A PLACE TO WRITE AT NIGHT
Of course I took this as a personal message; a cruel taunt that reminded me how far I was not working on my novel. Perhaps it had been written by a real author, amongst whose number I knew I could not count myself. I was, I knew, someone who loved the idea of writing more than the act itself.
I found myself intoxicated by this place I had found, or rather that someone else had found; though I would like to construct my ceramic hut here, it would go against the spirit of Las Heras.
The blue pebbles continued, and so did I. After a short walk along a woodland track, I came to a large plywood wall, fifteen meters long and three meters high. A large canvas was stapled to the sturdy structure and painted, unfinished, was a huge portrait of me. I was shocked; it was a work in progress and from all the paint droppings and drips, it was clear that someone visited this place every day. Etched into the wood were the words:
A PLACE TO PAINT BY DAY
Who was painting this? Where were they? It was day and no one was around. The pebbles continued.
After 500 metres I came across a view that I could not have imagined. From this place I could see to infinity; the sky dissolved into the land, obliterating all sense of normality —there was no horizon. The lack of focus accentuated the colour, at this time of day, a violent turquoise. There was no movement or estimation of distance possible. All other things were forgotten, superseded absolutely by the sensory experience. This had to be the place for my ceramic masterpiece, even though I knew the giant tiles I had been making would not do justice. As I retraced the blue pebbles back to the Garden of Shadows, I began to think that the slabs I had made should simply constitute the floor. A floor of many colours. The enclosure needed to be created in another way. Would it be possible to make the whole enclosure out of clay, firing it in one piece by creating a huge fire around it and inside? I could use timber to create a form, cover it in clay and in turn cover that with an enormous fire. The act would be a celebration at which the estate’s finest wine would be served to the sounds of a flamenco guitar. People would dance until sunrise and fall asleep in front of the infinite view. I would seek advice from Juan.
I was so excited I forgot to discover to where the blue pebbles led. I retreated to my stone hut to write another word of my novel:
‘REWIND’
I fell asleep dreaming of clay. Juan, as ever, was helpful. He told me where to get the vast quantities of clay I would need and also told me of a stock of blankets he had that, if soaked, would keep the clay moist while I was working the exterior of the new pottery home. He was so calm that I began to get the feeling that he had done it before.
Two days later a truck arrived with the clay. I had already nearly completed the internal form from wood I had gathered from the forest. I began to lay on the clay.
Externally it looked as a pile of mud. I cut holes for light in the skin; in long, thin shapes that both aerate the interior as well as casting moving shadows across the inside of this large ceramic bowl. I glazed the structure in a mixture of white, azure blue and ultramarine; it would be like living in a piece of Mysor.
I still found myself slipping into categories of style, a limitation I was trying to escape. It was this worry that had stopped me writing my novel until I discovered the ‘one word at a time’ policy. I did not know where it was going and that allowed me to work. In my foray into architecture I must remember the same principle.
I then buried everything under a huge pile of wood making it into a very large bonfire. I had to do this quickly, before the heat of the Spanish September sun dried out the clay.
I lit the pyre on four sides and stood back as it took hold, waiting for it to generate enough heat, which I would then have to hold in by covering it with earth; I had made the whole construction into a slow burning charcoal oven. The pile exuded smoke slowly from the top. Exhausted, I walked back to the stone lodge and wrote another single word before sleep. No wine, no food —only a fear of failure combined with an excitement of something that might be extraordinary.
I set out my table, unscrewed the top of my pen, and added one word to my text:
‘DREAMS’