Café Crem

Art, Music and Words around The Coffee Table

Atlantic Bridge -2-

(Prologue) (Atlantic Bridge -1-)

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June 6th 2062, Kittery, Maine.

The Heli Jet disgorged its human cargo, taking off into the hazy blue skies of Maine again almost immediately. The Five men ran quickly into the innocuous looking gunmetal grey aircraft hanger. Once inside, they were met by a barrel-chested, tight-lipped marine who gave them a curt nod before ushering them into a stainless steel elevator in the corner of the hanger. With a barely audible whoosh they proceeded to drop 2 miles down into the bedrock.
Seconds later, the doors opened and a brightly lit corridor greeted them. It looked to go on for miles. They were ushered into a nearby conference room, and the marine, evidently well-briefed, announced them:

“General Sir George Lacey, UK Commander-in-chief, Armed Forces,
Lieutenant Commander Ben Tobias, His Majesty’s Royal Navy,
Sir Robert Westing , Universal Civil Engineers Chief Executive,
Daniel Rawlings, Chairman of the Board, Structural Solutions, UK,
and finally, Mr. Marius Cassel, CBE, B.A. Frcs. Institute of International Architects.”

The group exchanged pleasantries with their American counterparts, Cal Mooney of Buildcorp, Inc.,  Dexter Johnson of Statewide Corporate and Structural, and Bert Dwyer, C.O. of Polyflex Industries.

The meeting was chaired by the U.S. Strategic Commander General Thomas Alberstein, assisted by his Lieutenant, Edwin Newsome.

The USSC wasted no time. “Gentlemen, I hope we have managed to arrange this meet as speedily as you would have liked, now what in the blazes is so damned important that’s its got me running up to Maine like I’ve got a fire in my ass?”
“Your turn of phrase is as entertaining as ever, General Alberstein, “ said Sir George Lacey. “Ben, can you outline for the good general here our doomsday scenario?”

For the next five minutes, Ben Tobias painted a gloomy picture, the build up of terrorist battalions in Normandy and Brittany, the discovery of covert fundamentalist operations in US and UK territories in the Caribbean, and the continuing call from the ruling Bin Laden family to the muslim community of Great Britain to distance itself  from the population, and pave the way for “Shariah Law’s full implementation in spiritually Islamic Britain”. By the time he sat down, an air of depression had filled the room.

“Okay”, said Alberstein, “Now you’ve improved my mood, what’s your point, I’m damn sure you didn’t need to come all this way to tell me how deep the shit is.”

“Indeed not, Thomas, “ said Sir George patiently, “and I should now like to ask Mr. Marius Cassel to share his thoughts with us.”

Marius Cassel stood. An unassuming man, around 1.75m, short salt and pepper hair, and steel rimmed glasses, he was a fit 52, and was the product of a German father and Polish mother. He grew up in Ambialet, a beautiful town shoehorned into the sheer rock that rose out of the River Tarn, in southern France. It was a wonderful place to grow up in, the green river flowing by, caressing the golden sand banks that occasionally peeked above the surface. Ancient, rough-hewn steps found their way down the rocks to a riverside path which Marius spent hours wandering along. A church nestled between the jagged outcrops above the village, but high on the next rock looking down over all of Ambialet, was the Monastery. The Monastery was a source of wonder to the young Marius. How had it been constructed, in such a seemingly inaccessible place? The small town was full of such things to pique a young boy’s curiosity. A tunnel, through the rock itself, served to link the sections of Ambialet, as it struggled against nature to create a community on, above and between the jagged rocks, and an old stone bridge spanned the widening Tarn, as it swept by the town in an imperious arc. The walls of Ambialet seemed to merge as one with the natural rock as it plunged down into the river, giving the Southern aspect of the town the impression of a fortress. Marius’ interest in Architecture had begun at the age of 5, when his mother used to take him on trips to visit the worlds’ great cathedrals. She was a fanatical Catholic, but the religion made little impression on the young Marius. It was the gods who had built these wonderful places that he wanted to worship, better still, emulate, and with an I.Q. that was off the scale, and a wealthy family to fund his education, he went on to do just that. Living in Ambialet until he left school, the family then relocated to Chartres, with Marius opting to study in Oxford. After leaving University at the age of 22, he returned to his family home in Chartres to find his parents murdered, and the magnificent Cathedral razed to the ground by fundamentalists. Public executions were taking place daily amidst the ruins of that once mighty edifice, as weeping Catholics and Protestants alike were tortured for their beliefs. Marius had fled in horror, and found sanctuary in England. He now lived in a small cottage just outside Canterbury, with a view of the cathedral, where he could look upon that wonderful building and try and soothe the memory of the past….

© Kev Moore 2008 All Rights Reserved

(Atlantic Bridge 3)

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January 10, 2009 Posted by | books, Cafe Literati, Kev Moore's Novel Atlantic Bridge, personal, politics, random, writing | , , , | 10 Comments

Fish out of Water Chapter 1

Fish Out of Water

by Vivienne Tuffnell

Chapter 1

Isobel could pinpoint the exact day, even the exact moment when her life began its inexorable slide from amiable muddle to downright anarchy and dangerous chaos. She had a number of occasions to choose from, but the real moment stood out like a light on a dark night.

It wasn’t the moment when Mickey, her husband of three weeks said, somewhat apologetically,

“I hate to tell you this, Izzie, but I have a terrible feeling that God is calling me to become a minister.”

It was, however, a supremely incongruous moment, as anyone less like an embryonic priest she couldn’t imagine. He was lying on their brand new leather sofa, more or less naked, and was holding out a wine glass for a refill, and she had topped it up with a shrug and had merely remarked, mildly,

“Well, you could have told me that before you married me!”

“I know. I tried. There never seemed to be the right moment,” he said, apparently contrite, and had set down his glass and pulled her onto the sofa to christen it a second time.

It wasn’t the moment late on a dull Wednesday afternoon when her brother Simon had phoned her, incoherent with grief and confusion, to tell her that their parents were both dead, had in fact died in the strangest of suicide pacts so contrary to anything they had ever done or said that even now, six months later, Isobel couldn’t look at their urns without a burning of sudden rage and couldn’t think what she could do with those ashes if she wasn’t allowed to chuck them on the compost heap as her every emotion told her to do.

It wasn’t the moment when she woke up one morning, counted, then counted again, and realised that not only was she pregnant, not unusual in itself, but that she had passed the twenty week mark she’d never got even close to in previous brief pregnancies, and that the chances were she was actually going to have a baby at the end of this.

Nor was it the moment when the stag stepped out into the headlights of her car.

It was the moment when she straightened up, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the bathroom sink, and totally failed to recognise herself. She’d stood there, her feet bare and wet, and gazed at the face staring back at her and wondered who was looking at her. It had not been a nice moment at all.

It had come on the day when her daughter Miranda, now just over two years old, had flooded the house and called the emergency services, and in one of those little master strokes of irony Isobel was to come to recognise much later, she’d done it all wearing a fairy costume. The outfit, which Isobel regarded as an abomination and refused to allow her to wear except on high days and holidays, had been a gift from Simon’s wife, and consisted of an absurdly frilly pink dress sewn all over with shimmering sequins, a set of pink gauzy wings which shed glitter over everything to such an extent that Mickey had celebrated Communion with specks of it on his cheekbones, raising some unwholesome questions in the minds of the more imaginative in the congregation. To top the whole horrible outfit off, there was a pink magic wand with a tinsel covered star on the end. Isobel hated the damn thing, but somehow, Miranda had that day managed to dress herself entirely unaided and Isobel was too tired from a broken night with the baby to bother making her change. Dealing with the inevitable tantrums of an excessively bright and self willed two year old was actually more exhausting than being up at night with a four month old baby who thought two in the morning was a great time to have a one-to-one with Mum. That morning, Isobel’s nipples hurt, her eyes felt gritty and her back was aching, but she still had work to do, so as soon as Luke was snoozing serenely in his rocking crib, she grabbed her easel and paints and started work while Miranda was happily floating round the house singing to herself in a mindless, tuneless croon, apparently turning everything into clouds of flowers as she informed her mother from time to time.

Isobel set to work to try to finish the painting she’d promised would be finished three weeks ago; a series of photographs were pegged to the top corner of the easel and she laboured with tired eyes to try and capture the light in the eyes of a child on a swing. Miranda was lost in her own little world, and when she did speak to her mother, it generally only required responses like, “Yes, darling,” to keep her happy.

She’d decided some time ago that she was better off using acrylic paints as not only did they dry faster, they could be washed off with plain water, not something to discount when small fingers seemed to get everywhere, but today, she wished she could have used oils, as they seemed to give a greater brightness to the kind of details she was trying to perfect today. She sighed; first thing that morning, she’d caught herself in her materials cupboard with the lids of the bottles of turpentine and linseed oil undone, inhaling softly and losing herself in a nostalgic haze. Poppy seed oil gave a lovely sheen, especially when you were doing faces filled with light and happiness, but linseed today had a perfume that made her think of garlic bread and red wine, of drunken lunches only a few years ago, and not, as Mickey suggested, of cricket bats at the start of the season.

“Must have a wee,” Miranda said abruptly, and ran off up the stairs, waving that wretched wand.

“Don’t forget to wash your hands,” Isobel called and then got lost in the painting.

Luke snuffled in the crib, reminding Isobel of another reason why she couldn’t use oils and the accompanying mess and stench of turps and linseed oil. She moved her foot and the string round it rocked the crib until the snuffling subsided and was replaced by the soft sound of deep sleep. She tried to concentrate, while keeping an ear out for noises upstairs. The toilet flushed. Miranda had decided to toilet train herself shortly after the arrival of her baby brother Luke. She’d stood and watched her mother change a particularly vile nappy and had stood thinking for some time.

“Nappies are for little babies,” she said. “I’m not a little baby. Why do you make me wear nappies, Mummy?”

Isobel had been astounded at that; and even more astounded at how fast Miranda had become first clean and then dry, with minimal involvement from her or Mickey. However, it did have disadvantages. The holding power of a miniscule bladder had meant that any trip of more than half an hour had to be meticulously planned around where public loos were located and which of the department stores had loos accessible to a pushchair. It meant that Isobel rarely went out anymore at all, unless it was to one of those groups for mothers with small children, where such concerns were the norm, or she went alone, when Mickey was able to be with the children for a few hours. Though while Luke was still being breastfed, Isobel’s excursions were limited by that, and she was usually summoned home by a frantic call to her mobile, to arrive back to find Luke red faced and screaming with hunger and her own breasts about to explode.

She sighed again, and wiped away a drop of sweat that was running down her face. Even though it was June, it was still quite cool and she wondered why she was sweating. Another drop fell, this time onto the painting, and distracted, she looked up.

Water was running from the light fitting and dropping like an indoor rainstorm, and for the first time, Isobel could hear running water.

“Oh shit,” she said, and very calmly, unhooked Luke’s string from her foot, moved her easel away from the dripping water and hurtled upstairs.

The bathroom seemed to have turned into a domestic version of Niagara Falls; the taps at the sink were full on and water was spilling out onto the floor, now almost an inch deep in water. The bath taps were on too, but fortunately the bath had not quite filled yet. She tried to turn the basin taps off, which took some time as they had been jammed on, and then turned the bath taps off too, and then turned to see Miranda, standing daintily on the plastic step stool she used to reach the sink or the toilet. Her bare feet were wet but the rest of her was dry and she was happily waving the wand at the taps. When she was the look on her mother’s face, she said,

“It wasn’t me; the fairies made the taps get stuck. I was using magic to make them stop,” and skipped off down the stairs, leaving wet and twinkly footsteps behind her all the way.

Isobel stood silently looking at the devastation around her and was very glad of her daughter’s strategic retreat, because it meant that first she wasn’t tempted to throttle her, and second, because she wasn’t going to be there to hear her mother’s very colourful language as she tried to bail the bathroom floor into the bath with a bath toy like a seaside bucket. She soon gave up with that and ripped up the bathroom carpet and heaved it into the bath to drain while she attempted to mop the sodden wooden boards beneath with all the already damp towels that Miranda had used to make an island around her step.

After ten minutes, Isobel’s hands were red and aching from wringing out wet towels and the floor still looked like a lake, so she fetched the mop and began to use that. At least she could do that standing up. The doorbell rang.

“Go away, I’m not in,” she snarled under her breath and for a moment the charm seemed to work and nothing happened, beyond Luke waking up and beginning to grizzle. Then the doorbell began to ring as though someone had taped it down.

“GO AWAY!” Isobel yelled. This was really not a good time for someone to call to see the vicar, unless of course they were psychic and had come round with their wet’n’dry vacuum cleaner.

As soon as she’d yelled, Luke’s crying intensified and had become his usual enraged bellow of indignation that he had been ignored for more than ten seconds, and not only did the ringing not stop, someone started pounding both on the front door and the back door simultaneously.

Isobel hurtled wetly down the stairs and flung the front door open, ready to yell at whoever was making her life a misery, but the words of anger died in her throat. There was a scared looking policeman standing there.

“Mrs. Trelawny? We had an emergency call from this number and all we could hear was a screaming baby,” he said. “Is everything all right?”

A second policeman, who’d obviously been at the back door, now appeared and stared at Isobel. Luke’s crying had settled into his “I can do this all day if I have to,” mode, and Isobel felt her own eyes fill with tears.

“No, I’m not all right,” she said, feeling her lower lip tremble childishly. “But it’s nothing you two can do anything about. Domestic disaster.”

The first policeman was clearly concerned over Luke’s crying.

“May we come in?” he said.

Isobel shrugged and stepped back and let them in, and went straight through to the living room to pick up Luke and at least assure them that the baby was crying for very ordinary reasons. She was holding a now quiet Luke when she saw what Miranda had been doing while she’d been mopping the bathroom.

The phone was lying off the hook, so it was now clear who had made that emergency call, but Miranda was standing at Isobel’s easel, brush in hand.

“I’ve finished your painting for you, Mummy,” she said and beamed at them all.

Isobel nearly dropped the baby. Six weeks’ intermittent work had now been erased with what was for two years old, a brilliant piece of painting. Isobel sat down on the sofa, her knees weak and felt the first tears begin to fall. A drip from the ceiling fell onto Luke’s face and set him crying with surprise. The two policemen stood there, looking embarrassed and helpless, and said nothing. Miranda put the brush, the handle thick with paint into her mother’s hand, and Isobel stared at it, and passed it from hand to hand, spreading the paint randomly all over her own shaking hands.

“As you can see,” Isobel said thickly. “This is a purely domestic disaster, nothing criminal or dangerous. I think my daughter must have called 999.”

The second policeman bent down and put the phone back on its receiver and then put the whole thing back onto the little table near the door.

“That was very clever of her,” he said, uncertainly.

“On the television,” said Miranda calmly, “They always tell children that if they are in trouble to call 999.”

“Not this sort of trouble,” Isobel said, wiping her eyes with the side of her hand and getting paint into her eyes. “Oh, God, now what have I done. That hurts!”

The policemen were glad of something they could do, and helped Isobel wash the paint from her eyes, and when they’d made certain that there was no real reason for them to be there, they made there way to the front door. Isobel followed them and Miranda was in the process of running after them when she caught her arm and stopped her.

“Now, Miranda,” she said. “You’ve wasted the time of these two nice men. What do you say to them?”

Miranda looked gravely at the two young men and considered her options. Despite having a formidable vocabulary and excellent diction, she had some time since worked out that on certain people, cute worked a hell of a lot better than clever. Waving her wand graciously at them, she curtseyed and lisped,

“Sowwy!” and frolicked back up the stairs.

“I can only concur,” said Isobel. “Sorry!”

“Mrs. Trelawny,” said the first officer. “Would you mind me offering you some advice?”

She looked at his young earnest face and wondered if she had ever been that young.

“If you like,” she said, uncertainly.

“Try to prioritise,” he said. “You’re obviously exhausted. Your little girl is a real handful and you don’t look like you’re coping. Painting is a nice hobby but maybe when the kids are a bit older…?”

Isobel managed to smile and thank him but once the door was shut, she went back upstairs and returned to mopping out the bathroom muttering under her breath,

“I’m a professional bloody artist not some useless amateur.”

She mopped and mopped till the floor was as free of water as she could manage and she knelt down and began to dry the boards with one of those magic micro-fibre cloths that hold huge volumes of water. When she straightened up, she saw herself in the mirror and wondered who it was looking in at her. She took a minute or two to realise that it was a mirror not a window and that the tired, grey looking face with boring mouse coloured hair cut to be long enough to cover the piercing scars on her ears but not long enough to tie back, belonged to her, and a sense of horror swept over her and she began to cry in earnest now.

“Where did I go?” she asked herself in the mirror, so shocked that she no longer looked the way she imagined she looked.

She hadn’t missed the dreadlocks when she’d had them cut off three months before Mickey went to theological college; they’d been a nightmare to keep clean and they’d itched too. She hadn’t really missed all her many, many earrings, and even now, most of the holes had healed up without trace; after all in over seven years nearly every cell in her body had replaced itself. Even so, she’d kept her hair to this length for years just to hide her ears, even if there wasn’t much to hide now. Her eyebrow piercing had healed and so had her nose piercing, but she still had her own image filled with details like that, even though no one now knew anything about them. She’d drawn the line at neat little pearl studs in the only holes left open in her ears, but she’d even stopped bothering with the arty, dangly earrings she’d usually worn; babies and earrings can be a painful mix.

What she couldn’t get over was the fact that the face staring back at her didn’t look like her at all. Surely her hair had a better colour than that dull shade a house mouse would be ashamed of? Surely it shone more than that? Why had her eyes turned to this shade of mud when they should be amber? And why were there shadows under her eyes that made her look hollow-cheeked and deathly?

“I’ve got to do something about this,” she said to her reflection and flung the wet cloth into the bath with the sodden carpet that didn’t look like it was worth saving anyway.

The doorbell rang again and Isobel slowly went down the stairs to answer it, hoping it wasn’t anything important.

They’d only been in this parish a few weeks and they were still getting a lot of the social calls that ate into daily life, and meant that Isobel’s life often consisted of answering the door to parishioners who wanted to meet their new minister and his wife and children. Mickey, of course, was out most of the time, and Isobel floundered at times dealing with people when she was in the middle of something, but had somehow managed to stay on the right side of politeness.

It was Mrs. Hall, a middle aged lady who Isobel had a feeling was probably in charge of the flower rota or something of the sort.

“Hello Isobel, you’re looking well. Is the vicar in?” she said breezily and Isobel felt her hackles rise at the obvious insincerity.

“No, sorry, he isn’t,” Isobel said. “He’s out all day, I’m afraid. I can’t ask you in; we’ve had a flood. The taps got jammed and the bathroom got flooded.”

“That’s OK, I don’t need to use the bathroom.” Mrs Hall said and began to push into the hall. Isobel stood her ground and Mrs. Hall found herself in the uncomfortable position of either needing to shove Isobel out of the way or of backing off. She backed off, looking puzzled.

“Sorry,” said Isobel, managing a nice smile. “It really is like the Somme the morning after. I’m sure you wouldn’t want visitors if you’d just had the morning I’ve had. I’ll let Mickey know you called. Was it anything in particular?”

“No, nothing special,” said Mrs. Hall. “If you need any help, you will just ask, won’t you?”

Isobel managed an even nicer smile.

“It’s all under control now, but thanks. I appreciate it,” she said. “It’s just going to take a bit of time to sort out. See you soon.”

When she’d shut the door, Isobel went back to where Miranda was playing quietly with her baby brother on the living room floor and stared at her ruined painting and wondered what the hell she could do. She eventually decided that Miranda’s additions were still damp enough to wash off, even if it took off what she’d added today, so she took the whole canvas upstairs and using the shower spray managed to wash very lightly until the extra paint her daughter had put on was washed away and the painting was restored to how it had been when she’d started work that morning. So at least one thing has been salvaged from the chaos of the morning, even if the bathroom carpet was ruined. She took the painting and its easel and left it in a corner of her and Mickey’s bedroom to dry and bolted the door from the outside and went down to get lunch ready.

That evening, over a grown up dinner of Chinese chicken and noodles and a bottle of red wine, Isobel told Mickey about her horrible day and wept into his black shirt when they snuggled up on the sofa later.

“Do you think this is post-natal depression?” he said after a while and a lot of tissues. “I mean, you were pretty low after Miranda, and you did lose your Mum and Dad while you were still expecting Luke. It’s only natural you’ll feel low sometimes.”

“Low? Low?” wailed Isobel. “I couldn’t get much lower if I went potholing. I have six commissions to do and I never get the time or space to do them. If I don’t get them done even near to when I said I’d do them I may lose them. And I never get the time to do any real painting any more. It would be bearable with the kids if I didn’t get the parish hammering on the door the whole time.”

He was thinking about it, she could see that.

“Maybe you need a studio,” he said.

“Yeah and how are we going to manage that? Childcare and a studio? On what I earn, never mind your stipend? I don’t think so.”

She buried her face in the dark soft leather and sobbed.

“No, I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Maybe we can manage it. Look, the sale of your parent’s house is going through any time soon. I know it’ll be split two ways between you and Simon, but there’ll be a lot there. Not enough to buy a house for us outright, maybe, but enough so we’d only have a small mortgage. What about looking for a small place somewhere quiet that we can use as a holiday home and we can have for when I retire? If I ask around, I reckon there are a few people who’d help out with the kids during the week if you went off to this small place to get on with painting. Even weekends too sometimes. I know it’s not perfect, but it might help enough to get you through this.”

Isobel sat up abruptly, and gazed at her husband in wonder. He had glitter from his daughter’s preternatural wings on his nose and his lips had a purplish stain from the wine, but right now, he looked good enough to eat.

“That’s a brilliant idea,” she said. “But in the mean time, I have an even better one.”

“Which is?”

She put her hand on his thigh and leaned over to kiss him.

“This,” she said, and just then a thin wail of infant irritation floated down the stairs.

“Damn,” said Mickey and watched as Isobel levered herself out of the sofa and padded upstairs. He waited for some time, and after almost an hour he finally went upstairs to look for her. She was sprawled in the big armchair in Luke’s room; the sleeping baby lay in her lap, her shirt was open, her nursing bra adrift and milk was dribbling down her stomach. She was fast asleep. He took his son from her lap and put him in his cot and then with a much greater effort, eased the mostly asleep Isobel to her feet and guided her along the passage to their own room, held back the duvet and helped her slide into bed. She raised her eyes sleepily to him.

“Where were we?” she said.

“It’ll keep,” he said and tucked her up. She was snoring softly before he reached the light switch.

January 10, 2009 Posted by | Cafe Literati, drawing, love, personal, Viv's Novels, women, writing | , , , | 16 Comments

Blue Tits

Blue Tits by Jenny

Blue Tits by Jenny

January 10, 2009 Posted by | animals, Art, Cafe L'Arte, drawing, friends, fun, illustrations, Jenny's Art, life, nature | , , , , | 3 Comments

Earthmother

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Earthmother, manqué.

 

Sometimes I find it hard

To resist the growing urge

To cook for the children,

The ten or twelve I never had,

Or cater for the horde

Of hungry friends that once

Came knocking at mealtimes,

Eager for food or fellowship.

The phantom feet still beat

A path at times to my door,

And wait like patient pets

For recognition and relief.

At times like these, I shiver,

And make vast cauldrons

Of hot and bubbling soup

Massive crumbles and pies,

Roast beef, all the trimmings,

And try not to count

The empty chairs around

My waiting, groaning table.

 

January 10, 2009 Posted by | Art, Cafe L'Arte, Cafe Literati, family, food, friends, love, personal, photography, poetry, Viv's Art, Viv's Poetry, women | , , , , , | 3 Comments

Ugly Mug

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Finally I have managed to get something coffee related into cafe crem! The mug in the picture was my star creation at age 13/14 after a few weeks doing pottery at my secondary school. The teacher told various other members of staff about it that it was the best she’d seen any pupil produce, and this little dewdrop filtered back to me in the time honoured tradition. The photo alas is not so good but I am still getting the hang of the new camera even though I stil have no software; this was uploaded by the simple(haha!) expedient of putting the camera SD card into my new EEpc laptop and getting my husband to figure the rest out….It was then all transferred onto what we like to call a “remembering twig” and thus onto my PC.

If you’re wondering how a single mug has survived almost thirty years of use and about ten house moves, then blame my teacher. For some reason a tiny area inside the mug didn’t take the glaze and so the resulting mug has never held liquid of any sort and therefore only qualifies as a coffee cup from wistful thinking. It annoyed me at the time that all my work at the potter’s wheel getting the basic vessel right, then the sculpting of the face and the handle all went for nothing because a dip in the glaze missed a tiny portion of biscuit-fired clay, but now I am glad because I am sure that it would have been broken beyond repair by now otherwise.

Sometimes a mistake proves to be a blessing.

by Viv

January 10, 2009 Posted by | Art, Cafe L'Arte, coffee, fun, personal, photography, school, Viv's Art | , , , , , | 2 Comments