I could feel the clay spinning gently against my hands, the water making it glide. My thumbs were gently pinching at the wall as I had been instructed, and it was just about to roll up to the position I wanted – when it suddenly all collapsed and flew off of the wheel, splattering into the water. 

This was my experience trying out pottery at the Habitat for the Arts last week, when I was invited along with other members of the community to try out a few classes. I was excited about the pottery, having photographed a few classes in the past few weeks. I knew it couldn’t be as easy as it looked, and I was right. 

I am not an artistically inclined person in the slightest. I remember an ex boyfriend (this may have been a contributing factor to his status as an ex) finding some drawings of horses I did in high school. He asked when I drew them and when I said Grade 10, he burst out laughing. 

In middle school we tried out different arts and home economics classes, and I remember creating some sort of weird animal out of clay and a teapot. That was my experience in pottery – an animal that didn’t look like the animal it was supposed to, and a teapot that didn’t close properly, thus defeating its purpose as a teapot because it let the heat out. 

Because any forays into the arts I have undertaken have ended up largely in failure, I quit trying altogether. I developed a signature stick person that I use when I am faced with the task of drawing something, and thankfully I discovered photography and was able to channel all that pent up artistic creativity through a camera lens. 

So when I sat down at the wheel, and pressed on the pedal, I was terrified. After my first little pottery explosion, things actually went well. My second try wielded a cute little bowl, and although we didn’t get a chance to advance past that first step, I was pretty proud of myself. 

In the third round I made what Julie McMath of Dish Pottery called a “snowman vase.” It had two little bumps and curled in at the top. It didn’t look anything like what everyone else had made – my two classmates had created taller vessels that looked as if they’d been throwing pottery for years – but I had produced something with a name! That was all that mattered. As I exited my wheel, my hands were cramped, and I barely had the co-ordination to get over the piece of machinery without splashing my foot into the muddy water. I was reminded of why I never got into the performing arts. 

I left the class smiling, my pants splattered with clay and my head filled with wishful thinking, that maybe, just maybe – I could venture into art again.   

DISCLAIMER: The Last Word is an opinion column, it is meant to provoke thought and debate. As such, any opinions written here are the writers own and do not reflect the viewpoint of any other Fitzhugh staff member or the directors of the Jasper Media Group Inc.