A couple of years ago, I decided to step outside my comfort zone and sign up for an introductory pottery workshop. It was held on a damp Saturday afternoon at a community arts centre in Manchester, not far from my flat. I had never really tried anything tactile like that before, but I had been feeling quite bogged down with work and fancied doing something completely screen-free.
The class was led by a local ceramicist who was incredibly patient, and there were about eight of us altogether, all complete novices. Next to me was a retired teacher who wanted to pick up a new hobby, and a couple of university students who seemed just as clueless as I was. We started off with basic hand-building techniques, like pinching and coiling, before we were let loose on the potter's wheels. That turned out to be far messier than I had anticipated. Centring the lump of wet clay took an awful lot of physical effort, and my first two attempts ended up collapsing into sad, lopsided heaps.
Even so, the whole atmosphere was remarkably supportive. Whenever someone’s pot wobbled and turned into a pancake, we all just had a good laugh about it. By the end of the two-hour session, with a bit of guidance from the tutor, I actually managed to produce a decent-looking small bowl, which was then left behind to be glazed and fired in the kiln.
Looking back, I found the entire afternoon surprisingly therapeutic. Being completely absorbed in shaping something with my bare hands gave me a real sense of accomplishment, even if my finished piece was a bit wonky. It made me realise how rewarding it is to try something creative purely for the joy of it, rather than worrying about perfection.