wheel throwing and activating sensual playfulness — kristen jeré
not being much of a visual artist, but always having had the desire to create something with my hands, wheel throwing to me was the mysterious, beautiful medium looming in the distance that i could never quite reach.
i wasn’t looking for a rebirth, but changing seasons are good for that. in spring 2022, i was moving through my day to day—much in a haze—of working from home, daily chores, and sparse outings with friends. it was a time in my life of going through the motions and finding the little joys when and where i could.
somewhere in the midst of the monotony, i decided to enroll in a wheel throwing class on a whim. not being much of a visual artist, but always having had the desire to create something with my hands, wheel throwing to me was the mysterious, beautiful medium looming in the distance that i could never quite reach.
from crocheting a bit in high school (i only ever learned the first basic stitch), to taking an oil painting class my sophomore year of college (which i dropped a few months into the semester), i hadn’t yet experienced feeling deeply immersed in my art. something in me was longing to create in a way that felt solely mine, like a vacation or a getaway for my senses.
the ceramics classes were 2.5 blocks away from my apartment. every saturday afternoon that spring, i walked over to the small, indie studio with its colorful artists and relaxing but focused energy. the studio was located in a part of my neighborhood i hadn’t yet explored. during my walks, i found cafes i wanted to try along the way, green spaces i’d never noticed and the feeling of the crisp spring breeze on my skin while the sun, shining brighter over the weeks, warmed me.
i began to learn the art of wheel throwing and how, as a creative practice, it involves your whole body. leaning over the potter’s wheel, straddled stably in between my knees, i would practice the intricate steps required to make bowls, vases, and mugs. my arms, sometimes caked up to my elbows in juicy clay, would rest on my knees as i pressed my hands into the slick mound and maneuvered the clay down and up, giving it shape with my fingers.
i turned my palms into little bowls, pouring handfuls of water on top of the clay to reduce its’ natural stickiness, to make it moldable and changeable. i’d press my pointer and middle fingers into the center of the clay to make a single hole that forms the basis of all ceramic creations. my left hand would serve as a guide, stabilizing the clay and giving it something to push into. as my right foot pressed down on the wheel’s pedal, i used my fingers to keep opening and expanding the “floor” of my piece until the creation on the wheel matched the ideas in my head.
through the two month class, i also learned techniques for trimming ceramic pieces and how, when dry, they could be dipped into buckets of acrylic paint, with colors like cadmium yellow and mint green that could be layered on top of each other. all the steps required to make a single piece were so intricate and personal that i couldn’t not take notice.
on my walks back home after my classes, my clothes covered in tiny gray splatters, i felt lighter than i had in a while. on some weekday evenings, i would go into the studio to work on my pieces, and when i left, i’d noticed how the sun was setting later and later.
outside of the studio, i began to see more of my old friends i’d lost touch with in the winter and started to explore casual romance again. i went on a date with a man i’d matched with on hinge who also happened to be taking classes at the same studio. one day, after his classes were over, we met at one of the restaurants i’d never tried and had been passing by for weeks. after dinner, he dropped me off at home on his bright blue moped, and the route east to my apartment felt more sensual than ever. holding tight to his waist, i took note of every street light and green light we passed and noticed how calm and hopeful everything looked.
once my workshop series ended, i would still come back to the studio to pick up some of my pieces that had been fired. i’d collect them in my tote bag and stop by some of the spaces in my neighborhood, once new to me but now familiar, to pick up a book or grab lunch. the days were getting longer and i was returning to myself, allowing playfulness and experimenting to guide me. so that even now when i’m feeling stagnant, i can look at the ceramics on my nightstand and remember the feeling of my whole body being immersed in creation; i can be reminded of spring.
BY KRISTEN JERÉ
(she/her)
kristen is a budding herbalist, mentee doula, and a writer on identity, culture and Black womanhood. in her freetime, you can catch her watching something animated while reading one of the many books on her lists.