Yesterday’s walk over the raised beach, and through the bandit pass between two knolls, I picked up another of the long, clean, white little bird bones and it made me crave to make thumb-pots in porcelain again. I’ve just about got over the first lot, which have had their bisque firing, dipped and dabbed with experimental glazes. Now they’re awaiting the second firing, a domestic orogenics. Mud made stone. I’m happily indifferent to the results and that is delicious. Given a 3-D medium I love, but don’t have too many hopes invested in, I might even able to leave painting to people who are good at it. I am not terrified of porcelain, as I am of writing, at the moment. What a relief. If I was smarter I’d learn something from that, but I don’t seem to be able to drill it through my skull.
What I thought was – what if you could make a hole in the side of the pot and feed the thin bone half-through, build it up just a little so the bone could slide back and fore through the hole, but the thicker ends keep it from slipping out? I imagine a bulbous little pot, rounded and irregular, smooth and with a balanced violence or thrust, in the way of the rock I found later, thoroughly buttoned into a coat of lichen, flat waxy white warts, like the skin of an embryonic crocodile.
The problem is that organic matter burns away in the kiln. Of course it does. Would the ash be black or pale grey? A spoor of black or pale grey soot, like the shadow of the bone that pierced the pot…that excites me. I came back and looked at last week’s abandoned thumb-pots, swelling and sagging in a deep bowl of water. There’s no waste in clay. Wait, I tell myself. Wait and really mean it. At the moment, I can do one big, difficult thing (writing the novel-Story), and one quicker less weighted thing (make a pot, read, teach, research) on top of a bit of social and admin. Otherwise I get scattered and unhappy.
You start a thumb-pot by plunging your thumb (I like to trim the nail so it doesn’t bite) into a lump of clay small enough to hold in one palm. You thin it gradually in spirals by pressing your thumb on the inside of the pot against your index finger on the outside. If it’s not going to collapse, you have to let the clay stiffen a little between each thinning.
I’m at my most hopeful when I can see what I want to make, but haven’t yet started to make it. Every urge to make has its waxing and its waning.
Jen Hadfield’s most recent collection, Nigh-No-Place, published by Bloodaxe, was shortlisted for the Forward Prize in 2007 and won the T.S.Eliot Prize for poetry in 2008. She lives in Shetland.