Gail Turner

Mill Stone Pottery

Potter's Wheel by Jessica Spier I am twelve months old, drifting silently to sleep to the melodic humming of the potter’s wheel. I am two years old, gripping the edge of a mesh playpen as I stare mesmerized at the spinning mound of clay forming and reforming in front of me under guided hands. I am five years old, one hand stuffed furiously into a box of Cheez- Its as I stare at the revolving wheel in front of me, scared to blink for fear of missing a subtle motion that will cause the mound to suddenly rise or tumble into another form altogether. I am thirteen years old, perched on a chair across from the spinning mound of clay and the skilled hands carefully crafting it into one beautiful form after another. I am eighteen years old, leaning against the sales desk and carrying on a conversation with my mother over the soothing undertone of the potter’s wheel. I have grown up in my mother’s studio, watching her throw pots on the wheel. I have had so many conversations with my mother, whether serious or silly, over that constant humming. When I was a baby I would sit intently in a carrier on her back as she worked on the wheel. Now, as a teenager, I drive half an hour after school nearly everyday to sit on the floor of my mother’s store and watch her work. The potter’s wheel is how I define my mother. It has always been a part of my life. My mother turns the mound of clay with such beauty and grace it is mesmerizing to watch. Her hands move over the clay as though she knows instinctively where to place them, where to apply just the right amount of pressure to make the shapeless mound erupt into the elegant and intricate figure of a vase, a bowl, or maybe a mug. Merely watching her create this art is an act that rivals the beauty of the finished product. I watch from the front desk as customers stare at the wheel, just as I have done for so many years, losing themselves in its steady turning and unceasing, rhythmic motion. There is something both graceful and peaceful about the steady spinning and constant movement of the clay. In reality, it is a difficult task to throw a pot, one that takes painful amounts of practice and disappointment. But I never see this difficulty, only the flowing movements, melting into one another, where even a flaw is easily disguised in this graceful dance. Customers commonly ask me if I too will be a potter someday, a question to which I reply I much prefer to stay behind the desk. I don’t need to be a potter to know this steady rhythm, to feel that this flowing beauty is a permanent part of my life. When I come to visit my mother at her store she gets up from the wheel to give me a hug. She is my mother, a short, curly haired women covered in clay, and I squeal as she presses the gray sludge covering her blue apron against my own clean shirt.  I know my mother in so many different ways, in so many different scenarios, but my favorite is the mother that sits with her back straight, hands pressed firmly against a rotating mound of clay, water flowing over her fingertips, as the wheel spins mechanically, rhythmically, creating yet another graceful shape. Back to Gail’s Page