Janie’s mother is a potter. She takes a lump of dun-coloured earth and creates something out of nothing. She uses her entire body in this production: her hands, her knees, her feet and the strength of her shoulders. She transforms a lump of nothing much into a thing of beauty. As the wheel turns, the hands caress, tiny flexes of finger muscles are transformed into form and utility.
Her foot pounds the pedal. She hunches her shoulders to the wheel, as her hands hover over the spinning formless clay. Small drops of water fly off at high speed. Fine corrugations encircle the clay. Her brain coordinates both hand and eye, keeps them on the straight and narrow. Her brain transforms a pattern of its own devising.
How ironical that even though Janie’s mother creates beautiful pots, she has a black thumb. She is not a gardener. She is a potter.