The third pot

THE THIRD POT



'Hey, living image of a pot, how're you feeling now? Here, I brought you a bottle of wine, I thought you might need it after that prize giving.'

Melissa grins: 'Don't remind me, Paul. Did you ever hear such a load of bull before?' She mimics the TV personality who had presented her with the big award: '“Look at the absolute perfection of that shape, and look at that flawless glaze, at the incredible beauty of that celadon colour. This is not just another pot, this is the living image of the Artist.” Yeah, sure. But do come in.'

Paul sits down behind the pottery wheel and tries to centre the bottle of wine on the slowly moving turntable. 'I'm out of practice,' he says. 'Mind you, it must be at least twenty years since I last threw a pot. Wheels restrict me too much.'

Melissa nods. 'You can handle your freedom,' she says. 'I'm not quite ready for that yet.'

'Meanwhile you make perfect pots,' Paul smiles. 'You're doing fine.'

Last night the admiring crowd had gathered around her award-winning celadon vase. Her vase on its own pedestal in the centre of the art gallery. They had stood around, holding glasses of wine and savouries in their hands, paying each other the usual complements and gossiping about the few artists who where not present.

'That vase last night just wasn't me,' Melissa says.

Paul has to agree. He had given Melissa her first lump of clay when she had wandered into his studio after school. He had taught her to throw her first pots as soon as her legs were long enough to reach the flywheel and on her tenth birthday he had helped her build her own simple kiln.

'You're right, it's not you. Now go and make a pot that is you.'

'How? Where do you start?'

'Here, where else?'

When Melissa had decided to enter a pot into the competition, she actually made three almost identical vases and picked the most perfect one. The other two are still sitting on one of the shelves.

'Right,' says Paul. 'We'll take the better one of those two and see how much of it is you.'

He gently places it on the table, strokes it. 'Now why would anyone say it's not you, it's so beautiful, so elegant.'

Melissa bursts out laughing: 'Elegant, like me?' and she looks down at her clay-spattered jeans.

Paul can't help laughing too. The vase is elegant indeed, there can be no doubt about that: the body not too full, with nice tight curves, a fairly long, slender neck, the mouth generous without being too wide and the foot nicely balanced. 'No,' he teases, 'it doesn't look like you at all.'

'Actually, I didn't mean the way it looks, but how it feels, the kind of pot it is.'

'OK then. What do you want to see in a pot that this one doesn't give you?'

'I wish I knew, Paul. I know that I don't want perfection any more. That's for sure. And I want to see where it comes from. I want to see the clay, and I want to feel the heat it has gone through.' She hesitates. 'When you really get down to it, all I do is take a heap of mud, shape it somehow and burn the hell out of it. Then I mix some metal oxides with more mud, smear it on the pot, and stick it once more in the fire. I want to be able to see that. And I can't see any of that in my present work.'

'Good enough for a start,' says Paul. 'I challenge you now. I challenge you to make me a pot that shows what you feel. But I want more. I want you to make me a pot that really is you.'

Melissa is dumbfounded.

'I mean it, Melissa. I feel that you can do it, but I challenge you to show me. Make me a pot that honestly reflects the real you. When I look at it I want to recognize you in that pot.'



'Where is it? I want to see it!' Paul is exited. 'You said you would have it finished today. What's it look like?'

Melissa points at her big electric kiln. 'I know what I want it to look like, but the damned thing is still in there, I haven't seen it either. How do I know if it worked? Oh, for God's sake, Paul, I don't know. I've never tried this before. It scares me. First I thought it would be a piece of cake. Just throw an honest pot that shows how I feel about potting. But what you made me do is throw a pot that tells even complete strangers about myself, about my innermost feelings.'

'Of course. The thing is, you're not just another potter, in your heart you're an artist. Otherwise you would not have been unhappy with those comments at the award presentation. You know, as an artist you have to be honest. And that means you'll be vulnerable like hell,' says Paul. 'In a way I feel sorry for you, but whether you like it or not, you're an artist.'

Melissa does not quite know what to say. 'Vulnerable is right,' she thinks. 'Other times when I opened the kiln it was not like this. Other times I was excited, keen to see what the pots would look like. I was never afraid what other people would say.'

'Don't worry,' Paul says. 'I'll be gentle.'

Melissa sighs, nods and opens the kiln door. In spite of the heat in his face Paul stands close, anxious to get a first glance at the pot, but all he sees are elegant goblets and mugs, dozens of them.

'You didn't think I'd fire the kiln just for you, Paul? Most of these are for a gallery down South.'

Melissa puts on her gloves, takes out the first row of goblets. Pale blue goblets, celadon green mugs, a series of soft mauve goblets. Then, right in the back of the kiln, they catch a glimpse of vivid pink. Without looking at Paul Melissa takes out a very large, straight jar and puts it on the table.

The jar is totally different from all the delicate, subtly coloured goblets. Different from any of the work on show on the shelves. This is clearly a clay jar, rough, with finger marks and nail scratches, with a rugged deep black glaze and a surprisingly bold pattern of pink and gold. Pink and gold on black.

'Now that's me,' says Melissa. 'Here you are, Paul, my self portrait.' Melissa sounds confident, but her eyes betray her. Her eyes challenge Paul to disagree with her.

Paul looks at her silently. He looks at her strong but slender hands, her slim figure, and her sensitive face. He looks at the solid, blockish jar, back at Melissa. 'Is that how you see yourself?' he wants to know. 'Is that how you really are, or is it how you want others to see you?'

'I,' Melissa begins. She stops again, looks away.

'It's an amazing piece of work, truly beautiful, only it's not very feminine, is it?'

'But that pink design?'

'A cliché,' Paul almost whispers. 'Sorry Melissa, but that is where you give yourself away. Don't be afraid to be honest with me.'

Melissa turns away. She goes to the window at the other end of the studio.

Outside a few sparrows are searching for insects in her herb garden. She loves that corner of her garden. All the pots which didn't quite work out, but which she could not throw away ended up between the herbs. A colourful rockery of man-made rocks and aromatic plants. 'Is that me?' She bites her lip, turns back, and picks up the jar. The jar is rather heavy, a raw statement in clay, in black, gold and pink. 'Or is this me? Is this honestly me?'

'No!' she shouts. 'This is not me either. This is just a mask, a lie!'

She holds the jar high above her head, throws it with all her might against the steel base of the kiln. The jar shatters. Black, gold and pink shards fly everywhere. 'No!' she shouts again. 'That wasn't me at all. Not - at - all!'

Melissa stands there with her head bent, her arms hanging down, suddenly all spent. 'Help me, Paul' she whispers. 'I'm lost. Can't you see me right?'

'Sure, I'll help you. Don't judge yourself too harshly though, you can do it. The colours of that pot may not have been you, but that pot did portray your strength.'

'I don't know.'

'Even in the way you demolished it,' Paul chuckles.

Melissa takes a deep breath, pulls herself together. 'That pot is only a memory now, and a heap of pieces for my garden. Can you really help me, Paul? You were not just saying that, were you?'

'I can point you in the right direction. But first I have to fire my old wood kiln. I have a whole kiln load of stuff waiting, at least six months of work. How about you coming to my place next week to help me fire her?

'Sure, love to.'



Paul releases the catches of the kiln door. 'Stand back,' he says and slowly the massive door swings open. A wave of hot air wafts out. This kiln is big, big enough to walk right inside and it is filled up to the top with small sculptural pieces. Shelf above shelf with Paul's work, and in between, exactly in the centre but half sheltered by one of Paul's free-form ceramics - - -

Melissa gasps, points: 'That's my vase.'

Paul smiles. 'Yes, I bought it.'

He puts on his gloves and lifts the vase out of the kiln, places it in the middle of the table.

They don't speak. Only the vase makes little noises as it cools down further, tiny tinkling noises.

Much of the original celadon is still there, where it had been sheltered from the direct flames by one of Paul's ceramics, but it is subtly altered. No longer cool and aloof, the glaze somehow reveals a faint memory of the fire.

The other side, where it has been discoloured by the fire, now shows a strong, swirling pattern of red and brown overlaying the green. Some specks of ashes have burned themselves into the glaze and, most amazing of all, the vase is no longer absolutely symmetrical, one side has slumped just the slightest little bit.

No impersonal perfection now. It has been through the fire and in the fire it has gained a more human beauty. More approachable, and somehow more profound.

Melissa whispers 'That's me.'

'I've tried to open a door for you, break your shackles,' Paul says softly. 'I was so afraid I was doing the wrong thing. I did see you right, didn't I?'

Melissa nods. A great relief washes over her.

'He has shown me the way,' she thinks. 'He has set me free.'

Melissa sits down and weeps.