Could You Love Me?

First Class

It's less than a 15 minute walk from my place to the workshop. Wearing comfortable clothes and orange sneakers, I roam around the area observing the yard and side cafe before class. Other students stand around the entrance waiting for the brave to enter first, and so one does, dressed in black from his chin length hair to his dark soles speckled with dried clay. We pour in to find stools and sculpting stands set in a circle, I choose a seat and familiarize myself with the new faces.

An older man stands in the center with a side smile and quick nod to each attendee. "Good morning, I'm Simeon Grimshaw, director and instructor of the advanced clay courses. Welcome to basic sculpting. Here you will learn the techniques necessary for slab and coil hand-building. We'll also introduce the tools, safety regulations and proper care of your materials."

The one in black stands and retrieves a box from the back table then hands out the items.

"Keep in mind, you'll be working with loose forms and quick studies rather than refined details. I will check in from time to time to see your progress but for now, I'll leave you with your instructor, Duncan Blackwood."

I receive a beige apron from Mr. Blackwood and smile in thanks. He pauses for a moment and looks at my hand. "Is that a compression-"

"Compression wrap, yes." I finish and cover my hand, feeling slightly embarrassed and exposed despite the nude shade to prevent distraction.

"Hmm." Is his response as he continues to my left. "So if everyone could grab one of the clay bags on that side table, then begin softening it by warming and kneading the clay in your hands. . . Don't forget to put the aprons first."

I can't help feel like a young kid playing with Playdoh, only this is ten times harder and solid. At first it feels like dewy rhino skin but it's reacting to the friction and my body heat. The wrap portion covering my palm is already coated with clay bits. This shall be my designated sculpting wrap. Thankfully I brought a few more. Mr. Blackwood ties his forest green apron on as well and walks inside the circle, squeezing a snowball sized amount.

"I want you to get familiar with the texture and movements. You will start to notice a bit of soreness after the first hour, give yourself time to become acquainted with the practice. There's a great involvement of finger and hand muscles, different ligaments..." He says and glances at me, twice, like I'm meant to hear that. "As beginners, make sure you take breaks and stretch. Now, let's start by creating 3 objects. A sphere, pyramid and cube to the best of your ability using only your fingers."

Once he gives the instruction, I stand and divide my clay into 3 clumps. It's funny being in a class and not knowing anyone else's name. Yet we all have similar scowls and pruned lips as we focus on these shapes. I press my thumb, use the corner of my finger, the flat edge of my finger nail and round the clay between my palms in a circular motion. It gets better when our instructor connects a small speaker and plays atmospheric tunes to aid our muse.

It looks like Mr. Blackwood is conversing with each student one by one, giving them chances to ask questions. So far, though painting requires the same attention to detail, sculpting is much more about feeling your way through the organic shape. My opinion may change once tools are involved but I'd like to stick with sculptures of a greater scale. I catch a grin from him every now and then which relieves me to know he's not too serious.

On my turn, I feel like a two year old cranking my neck to make eye contact with him when I realize he's right behind me. He walks back inside the circle and borrows my stool, bringing him lower. My smile turns a bit stale and nervous as he watches my hand at work.

"How does it feel?" His tone is concerned.

"Good." I nod and my hair slowly falls out of the clip I had pinned in the back.

"And where are you from?"

"Florida."

"Is this your first time sculpting?"

"Yes, am I that bad?" My smile stumbles, again.

"I see your determination," he grins, "You'll get there. Everyone seems to have the right motivation for being here, and somehow I sense your story is more compelling."

A little stunned, I don't know how to reply. My shoulders sort of shrug not wanting to hog his attention and I try to think of a question. "Is there a particular hand exercise you do for stretching?"

"Ah, yes. How about I show the rest of the class right now. Okay everyone, let's take a short 10 minute break. For those interested, I'm going to demonstrate 3 stretches that help after strenuous hours of sculpting..."

Mr. Blackwood paces about with his hands in the air showing us the motions to copy to help relieve tightness and strain. It's extremely helpful as I add in small wrist rotations.

"He seems like a nice instructor." Says the ginger lady on my left. I nod. "When I first saw him, I thought he was Professor Snape's son."

"Snape as in . . . Harry Potter?" I chuckle and cover my mouth. The resemblance is uncanny. "I didn't see that until now. Thank you."

"I'm Emma. I couldn't help overhear you're from America?"

"Yes, I'm Kerri. Where are you from?"

"Brighton. Did you move here then?"

"For a few months till I finish the workshop. I'm renting a room."

"I'm as well, my flatmates are young Australian sisters and they're never around."

"I haven't met mine yet but that hasn't kept me from seeing things on my own."

"We should get a bite after this then."

"I'm up for that!" I smile bright and excuse myself. A quick trip to the loo and some water before we start back please.

Exiting the bathroom, Mr. Blackwood's figure startles me. The black silhouette in an illuminated hallway is an impressionable image I can't help translate to a painting. He's speaking with Mr. Grimshaw, calm yet comfortably serious. My timid frame approaches the doorway slowly not meaning to interrupt. I get a warm smile from the director but my instructor glances back at my hand instead.

Another hour passes with a second assignment. Mr. Blackwood announces he'll also be overseeing the Clay Portraiture class which I'm most excited for. Soon we're dismissed till next Monday, except for those taking his other class. That gives me plenty of time to recover between days as the projects get harder. I remove the apron and roll it up, stuffing it  in my bag. After careful direction on how to spray and wrap the clay to prevent it from drying, we return them to the side table.

I wash my hands in the provided bucket and when I turn, Mr. Blackwood is by the door while Emma is outside chatting with another student. Grabbing my bag and sweater, I aim for the exit.

"How did you feel by the end of the class?" He asks.

"Great! I assure you this won't hinder my performance in your classes."

"Classes? Kerri, is it?" I nod yes. "Thanks for the assurance though I'm not worried. I'll see you Wednesday."

That night before bed, I make a quick sketch of the painting I envisioned earlier with Mr. Blackwood. Black and white, so simple yet so powerful. Adding a fun early dinner with my new friend, Emma, today was just as satisfying as the day before.