or the other. Just like the wheel turning around, the endless circle, just like us.”

“Oh and keep working on that jug. I think you’ve got it! A jug full of tears!”

I pulled the fishing line taught between my hands, moved it under the clay and carefully cut the jug from wheel and as I did, I could feel something breaking, a healing, a lightness inside of me.

The face in the window was gone.