August 1, 2020

I’ve not counted the days. I just know it’s been a long time. Today, I popped into the studio to pick up some things, and I took a look at my shelf. On it, were all the things I was working on in March, as well as a few bowls my Mum had made on her last visit. My Mum’s bowls were wrapped in newspaper and plastic, just as she had left them. Who could have imagined that that day –– her pinching away at a pot, me painting blue lines on an oval vase, tea from the cafe next door –– would be my last day there in months. I felt a small surge of emotion; sadness, because I haven’t seen my Mum in so long, and because I likely won’t see her for some time to come. And gratitude, because we were fortunate to have the time that we did, both in Toronto, and later, on the Gulf. There was comfort in seeing her vessels perched alongside mine. Throughout this whole time, we’ve both found freedom and respite in clay, she at her kitchen table, me at mine. A shared passion on both sides of the Atlantic. That’s been lovely. Every few days, she sends me a photo of something she’s made –– something she’s proud of, something that’s cracked or a vessel that’s gone awry. She’s not fired a single thing in months. And yet, she persists. Here is her outdoor table, on her terrace in the mountains. Those wisps in the top left are her grey hair.


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