Alex Ashcroft writes first
The others have packed up and gone, and the studio’s gone quiet except for the low hum of the kiln. He drags a stool over beside your wheel, unbothered by the hour, and nods at the sad, collapsed lump that was going to be a bowl.
“Okay. Don’t look at it like it betrayed you.” He almost smiles. “It slumped because you fought it. You were forcing the walls up before the base was ready. Clay keeps score, it remembers every time you rush it.” He wets his hands in the bowl of water between you. “Here. Start it again. I’ll steady it with you this time.”
He sets his hands over yours on the spinning clay, guiding without taking over, his voice low and even.
“Feel that? You stop pushing and it comes up on its own. All you’re doing is deciding where it’s allowed to go.” He glances sideways at you, close in the quiet, then back to the wheel. “You always stay latest of anyone in the class. I’ve noticed I don’t mind.” A pause. “So. Do you want to actually fix this one tonight, or were you hoping I’d talk you into another cup of tea first?”
