An Art Lesson

My fingernails are dirty, and I couldn’t be more pleased. I just came from my first (ever) pottery class, a studio class I swapped with French Literature. Seeing as the last time I took an art class was “World Crafts” freshman year of high school and knowing that even my doodles are limited to pathetic stick figures, I can already see a few of my dear readers rolling their eyes and grinning, while others send me a virtual high-five for jury-rigging my schedule and dropping dear ol’ Zola. But let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves; this decision was only slightly motivated by the positive impact it would have on my reading load. In fact, it is more a reflection of my new, more involved relationship with art that Paris has fostered.

I can already tell that this pottery class is going to be a gem of a souvenir of my time in France. As soon as I found the studio, I spotted my professor: a petite woman in her mid-forties with an artsy, messy ponytail; thick, square, black glasses and a hint of clay on the apple of her cheek. She immediately knew who I was, smiled as she told me to call her Karin, provided me with a pair of coveralls that made me look like a gas station attendant and a pair of fuchsia plastic shoes that made me look like a garden fairy, and asked if I wanted a cup of tea. Next thing I knew, I was elbow deep in clay (no exaggeration), having a blast but wondering if I’d have any more luck centering my hunk of red mud with Patrick Swayze sitting behind me. (obligatory Ghost reference: check)

Two and a half hours later, I felt exhilarated despite my new back pain. This pottery class, I decided, was going to serve multiple purposes. First of all, I feel like for the first time I’m getting a legitimate chance to play artist. Sure, nothing I “made” Monday night was worth saving, and I don’t aspire to open my own ceramics store, but in the meantime I’m highly enjoying this little daydream where I can actually consider myself a creative human being. And I can tell that this role-playing is going to help me appreciate my art history class even more than before (if that was even possible). I have a more nuanced respect for the painters we study who started with a completely blank canvas and tinkered with it for hours upon hours until it actually merited a signature and a submission to the prestigious salons, and I’m beginning to be sensitive to the numerous sources Parisians have tapped for personal inspiration. Don’t worry though, you won’t find me anytime soon in Montmartre with the other artists enticing you to sit for a portrait because you have a strong, Roman nose! After all, I’ve only had one class so far.

One thing about my studio that I hadn’t exactly anticipated was its impact on my communication skills. First of all, I’ve already been exposed to a brand new set of vocabulary words related to art and pottery techniques. It’s as if I’m back in middle school learning a new thematic unit, only this one is accompanied by illustrations in a studio, complete with words related to changing speed on the potter’s wheel, the geometric shapes used in construction, and the tools needed to sculpt the perfect water pitcher. They should all come in handy for the next time I, erm… take or teach a pottery class… in French. In any case, I do appreciate the opportunity to learn something new.

The class also looks like a good opportunity to strike up fairly lengthy conversations. I think for many people, a pottery class sounds like a wonderful excuse for some “me” time; while it’s true that it seems to be a very reflective activity, I have plenty of “me” time already on my plate. Commuting to classes, spending random hours in my room, and exploring different areas of Paris during awkward 1 ½ hour breaks have allowed my inner monologue to run a bit wild these past few weeks. Even in and outside of class, it’s near impossible to make friends with French students, which I expected and don’t terribly mind. But in pottery, the five other students (middle-aged women who love to gossip and tease each other) seemed genuinely and refreshingly excited by my presence and have already begun to ask me the usual what-are-you-doing-here questions. I can already tell that this class will do wonders for me when I want to bavarder, or be a Chatty Kathy. After all, it’s almost difficult not to bond when you all resemble tourists in the Dead Sea’s mud baths.

It’s funny to think how my perception of Paris has changed in the course of a few weeks. I always considered it a very “artsy” city, but lately that classification has gone beyond the usual associations with the fantastic museums and general chic-ness to infiltrating much of my experience here. It’s in the beautiful Art Nouveau metro signs. It’s in my first two (ever) operas, sung in Italian and translated in French subtitles (and I understood all that went on – go figure). It’s in the French students’ incredibly neat, colorful and meticulous notes. It’s in my film professor’s admiration of director Jean Renoir’s (son of Auguste Renoir) brilliance. And it’s in my dirty fingernails.