The close of summer signifies a return to school and the end of vacation. It’s like knowing things are changing, but not being able to do anything about it. For those going back to school, summer shortly gets replaced by homework, tests, and studying. For those like myself, commuting, deadlines, and unreasonable bosses. Neither one feel like a fair exchange. But I was determined to make summer last as long as I could.
I had household chores. My bedding needed to be washed, and the litter box changed. It wasn’t my fault that an announcement popped up on my screen about a crafts fair. A collection of artists, musicians, and good food always seems like a winning combination. I turned on my GPS and relied on Giselle who delights in taking me on many excursions. It was early and I had no problem finding an empty parking spot.
I entered the pavilion stopping at a display of pottery unlike anything I’d seen. I saw magnificent colors. Glazes shone blue on some pots, and gold on others. Leaves cascaded along the side of a vase and kept drifting as though they were falling from some unseen tree. I picked up a bowl, which molded itself to the shape of my hand. Surprised, I put it back down.
A woman leaned over the table with the darkest eyes I’ve seen, beautiful, sparkling eyes. She wore a colorful printed scarf; her hands were long and expressive. I expected no less of a potter. I’d heard that some Japanese potters insist on their apprentices spending a year throwing clay on a wheel before they can do anything else. But these pots were all hand-built. I saw places where her fingers had touched and wanted them to touch me.
“These are all my pots,” she said proudly, and waved her hand over the table as though she were introducing her brood of children. I knew they had to be hers.
There was one pot I hadn’t noticed, and picked it up. It was clay on the bottom and rolled coils of lambs’ wool on the top sewn to the clay through tiny holes. The colors were green, purple, beige, and light blue.
She explained how she’d made it, getting bits of discarded wool from a sheep herder in Spain. “It’s one of my favorites,” she said.
I don’t know if all vendors tell you that when you express interest in a particular item. I handed her back the pot. But in that moment, clouds covered the sun, and a cold gust blew through an open door. The leaves on her vase fell and piled on the table. They all had her name, address, and phone number. Business cards.
“Keep this,” she said, and slipped it into my pocket.
I spent the next few hours exploring the pavilion, and saw the usual collection of jewelry, designer clothing, and leather bags, however, nothing captured my imagination in the same way as her pots. But when I returned for another look, she was gone. It seemed strange that if you’re an artist who pays a fee to show at a crafts fair, you’d disappear on the morning of the first day.
After walking along the San Francisco Bay Trail that adjoined the building, I got in my car and pulled out her business card from my pocket. I noticed that her studio address was not far, still in the city of Richmond. For a moment, I remembered about my dirty sheets and litter box waiting at home.
“You don’t want to go there,” Giselle said. Sometimes she can be very bossy. “Not yet.”
It was all I needed to forget about doing chores on a beautiful summer day.
I’m not sure what I expected to find. Maybe I toyed around with the idea of buying that half-clay pot thinking it would look beautiful filled with straw flowers. Or maybe I wanted to watch her vase produce more glazed business cards. Mostly, I think I remembered her eyes, something exciting and calming about them at the same time. It’s not every day you meet such an exceptional artist.
“You’ve arrived,” Giselle said.
I stood in front one of an industrial building with a corrugated aluminum roof. A single jade plant stood in front of the doorway. There were names listed on a panel, several of them crossed out. Several were printed in handwritten letters, slanting in different direction. I chose Bregita P. Mallaway, potter, and pressed a red button, which was answered by a corresponding buzz. Slowly, I opened the door.
I recognized the woman who stood opposite me. Bregita wore the same scarf, her dark hair wisping out from its sides. She held the same pot that I’d admired. “Did you come back for this? I was hoping you would.”
I mumbled something. “How much?” I doubted I could afford it. My closet is filled with items that I usually give away, part of my guilt in spending too much money. If it’s a gift, I rationalize, then it’s okay.
“For you,” she said, and pushed it into my hands. I looked at the bottom. I heard an ocean. Laughter. People were swimming in the waves. She took my hand and we dove in together.