PORTRAIT OF MY MUM

It was a clear idea; it appeared all at once, fully completed.

It was a heroic deed: all in one piece, but made of two kinds of clay. Because the contrast of light and darkness could not have been the result of some treatment on the surface, of colour and glaze; the opposition stems from the depth of the material.

Dayside: our home, with its docile window and objects that left such vivid imprint in my eyes that were new: there’s the teapot, there’s a little vase.

Nightside: incomprehensible wave, murky ground that ripples, darkness with no distinct forms, blackness where everything melts.

This day and night alternate independently of the sun’s trajectory.

I failed in the first attempt. But I tried again, until the window-portrait came out of the kiln with no crack.

Only one side has a glaze, and in the world of metaphors it could be claimed that glaze is consideration, the consciousness of the border between the outer and the inner space, the border that should be respected. The dark sea pours with no such considerations; its hard waves modelled by fingers that know that from up close.

And then that high object had to travel, together with the void of its window. It was given a wooden box, a lot of plastic bubbles, stickers warning about its fragility. It wasn’t enough – and that was quite in keeping with its profound nature. It came to its destination broken, or perhaps it broke while they opened its box. It was patched with adhesive tape that, with its broad grey-brownish strokes, denied it both shine and darkness; only the brokenness was left undisputed. It was exhibited that way, with apologies. What happened next, I don’t know, I never asked for it to be returned.

Perhaps I’ll make such portrait of her again someday, a bit smaller.