I’ve been going through all of my things and many memories are being conjured up. I have a ceramic box with leaf prints that I made when I was a camp counselor. It’s not that great, but I can’t let go of it. Every time I look at it I wish that I had the other one that I made. But I made that one for a guy that I had a romantic fling with in Santa Fe, New Mexico. That box was perfect. It really was. I spent weeks paddling its form so that it would have perfect edges. Everyone who saw it said that it was perfect. The terracotta clay, the iron oxide, and the inside black glossy glaze were harmonious.
I don’t like the colors or shape of mine and it was obviously made with way less love. It looks like an afterthought, like “Oh, I want a box too, but I don’t want to spend as much time on it.” Sigh! Every time I look at it is a lesson in art making or anything-making for that matter: never hurry and do something half-assed because you’ll regret it later.
I just hope that S. still has the box. Or maybe it landed in someone else’s hands who can appreciate the energy put into it.