Cent et Un Mots par Jour

A earthy smell fills the room, with a chemical aftertaste. A smell of hard work and multiple attempts. The potter sits on his tool in front of a large chunk of shapeless clay. His foot presses lightly on the pedal and the clay starts to turn, and turn, and turn. The man's fingers brushes the wet surface, playing it like a precious instrument, feeling its hidden form. Listening to its silent voice. Push here ; press there ; make me beautiful. The clay vibrates under the potter's palm, calling him. When it dries too much, the man plunges his hands in a pot of water, and goes back to work. He has a sacred call, a divine mission : to create beauty out of nothing, out of earth. It will be no human creature, but the pottery, whatever it ends up to be, will diffuse pleasure and satisfaction in the heart of countless art lovers, and, maybe, bring them a little closer to heaven.

Claire Annovazzi