a blue glaze she clearly loved more than its shape.
“This one appears to have survived an earthquake,” I said.
She nudged my shoulder.
“It has character.”
“It has a story.”
She laughed, then scrolled to a more recent piece.
There was progress in the pictures, but what interested me was how she described it. She remembered which part had collapsed, what she had rushed, what the instructor had made her try again. She did not pretend talent had arrived fully formed.
“I started about a year ago,” she said. “
