There are about 12 steps to making a ceramic plate, from rolling out the initial slab, to folding up the rims on each circular shape, to smoothing out lumps and bumps, to painting, to carving, to firing, to glazing, to firing again. From start to finish, with two firings in between, a plate usually takes me about two weeks to make. And that’s just a plate. Imagine a teapot! Each step has its own challenges, each step is satisfying in its own way. Timing is everything. Nothing can be rushed. I find the process of smoothing down a slab quite meditative. Painting and carving require intense concentration. Glazing can be such a chore. I’m such a sloppy glazer. It’s a shame when I’ve worked so hard on making something, only to botch it in the glazing phase. Or when I’ve worked so hard on a plate that cracks beyond repair or warps in the firing. It truly is a labour of love, (how much can one charge for a four inch ceramic dish?) so one has to enjoy the process, learn from it. “When you buy something from an artist, you’re buying more than an object. You’re buying hundreds of hours of errors and experimentation. You’re buying years of frustration and moments of pure joy. You’re not buying just one thing, you are buying a piece of a heart, a piece of a soul … a small piece of someone else’s life.”

I’ve always enjoyed sculptures made of plaster. There’s something about the material that’s both humble and irreverent. It doesn’t have the grandeur of marble or bronze. I came cross the wonderful plaster lamps of artist, Viola Lanari today and I was immediately drawn to the tactility, playfulness and sense of humour in her work. Nature is a central theme, with all its oddities and imperfections. Have a look; there is great imagination at play.

This is my kind of rowing machine, and my kind of rowing experience. Forget the regatta, I want to dress like Audrey Hepburn and row among books, art and antique furniture. I want posture like hers. Yes, this is my kind of rowing experience. The one where you barely break a sweat. The one where Bach plays in the background. The one where your butler brings you Perrier and a profiterole at half time.

I came across these beautiful images, taken by renowned photographer, Margaret Courtney-Clarke of Ndebele women painting their homes. “These images portray a unique tradition of Africa, a celebration of an indigenous rural culture in which the women are the artists and the home her canvas.” It’s a tradition that dates back to the 18th century –– their once mud walled houses are now made of plaster –– where women in the community paint their houses to mark a major event like a birth, a death or a wedding. I find the concept as beautiful as the geometric patterns and vibrant colours these women create. The togetherness, tradition, self-expression.

I’ve been making plates at my kitchen table these past few weeks, and it’s been an exercise in patience, to say the least. There is a prime time, when the clay’s consistency morphs from mushy to malleable that every potter seizes. The clay feels leathery and beautifully workable. Too early, and the clay just flops, too late, and it becomes rigid and set in its ways. It’s always a thrill to find the clay at that perfect point; there comes a confidence in the hands, and a command of the material. It’s tempting to rush, but that almost always backfires. Clay has a memory, and it will remember that you rushed it. Warp. Some rush. Some learn to wait. Some wait too long. Chances are, most of us we’ll do all the above.