The Clay Studio – Part 1: Wet Clay

Mateo had come to Oaxaca to escape his phone, and the studio on the hill had no signal, which was the whole point.

The workshop was a low adobe building with a courtyard, a lemon tree and twelve wheels set in a row. At the far end, a man in a clay-stiffened apron was wedging a great block of clay against a table. He was thirty-three, broad-shouldered, with dark curls tied back and forearms grey to the elbow.

"You're the designer," said Diego, without turning round.

"How did you know?"

"You're looking at the wheel like it's a spreadsheet."

Mateo laughed in spite of himself. "I am a little."

"Sit."

The first hour was a disaster. The clay slumped, wobbled and finally collapsed into a sad grey pancake. Mateo stared at it.

"Again," said Diego.

"It's hopeless."

"It's wet. That's different." He dragged a stool up behind him and set his hands over Mateo's on the spinning clay, steady and unhurried. "Press here. Not hard. Listen to it."

"Clay doesn't talk."

"Everything talks. You just need to be quiet."

The wheel hummed. The clay rose between their fingers, wobbled, steadied and became, slowly, a cup.

"Oh," said Mateo, very softly.

"Yes," said Diego, and did not move his hands.

That evening they sat in the courtyard with cold beer and the smell of woodsmoke, and Diego asked what he did when he was not designing.

"I'm not sure I know."

"Then this week is good," said Diego. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Do you always apologise for taking up space?"

Mateo opened his mouth, closed it. "Apparently."

"Stop it," said Diego, kindly. "You are exactly the right size."

"Green?" said Mateo, before he could stop himself.

"Green," said Diego. "Very green. Come back at seven. We'll fire your cup."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Kiln.