Okay, I know my creation from the short 1 hour in Johnson Art Museum could hardly be called ‘art’.
But it’s definitely an immersion. And, although I complained to my friend how ugly my pen pot was due to the fleeting time that I could hardly do any refinement, I still cherished my work and took it back to my room, bought paint and sandpaper, looking forward to doing more things with it.
There is something peculiar about clay. When you see that wet, soft texture, in the prospect that it will become dry and permanent after you do something with it, you feel that you can see everything ahead of you. Everything, birds, flowers, trees, cloud, stars…the ability of creation gives you power, as if you yourself called out “Lux!” at the first day of chaos.
When our instructor started to show us how we could slap the clay onto the table to make a nice smooth slab, in the absence of a clay wheel that we generally see in workshops, my mind wandered back to somewhere around the Palaeolithic era. I imagined myself living in a surrounding with no complicated technology and life was as simple as it could be. I imagined myself being someone in a tribe who particularly makes pottery for a living. New things every day, each piece adding some color and usefulness to life itself.
The imagination could only be a window to touch upon the past. But buried in numbers and data, we seldom sit down and contemplate, trying to touch the texture of life. I have always been a huge fan of various handicrafts, and there is one favourite thing about them that I came up myself the other day. We are curiously fond of making and often making things that would seem permanent, at least compared to our own lifespan. That is probably because our life is too fleeting, and sometimes there are only memories that support us, which could fade. Creating things and letting them stay is like the process of grasping hold of a handful of flowing time and trying to make them frozen. For every piece of handicraft, there is time woven into it, and they support in some sense an evidence of that we had lived, and lived vividly.