some pottery for the weekend

Hola.

Thanks for visiting again.

As pottery is the second topic on the blog's title, I figured an article on pottery should follow the sailing the sunfish for the first time.

Pottery or the liking of it started way back when I was in 8th grade back home in Puerto Rico. We had "art" class one full semester and I was hooked....alas, just for that semester. But I liked it. The feeling of the soft clay squishing through wet fingers and the little items taking shape by my hands. The neural index card got filled in and stored.

Fast forward to about 4 years ago.

And, I am thinking about the need to have some "hobby" to ease my mind (see, sailing is not a hobby, it is a lifestyle). The mental rolodex spun and that old index card popped up. Pottery it said. Sensual, artsy, earth connection, creation. A quick search on the internet produced Tampa Parks and Recreation with their many parks and art studios. I called the three or four that offered pottery and put my name on all the waiting lists. Soon enough, Rosie, the angel that runs Taylor Art Studio gave me a call saying my name was up!

The format was simple enough, one class each week lasting 3 hours between 1800 and 2100. At Taylor's I met Rosie who to this day remains my friend and dear buddy. Rosie is the heart of Taylor's for sure. There is so much to write about my first lessons and the obstacles centering clay presented, etc. Those articles will come later. For today I'll just report on the epiphany moment.

After centering your clay and pulling your form up from the clump, you have to leave it alone to dry to a hardness that will be firm enough to "carve" or "turn" the piece so that you can trim the foot, attach dreaded handles (more on that later too), style the bottom, etc. One tuesday evening I sat down to turn a piece and soon after I stood up to get a hot tea like everybody else. I came back to my wheel tea mug in hand ready to trim. The first sip of the tea was scolding hot so I sat the tea mug next to me and started turning the piece to trim the bottom. My second sip of the tea mug found the contents almost cold; I had spent 40 minutes totally absorbed in the trimming process. Alienated from the world, just fixed on cutting clay away from my piece and shaping it as I better saw fit. And that folks was the moment in which I knew that pottery was going to be a life long craft for me to pursue.

first lesson: how it all began...almost

THE FIRST LESSON
by Antolin Rivera
October, 1997

A dedicated sailor introduced me to the sport, but a magic elfin helped me tune my senses to the wind.

Milan.

She was European, beautiful and well tanned, right to the edge of her tiny bikini. Milan gave sailing lessons on a small lagoon that splashes a hotel and tourist section in San Juan, Puerto Rico.

I had formed a passion for sailing with Clara, but the romanticism was there for Milan to develop.

I would have followed her anywhere, and I did, to a long rack of Sunfish along the water.

The wonders of sailing may have cost me $20, but to hear Milan mispronounce my name in her melodious accent added to the enchantment.

Perhaps all it was for her was a seasonal job between semesters, but it changed my life.

Through the years I have proven that to myself time and again by the same contented grin when I look back on it.

Clara Diez had talked about the wonders of sailing during coffee breaks. Our offices were next door to each other, and even though we had never sailed together, Clara always had a sailing story to share with me.

Her weekends were full of canvas and sunsets, wind puffs and waves. The camaraderie of sailing buddies and dreams of getting away from it all, in easy installments, a weekend at a time, if not forever.

Clara's tales intrigued me.

Then Clara did something that just blew me away! She burned the savings for her new car on a trip to Australia to see the America's Cup defense!

That's what I call passion, bordering on abandonment. I had to experience it. I had to learn to sail.

Milan pointed to the first available Sunfish and we pulled it to the water's edge. She began gathering implements, calling each by name: centerboard, mainsheet, tiller, rudder, on and on the terms flew my way.

She handled herself like an old salt. Her youth disguised by the graveness of her demure.

Part by part the Sunfish came together as a wind-propelled vessel. Each article mentioned by name again. We did it a second time and some parts were becoming familiar to my ear. Like a mantra she recited the use and name of every piece of equipment for the third time. Adjusting her tiny bikini, she asked if I had any questions.

"No," was my response.

"Wind," she said. "Wind is the basic element here. Feel the wind. Look around and see the wind acting up. Tune your senses to the wind."

"No wind, no sail. No wind, no life, simple as that."

Once on board, Milan took the tiller and mainsheet in hand, motioning me to sit between her and the mast on the same side of the boat. Gently pulling on the mainsheet translated a gentle breeze into forward motion.

We were sailing. Just like that, amazing!

The Sunfish came to life at her command. Pushing through little waves, bouncing off bigger ones. A tug on the tiller, a little more mainsail trim and we sped away.

Absorbed in contemplation, Milan narrated the moment. Her technical explanation lost in my wandering mind. Milan was vaguely describing the effect on the sail, dry words that could not paint the mind picture I was living.

A wind vehicle, capable of swift travel across the expanse of my imaginings. Way before the first tack, my inner child was already changing directions in life; rediscovering the womb and the myriad of emotions I felt every time Dad swam beyond the buoys, bound for deep blue water, carrying me on his back.

Back on the dock, Milan said her work was done. But she said I still had half an hour to go, sailing on my own. The first capsize, the first wild jibe, resulting in yet another capsize. Sailing back to the dock in one very wet piece.

They were secondary chords to the symphony my soul played to the tune of the wind.

The neural connection had been made. The Great Spirit breathed in my mind the wind of life.

Funny how life works. Clara and Milan led me to open a long-forgotten door where all the emotions that could be had lay awaiting my dare.

The lesson continues to this day. Years after the enlightenment, I eagerly anticipate the next sail. Every outing I listen to the wind reverberating across my soul.

Wind: a grand pipe organ in the cathedral of creation.