Occasionally, I’m displeased when my art history classes meet in the Johnson Museum. One in particular, Material Worlds: Trade and the Art of Asia, takes place a mere twenty five minutes after I finish my Tuesday/Thursday shift, and since that’s not long enough for a trek back to Risley (or, for that matter, anywhere else), I have no choice but to sit awkwardly in the cafe for a little under a half an hour: a dangerous decision, certainly, because it inevitably results in an impulse purchase of a cup of rooibos and/or a cookie to stave off my teatime hunger.

It's a terrible fate, I know.

Yesterday’s class, however, justified the brief time I spent at the Two Naked Guys Cafe reading webcomics and drinking jasmine green as I waited for the rest of the class to show up. Because yesterday, ladies and gentlemen, was a clay day.

When we were very young, my sister and I regularly attended “clay class.” Volcano, Hawai’i is filled with the expensive homes of quirky artists, and it was in one of these cozy rainforest studios where we made our masterpieces (i.e. ugly, multi-colored lumps meant to represent animals, people, and “fossils” (my personal specialty)). These pottery playdates weren’t always perfect–I’ll still never forgive the teacher’s son (one of my best friends at the time) for glazing our bust of Kermit the Frog without permission–but there was something inherently relaxing and almost meditative about the process of bringing (some degree of) life to slabs of clay.

Today, my sister has grown into an incredibly talented clay artist whose whimsical creations include adorable owls and raku-fired apple teapots. Though the pottery gene was obviously not passed down to me, my recent foray into the world of clay proved that perhaps I haven’t forgotten as much as I thought.

Material Worlds (an Art History/Asian Studies crosslist) has a rather unique format. We have two professors who switch off every week: one focuses on Southeast Asia, while the other, Professor P., lectures on China, Korea, and Japan.

As I discovered yesterday, Professor P. is a man of many talents. Our Tuesday lecture was completely normal: we watched a presentation about Chinese, Japanese, and Korean ceramics. As a 21st-century student, it’s so easy to look at, say, Longshan pottery from the comfort of your desk and say “I can do that!”

Oh, really?

I don't think A Chorus Line was talking about pottery, but it seems applicable.

As it turns out, Professor P. is also a skilled potter himself. After we descended to Floor 2L on Thursday, he provided each of us with a lump of clay and a simple task: make a pinch-pot. He demonstrated by poking his thumb into his piece of clay and, magically, produced a near-perfect vase moments later.

Even though most of our pots were cracked, rough vessels, I’m pretty sure that everyone enjoyed him/herself. Honestly, all classes should have such activities from time to time: arts and crafts aren’t just for the elementary school set!

While my high school, for example, had many strengths, I wouldn’t say that creativity was among them. Punahou is very set in its traditions (oh god, so much so that the idea that they could ever provide better vegetarian food at our yearly carnival than greasy noodles and a pitiful protein-less “gyro” containing nothing more tzatziki sauce and a few sad looking cucumbers is unthinkable) and doesn’t, in my opinion, experiment enough with alternative teaching methods.

If the average secondary school requires students, regardless of their individual strengths, to take classes in fields across the academic disciplines–including math, English, social studies, and science–then why aren’t we also encouraged/forced to learn about different types of art?

Ah, wait, sorry, you’ll have to excuse me when I sign off here: gotta go apply for my education minor (and buy a soapbox while I’m at it).