Dancing with Clay - Ron Geva

You have to go down the emergency stairs to get to the shelter. The ceramics studio is located in the basement. Each step descends into the bowels of the cool earth, primordial scent envelopes you when you discover the secret den protected by reinforced concrete.

The entrance is hidden behind a massive kiln, colored in every imaginable shade of brown. Once you’ve passed this searing womb of the world, the studio reveals itself – a low ceiling hovers over tables, each with a wooden surface and a rolling pin with cut handles on it. Mrs. Gaya hands out chunks of clay to everyone and winks at me, as if to say she likes me better than all. I’m cold and tense, and I don’t want to touch the clay. I don’t want it to touch me. I just want to crawl under a blanket and die.

Gaya says, “Knead,” and my heart sinks. Imaginary tears drip onto the clay, but my body stays stoic, kneading to her satisfaction. Massage, strike, pound, crush — drive every last bit of air out, ensuring it won’t explode in the kiln. If you inhale the air, you’ll die. If you exhale and empty yourself out, you’ll live.

Gaya strides alongside the tables, inspecting us. “Now, make a flat base and stack coils on it.”

My hands shape the coils, and the clay yields to my body’s chill, syncing with it. I’m surprised, realizing it had fooled me into thinking it was dead. Some sort of secret pact begins here between us, an agreement to take the risk of connecting. When Mrs. Gaya isn’t looking, we draw closer, tenderly humming. The coils twist into tendrils, growing into themselves, holding me—they wrap, weave, and enclose a hidden bubble of air at every turn. I dip my hands in warm water and massage the clay’s back, caressing and cupping it, my eyes closed as my fingers trace a roadmap of veins leading to its heart. It surrenders to me, stretching its neck towards me so I can touch its pulse, its bare soul, and tremble with a living resonance through its tendons.

I allow the sensation to echo within, and now I am back under the blanket, but I am alive. We’re whirling, covered with each other, touching, struggling, dancing, playing, wallowing in promises, leaving all the words behind, forgetting and remembering.

Lady Gaya orders us to place our work neatly on the wooden trays, to be taken to the kiln. The fluorescent light pierces the skin of our dance, and the tray is taken away. Dying remnants cling to my hands. I wash them in the grimy sink and return barren to the surface.

Ron Geva:

rongogeva@gmail.com

www.rongogeva.com