None of anybody’s egos matter here. Driving Creek as it always is, sits quietly around us, bird calls and cicadas. I walk through the arch, along the parked trains, to go tend to the fire under the clay we made earlier from over at 210. It’s going good. Maybe even a little too good. I spread out the wood inside the box, making it even. The smell of sap & smoke, dirt & clay. Voices upstairs in the studio, closing doors, taking stock of the day’s making. A quiet wind eases itself around the bend.
4.48pm Simon Bowerbank is bleeding from his index finger and there’s a curious burning smell within the gallery space which causes a mild panic. Despite being vaguely injured, director Simon has shown great affinity with the potters and created his own mug with an ear-shaped handle. At one point he pulls out what appears to be a small rock from the clay.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a Brickell,” says Karl.
When demonstrating that the cup will hold beer, even though green and wet, he says quietly, mostly to himself, “I’m glad there’s no fire,” and successfully drinks from the cup.
“We’ve all had our hands in that one,” says Karl. “Good luck!”
