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An empty, lumpy, dead abstraction is perched upon the artist’s centrifugal implement. It does not wait to be changed; it does not wait for anything. It is a dead thing, a mound of earth, of shapeless, infinite, undefined clay. A dead thing... She’s sitting at her manual potters wheel. Her hands trace the contours of the earth, and as she increases the velocity of the centrifuge, the wheel spins faster and the clay’s figure, now being forced to life by gravity, begins to compromise against her concentrated touch. She shapes the malleable consistency of her medium, this dead thing, to be a figure, a form, a tool consistent within her personal aesthetic associations with “clay” and beauty. She chooses a material, decides upon a shape, and manipulates the material until it resembles her original vision. Though, Who chooses her original vision? And, Who manipulates her? She is, Or is she not, A figure, a form, a tool: A dead thing.
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