Read Online Joy For Beginners by Erica Bauermeister - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Erica Bauermeister
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ran out of money in this little seaport in Massachusetts. I didn’t have any baking experience, but I was willing to get up early and they needed a dough mixer. And I liked it. There’s something about getting up at four in the morning that’s different than staying up all night. I liked walking down the middle of a road if I wanted, looking up at the moon. And I liked being the first person in the bakery, turning on the ovens, measuring out the flour and the water, smelling the yeast. I liked the idea that I was making a day out of such simple ingredients.”
He looked out over the water. Daria hugged her knees against the cooling air.
“Why a potter?” he asked after a while. “Your turn.”
Daria’s answer was quick, practiced. “I like to play with mud.” She laughed, the sound bouncing off the surface of the lake.
Henry stayed quiet for a while. “You know,” he said musingly after a few moments, “I never met anyone who worked so hard at being unpredictable.”
Daria’s arms pulled forward, tightening into each other.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I’m just saying that sometimes it seems as if it makes you as uncomfortable as you want it to make others.”
Daria stood up, rubbing her arms. “You know, we’ve both got work in the morning.”
Henry nodded. Daria went into the houseboat to get her things, and then walked back out onto the deck, her hands in her coat pockets.
There was a small splash in the water.
“What do you think that was?” Henry asked.
“Just a rock,” Daria said. “See you, Henry.”
“Good night, Daria. Good luck with the wheel tomorrow.” When she turned around at the end of the dock to look back at him he was still in his chair, legs stretched out toward the water.
DARIA SLAMMED THE BALL of clay down onto the batter board, kicking the flywheel with her foot to start its motion. She wet her hands and cupped them around the slightly flattened ball, centering it, pulling the clay up into a column, then pushing it down into a mound, repeating the motion, a dialogue between hands and clay, feeling for imperfections, flexibility, like the first conversations at a cocktail party. If you paid attention, you could tell if something was going to work or not, before you put a lot of work into it.
It was cold in the studio—a hazard of her occupation. Marion always said that Daria worked in a morgue, but a heated studio would dry out the clay faster, and it was easier to wear big old sweaters and have a hot pot ready for tea. Daria liked to joke that cold studios were why potters so often made mugs; they needed boiling liquids for warmth. Daria huddled into her sweater, waiting for the physical activity to warm her. The studio had the bite of November, the air heavy with moisture. A good day to make pots, but it would take longer for them to dry out.
With her thumb, she drilled a hole in the center of the clay, pressing down on the floor of the mound with the pad of her fingers, widening the opening. Elbows braced tight against her sides for stability, she placed one hand inside, the other cupping the outside, fingers down, thumbs touching each other at the top as she pulled the sides up, making a cylinder, the tips of her fingers creating ridges that moved up the piece as she raised her hands, pulling the clay with her, feeling it follow her lead. She wet her hands slightly and repeated the motion, more slowly this time, the wheel losing momentum, slowing with her. A lot of potters preferred motorized wheels; they were less work, certainly, easier on the knees. But Daria liked the manual wheel—the first, hard kicks, the way the motion smoothed out and followed the natural order of the process, a connection between feet, hands, and center.
There was a knock at the door, startling Daria. No one came to the studio; even Marion knew better than to come to any door but her apartment.
She cleaned off her hands with a rag and opened the door to find an oblong
He looked out over the water. Daria hugged her knees against the cooling air.
“Why a potter?” he asked after a while. “Your turn.”
Daria’s answer was quick, practiced. “I like to play with mud.” She laughed, the sound bouncing off the surface of the lake.
Henry stayed quiet for a while. “You know,” he said musingly after a few moments, “I never met anyone who worked so hard at being unpredictable.”
Daria’s arms pulled forward, tightening into each other.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I’m just saying that sometimes it seems as if it makes you as uncomfortable as you want it to make others.”
Daria stood up, rubbing her arms. “You know, we’ve both got work in the morning.”
Henry nodded. Daria went into the houseboat to get her things, and then walked back out onto the deck, her hands in her coat pockets.
There was a small splash in the water.
“What do you think that was?” Henry asked.
“Just a rock,” Daria said. “See you, Henry.”
“Good night, Daria. Good luck with the wheel tomorrow.” When she turned around at the end of the dock to look back at him he was still in his chair, legs stretched out toward the water.
DARIA SLAMMED THE BALL of clay down onto the batter board, kicking the flywheel with her foot to start its motion. She wet her hands and cupped them around the slightly flattened ball, centering it, pulling the clay up into a column, then pushing it down into a mound, repeating the motion, a dialogue between hands and clay, feeling for imperfections, flexibility, like the first conversations at a cocktail party. If you paid attention, you could tell if something was going to work or not, before you put a lot of work into it.
It was cold in the studio—a hazard of her occupation. Marion always said that Daria worked in a morgue, but a heated studio would dry out the clay faster, and it was easier to wear big old sweaters and have a hot pot ready for tea. Daria liked to joke that cold studios were why potters so often made mugs; they needed boiling liquids for warmth. Daria huddled into her sweater, waiting for the physical activity to warm her. The studio had the bite of November, the air heavy with moisture. A good day to make pots, but it would take longer for them to dry out.
With her thumb, she drilled a hole in the center of the clay, pressing down on the floor of the mound with the pad of her fingers, widening the opening. Elbows braced tight against her sides for stability, she placed one hand inside, the other cupping the outside, fingers down, thumbs touching each other at the top as she pulled the sides up, making a cylinder, the tips of her fingers creating ridges that moved up the piece as she raised her hands, pulling the clay with her, feeling it follow her lead. She wet her hands slightly and repeated the motion, more slowly this time, the wheel losing momentum, slowing with her. A lot of potters preferred motorized wheels; they were less work, certainly, easier on the knees. But Daria liked the manual wheel—the first, hard kicks, the way the motion smoothed out and followed the natural order of the process, a connection between feet, hands, and center.
There was a knock at the door, startling Daria. No one came to the studio; even Marion knew better than to come to any door but her apartment.
She cleaned off her hands with a rag and opened the door to find an oblong
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