Pots

Old Man: I’ve been interested in pottery for quite a while now. I’ve gathered quite a few around the house now but of course of can’t keep them all. I’ve got about a dozen scattered around, here and there, drives the wife nuts. So of course I’ve had to sell the rest at fetes and the likes.

The wives face is probably similar to old cracked clay, a form of escapism then, for the elderly man to be working soft, wet clay with his hands.

Old Man: Of course they get broken from time to time, Martha knocked one over just the other week, cleaning it. Of course; I was annoyed, didn’t help that she goes of into one about how daft it were to leave it on that little table; “just waiting to get knocked over”, she says. She suggested I put them in bubble wrap and keep them up in the loft; don’t see the point in that myself. They’re supposed to be ornaments and I’ll have them out, even if they might get broken.

Once you have created something there will come a point at which you can no longer protect it, if you keep a piece of art (such as pottery) wrapped up then its existent becomes superfluous because it can’t be seen. However by placing a masterpiece on the walls of a gallery, its artist/curator is at risk of it falling from the wall or being stolen (as in the recent case of ‘The Scream’ by Edvard Munch). Absolute safety is therefore absolutely meaningless.

Old Man: Had that kiln for a fair while now, just as well I got it back then, wouldn’t be able to afford it now. I make mostly small pots; the wife has a right go if I spend too much money on the clay, “it’s needed for other things”, she says. Christ and she’s the one handing out fivers to those grandkids every time they’re round here, why can’t their parents give them pocket money, they can afford it.

Just as there comes a point where you can no longer protect things, there also comes a point when you can no longer shape things. An artist doesn’t walk into a gallery with a palette and brush and add his afterthoughts to a painting whilst it’s hanging for the public to see. A piece of pottery reaches a point when its curves are no longer the consequence of its creator’s hands, its curves become like flesh and take on a life of their own.

Old Man: I work in the shed. Martha brings a cup of tea down every hour or so, always accompanied by a pink wafer and a “why don’t you come inside?” I don’t know what she wants me to come inside for exactly, all she ever does is watch countdown and sit about doing crosswords.

I’m unsure what exactly to classify this monologue as; stating that something is a comedy is always such a bold statement to make.