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I had been doing pottery for a number of years before finding the easiest way to remove the leftover clay from my wheel with a wooden wedge tool. Once a body is made and put aside, there is a flat, discarded millimeter of clay left on the surface which, when scraped off in one stroke, looks exactly like a vagina. Each is unique, rippled, fleshy and delicate. As I began to work in porcelain and became highly prolific due to a commission I received, I found the wooden tool to be the most efficient and satisfying way to clear my wheel. With every swipe against the metal, I pulled off a new vagina.
Pottery's reputation is tied to the phallus, mostly from the movie Ghost and the repetitive motion of centering the clay up and down and up and down. The anatomical accuracy is often jarring. But there are many more subtle sexual undertones in pottery, from "pulling a handle," to the wet, squishy clay and the sounds it makes in our hands, to the constant quest for lubrication, it's beyond naive to ignore the sex and sensuality inherent in pottery. I was so distracted by the seemingly endless dick-joke that I didn't notice the vaginas, literally birthing my utilitarian objects; under each piece I was left with the vagina from which it was born.
Pottery, like sex, is an ancient practice that has not changed much through history. Mud, fire and water are still all one needs to make something. As potters, we get our hands wet and dirty and we build. As is so often the case in our world, these vaginas are an afterthought. They come from the discarded mass that's left once the useful object is realized. I didn't make these pieces, they came out of the craft and offered themselves to me. I noticed them and respect them in their individuality enough to preserve them in glaze and fire.