flower field

May 4, 2020

When all this began, one of the first things I stocked up on, before loo roll or hand sanitizer, was four boxes of clay. If we were to be confined to our home for an unforeseeable future I’d need clay. Clay to me is what flour is to my friend, Jessica, what plants are to my friend, Olivia. A Meditation. A conversation. A form of survival. My Mum, an emerging potter herself, had sleeves of paper clay delivered to her London flat hours before her studio closed. For weeks now, she’s sent me almost daily images of the weird and wonky bowls, platters and plates she makes at her kitchen table. In the first few days, I squished clay into our wooden dining room table with little to no idea of what to make. I’d roll it around, flatten it, beat it with a rolling pin. And then one day a small flower emerged from the table that paved the way for another flower, and another one after that. Two weeks later I had made fourteen flower vases. Ten days later there were 33. With each vase, the necks grew longer, and the shapes became weirder and more whimsical. I said to Michelle, the super talent who owns the studio I work out of, that we’re all looking to somehow distinguish our days so time doesn’t feel like a total blur. This series did that for me. A flower for every day, each one with its own distinctive personality. They all survived the first firing –– which I did not anticipate –– only the openings on some are so small that I’m not sure they’ll function as vases. Or anything, for that matter. But I plan on glazing and firing them, anyway. We’ve come so far.


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