I love clay. Touching it is akin to touching warm skin, plant leaves, moss -- so juicy, sensuous and forgiving.
One evening, many years ago, my then 3-year-old son, Theo, and I were sitting at the kitchen table playing with clay. I had not worked with it for quite awhile, being a first time enthusiastic mother. Theo made a figure of himself holding up his arms. I made the small Western Buddha. I remember feeling excited the way one does when you have come upon something that is just right.