Most of us do not create that much in our daily lives anymore. We sit in front of computer screens, and at best, we make up things in our minds while our bodies are in sleep mode. For many of us, the last time we made something tangible with our own hands was in school. And thus, we become children again when we touch clay or hold a pencil between our fingers. Though some were more hesitant than others, everyone in the group was eager to feel clay between their hands or to draw something on the tiles we were handed.
Pottery isn’t exactly a walk in the park. To learn this craft takes some time, especially because in this workshop, everything is done by hand, the way they have done it for years and years. While you are moving your hands up and down to mold the clay, you have to make sure the wheel underneath keeps spinning with your legs. It requires practice, but luckily, we had Ghazal and his sons who guided us and made sure all of us created something beautiful, whether it was a vase to put flowers into or a mug to drink from. As for the drawings, some of us, inspired by the designs seen in the showroom, drew palm trees or flowers, while others, treading the unknown path, drew mosques, animals, or themselves. Admittedly, drawing for the first time in ages does not by definition result in a masterpiece, but practice makes perfect; those who made a second one improved greatly.
Into the deep black
Creating something that confirms your existence in this world is a good feeling. This material now carries the mark of your hand instead of being one of the millions and millions of mass products that are produced in factories where love and nature have been cast off the stage. On one of my tiles, I drew a flower and the quote ‘everything is alright’ in Arabic. In another, I depicted the al-Aqsa mosque in Jerusalem along with a Quranic passage warning against letting your daily worries divert your attention. With one of Ghazal’s assistants, I made a small vase to put flowers in.
After a couple of hours of being concentrated on art, we felt our artistic energy got the space it needed, and we ourselves needed some space in the open air. Thus, we jumped into the jeeps that were waiting for us in front of Ghazals shop and made our way to the White Desert. Those who dared sat in the window openings. The drivers crossed through the desert, climbing up the hills and falling again. When you take a breath in the desert, you never feel like air is taken from anywhere; you don’t feel like nobody notices you or that you are in anybody’s way. In the desert, there is room enough and time enough. Honoring the rhythm of the desert, we sat down for coffee and tea by the side of the Magical Lake and watched how the sun moved down slowly until it suddenly disappeared, leaving a glow before the deep black surrounded us. We drove back in the dark, and the air was cooler. I hung out of the window until the wheels of the car touched the asphalt and left the desert sand.
