Potter and the night

Potter and the night

I am Philoxenos, son of the potter. I work in the market of Athens. In this tale, you will find it unbelievable, but the events happened.

The night was very dark, the wet clay had become heavy in my hands; the lamp was flickering, and long shadows cast across the wall. I sat alone in the workshop with a pile of raw clay, shaping an amphora.

Suddenly, a voice came from the darkness: "What do you do, little man?"

I looked up to see an old man at the door, cloaked in tattered garments. His eyes—stars! Stars in a human face!

"How did you get in, for I have locked the door?" I asked, trembling.

He chuckled softly, "The door does not hinder me, young one; it is Hephaestus."

"You are lying!" I screamed. "Gods never come to those who are poor."

"We do come," he replied, taking a seat on a block of wood, "especially to the craftsman. You work at night while all others sleep. Why?"

I was at first mute. After a moment, the truth of my heart poured forth as water bursts forth from a spring.

"I have a sick father," I said, "and my mother cries every day. There is no way for me to afford to sell. I must make amulets." I hesitated, too ashamed to continue.

"What do you mean?" the god asked, raising his head as if interested.

"I am no craftsman; I have no father—and my amphorae are not beautiful; my father had the craft, but I was not trained."

Hephaestus stood up slowly. As in the stories, he limped. He came to the potter’s wheel and touched the clay. His fingers were as coarse as mine.

"Watch," he said, and he began to shape clay.

The clay obeyed him as a captured animal obeys its captor. The clay spun; the body rose and shaped itself into the vessel. Yet, there was a slight imperfection on the body.

"Do you see that?" he asked. "That is the imperfection."

"Yes!" I replied. "It is a mistake!"

"That is not true," he said. "That is life. In life, perfection is deceased; in life, there are no perfect things, because they breathe; I am lame, Philoxenos, and I fell from the summit of Olympus; even then, my creations are the most beautiful that gods have created."

I cried, I did not know why. Tears fell on the clay.

"What do I do?" I asked.

"Fail," he said. "Fail a number of times; then start over. Craft is produced by the toil of the hands, not the ease of the body. Your father learned by that process; so too will you learn."

Dawn was upon us—rosy-fingered light shone through the window.

The god disappeared; I do not know whether or not he was real. I do know that my amphora remains today with imperfection.

I still have that amphora. Twenty years have passed since then. My father has died, and now my mother has followed him to the grave, but I continue to work, and continue to fail and to strive once more. And during the dark hours of the night, with the cold clay in my hand, I also hold dear to those words of the god: “imperfect things breathe”.

So I live, and create, and breathe.