Perfect Pottery Chapter 1

Sandpaper scratched the clay, shearing away a layer of dust onto the white tabletop. Other hands might have stopped at this point. The surface of the bowl was smooth. Though the object in her hands lacked craters, marks, or deviations of any kind, she continued to polish the surface roughly. It was not yet perfect. Pottery can be more than an artistic hobby, it can be an experience in acceptance. But today the old familiar mantra was pulsating in her mind fervently. The hum of the fan overhead beat the rhythm as her fingers traced an invisible imperfection in the dried clay bowl. 

Not good enough. 

Her hair was wild today, pulled up in a haphazard bun, bits springing up and out like weeds. The worn old black apron protected her blue t-shirt, though it was unnecessary. The shirt was stained and pockmarked by age and previous projects. She never wore it in public. Today, hidden in her corner room, her makeshift art studio, the blue shirt was a comfort she afforded herself. The soft cotton and loose fit allowed freedom of movement externally, in contrast to the internal rigidity. Every visual element of her appearance at this moment said that she didn’t care about perfection, yet the mantra beat in her skull and her hands obeyed the internal command. A limp hand raised to wipe sweat from her brow. Clay dust splattered her face lightly like cosmetic powder. She resumed her ceaseless task. 

Not good enough.

Pottery had been a good recommendation. A way for her to face the perfectionist mental block physically. Some days were better than today. She glanced at the far wall where a line of bowls, cups, and plates were displayed on a shelf. They were the ones she was proud of. 

Unconsciously her eyes drifted to the cabinet in the corner. Closed behind the brown doors stood her unsuccessful works of art. A collection of failures, pieces that had not been correct and therefore were discarded to the darkness. She hadn’t thrown them away however, succumbing to the other mental block of wastefulness by convincing herself that she could reuse them or re-purpose the glazed pieces in a future project.

The bowl under her hands was done, but she continued to rub it with the sandpaper. It was destined for the display wall, if she didn’t screw it up like she had with the pieces in the cabinet. When they recommended pottery they likely didn’t anticipate that she would reject the imperfect pieces. They probably wanted her to display all her works equally, proudly showcasing her progress as an artist and presenting pieces that were wonderful alongside those that were terrible. An observing friend would likely praise all her work equally, ignoring the horribly malformed ones and those with scars caused by air bubbles in the glaze.