The Ceramics Shop. It was late Wednesday evening, the first of May, and I was walking out of the building, through the doors on the second floor, into the dark courtyard--the quiet of the night opening into a kind of freedom. I always walk on the right hand side--a habit of many years--to be able to look down into the ceramics studio. Lights on, almost always someone working at one of the white, canvas-covered tables. Tonight was unusual, though--just the one student, working alone. Maybe the green chalkboard (no messages) or the green container on the corner opposite--or was it his green satchel, tucked in behind the chair--or even the touch of green there among the sponges, lined up over the sink? Or perhaps the relaxed gesture of his left hand, paused for a minute as he contemplated his next move? Tans and grays, the muted pink of his shirt--all of one piece--as if the scene demanded a kind of homogeneity--a seamlessness--that went with the ease of the way he was standing, framed by the dark concrete window of the building.
Insistent white fluorescent rack above...
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