Hidden in Clay: A Short Story
Hidden In Clay
There was a certain potter, who made a humble living sculpting clay pots, dishes, and other vessels; but he felt as empty as the painted vases displayed in the courtyard of his brown adobe house. Lately, his thoughts were occupied by impending doom and the afterlife, so the dismayed potter sought after the priest, Padre Agustin, who was an alcoholic. They spoke of nonsense as they drank, how awful the local futbol club was playing, how Doña Alma hadn’t aged a day, and how lazy the hired hands were. Once the sobriety left them, the walls of superficiality crumbled like a De La Rosa marzipan out of the wrapper.
“I am afraid, Padre,” confessed Juan Pablo the potter, “that I will die a young man who will leave nothing behind but empty pots. If I were to drink myself to death tonight, no one would care.”
“I would care, Juan Pablo,” said the priest solemnly, “because you would have finished all the tequila without leaving me a drop.” They laughed heartily and filled their cups as if it were lemonade on a hot summer day. “I know what you are going through, my friend. I went through the same thing before becoming a priest.”
“Are you saying I should become a priest?” Juan Pablo spat.
“GOD NO!” They both sighed a heavy relief. “You are searching for a purpose beyond the ordinary everyday grind. You wake up, you work, you sleep and start over again but feel like something is missing.”
“Yes, Father! But what should I do?”
“Hell if I know! That’s why I’m an alcoholic but I am seeking purpose and fulfillment here in the church,” the priest chuckled as Juan Pablo punched his arm playfully. “Isn’t there anything you’ve always wanted to do? When you were a kid did you always want to be a potter?”
“Kind of,” Juan Pablo dug into the recesses of his inebriated mind where he had buried his hopes, dreams, and ambitions under the hard soil of responsibility. “I always wanted to make stuff with my hands and pottery gave me a chance to do that, but I wanted to make sculptures, you know?”
“Sculptures?” puzzled the priest. “Like Michelangelo?”
“Yes, but my father always told me art was useless so if I was going to make something, I should make things people would buy like pots and pitchers and pans. Now I am surrounded by useful items that aren’t being used and I feel useless.”
“So why don’t you sculpt a statue?”
“No,” the potter shook his head twisting his lips disapprovingly. “No, I would rather not find out I am no good.”
“Who says you will be no good?” Asked the wise priest with a hiccup. “I am sure you were no master potter when you first handled your clay on the wheel. Try it and fail but you will never succeed if you don’t try.”
Juan Pablo felt the spark of life flicker in his soul like the first scrape of a match before igniting a desire to pursue a long-lost dream. That night he was too drunk to do anything but wobble home safely without shattering his pottery on the way down. The next morning, he resolved to “set free the angel hidden within the marble” as Michelangelo would say. He set the large lump of clay on the wheel and began the intimate dance between the potter and the spinning clay as it morphed into different shapes and sizes. Sculpting is a violent process full of aggression but also calculated gentleness and caution. To rush would be to kill the creation before it had a chance to live.
It was a process that lasted several arduous days full of doubt and insecurity, yet he felt a sense of pride in finishing this passion project. The sense of pride burned out as quickly as a small match blown out by the rushing wind of humiliation. This is what Juan Pablo feared most of all, putting out the labor of his heart and soul for all to see and mock and ridicule…or perhaps applaud it. He did not care when people did not buy his pottery or if they insult them because he felt nothing but the obligation to his work; however, this sculpture was the very essence of his being. To dismiss his sculpture would be to dismiss him at the core of who he was. What else was there left for him to do? Hide it and keep it for himself, safe from criticism or failure. That is not art, it is hypocrisy. Juan Pablo said to himself, “Be a man, and reveal yourself to the world.”
With that resolve, Juan Pablo carefully carried his masterpiece out to the center of his courtyard and created a display around the erect statue. The other works of his hands were pushed away to the edges of the courtyard, forming a circle walkway to observe every angle of his statue. He invited his good friend, Padre Agustin, to be the first to see it unveiled and the good priest agreed to come to see it. With a combined feeling of excitement and dread, Juan Pablo carefully pulled back the sheet covering the sculpture and revealed the manifestation of his passion and creativity.
“Wow, Juan Pablo,” whistled the Padre. “It is incredible. You have done it. You are a sculptor.” The priest shook his hand in congratulation and walked inside hoping to celebrate with some wine.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Juan Pablo pulled the priest by the arm and guided him around the sculpture. “You must appreciate it from all angles.”
“Oh,” the priest went along with it. Once they had completed their circuit, the priest went inside, “I’m going to pour us a glass to celebrate!”
Juan Pablo was disappointed that his friend did not seem to share the same enthusiasm over his glorious artwork, but what does he know about art? He waited there with triumphant hands on his hips hoping to catch a passerby looking over at the new display. It was a small town, so not many people did pass by and the ones who did simply acknowledged the statue’s presence with an approving nod. While it warmed his heart that people noticed his sculpture, it was not the response he was hoping to evoke. In his mind, the spectator would look upon his art with awe and wonder at every carefully crafted edge and corner, but no one even came in to pay him an encouraging compliment.
A customer came into his shop as Juan Pablo and Padre Agustin were sipping on wine and the men stood up to greet him, the priest hid the wine glass in his sleeve. “How much for this pitcher?” Asked the customer.
“Twenty pesos, amigo,” responded Juan Pablo. “What did you think of my statue?” He asked the customer who was fishing for coins in his pocket.
“Oh, you made that?” Juan Pablo nodded proudly. “Yeah, that looks really good.” He paid the potter for the pitcher and signed the crucifix at the priest before excusing himself.
That night, Juan Pablo could not sleep, for he was tormented by the lackluster response of his treacherous townspeople. He felt betrayed. Wouldn’t his loyal customers at least acknowledge what he had done? Is there no encouragement to be found? “What was I thinking?” He thought to himself. “Who do I think I am making things that are worthless and useless? My father was right.”
The next morning, Juan Pablo felt the inspiration of sadness and melancholy in the form of a small clay figure but suppressed the desire under the tyranny of duty. While he swept the tile floor of his shop, he noticed a bearded vagabond loitering around his disgraced sculpture. “Hey get out of here!” The potter shooed him away but the vagabond was looking intently at the sculpture and speaking in a foreign language. Juan Pablo assumed the statue was offending the poor man so he was yelling curses and obscenities in his foreign tongue. “Leave me alone, man. Find some other place to desecrate.” The potter slumped slowly back into his adobe house defeated by this foreign pauper.
That night, as Juan Pablo was closing his shop, a customer came in to purchase a couple of trinkets and he noticed the customer look up at the sculpture as she walked in. “I’m looking to rearrange my display but I need to get rid of the statue. Would you be interested in taking it?” He offered. Juan Pablo resented how the wretched thing reminded him of his failure and worth as an artist. The only remedy was to get rid of the damned thing.
“How much do you want for it?” She asked.
“Nothing, just take it. Consider it a gift.”
“Ok, I will have my brother come pick it up in the morning,” the young woman paid him for the trinkets and walked away smiling. He smiled also ready to return back to the comfort of monotony and mendacity but dependability. It was awful not knowing what to expect and then being hurt so deeply. Never again, he thought to himself.
Early the next morning, the young woman’s brother and a friend of his stopped by the shop to carry away the solid heavy sculpture to their home. Juan Pablo watched as he sipped his coffee and ate his pan dulce. Simple as that, the cursed idol was gone and all was well again with the world. Misery didn’t seem so awful anymore because he found humiliation to be far worse.
Then a strange gringo walked into his shop looking around as if he had lost something. “Hello, can I help you find something?” Juan Pablo asked politely.
“Ah yes, my client sent me here to look for something. Do you own this establishment?” Asked the well-dressed man.
“Yes, this is my shop. We have handcrafted vases, pots, pans, tiles, or custom-ordered objects.”
“No, my client sent me here to inquire about a sculpture, very unique. It should’ve been here in the center, but I don’t see anything here.”
“Oh, that piece of junk?” Juan Pablo blew a raspberry of scorn. “I gave it away to a neighbor. It was just taking up space here.”
“Would you be so kind as to point me in the direction of that neighbor?” Juan Pablo walked out onto the cobblestone street and motioned with his hand where to turn and walk and so forth. “Thank you very much, sir.” They shook hands and the potter watched him with pocketed hands as the gringo walked away.
Later that night, Juan Pablo and Padre Agustin were participating in their evening drunkenness when the young woman from the morning came barging through the front door. “Doesn’t anyone knock anymore?” Padre Agustin rebuked as he hid his wine glass behind his back. “Buenas Noches, daughter,” He remembered his manners.
“Padre, Juan Pablo,” she curtsied quickly as she caught her breath. “You won’t believe what just happened.”
“What happened, Mija?” Juan Pablo was concerned.
“A gringo in a nice suit came to our house asking for the statue you gave us. He said he represented a famous German sculptor by the name of Wagner and he wanted to buy your sculpture. We didn’t believe him at first because his client looked poor and haggard. We sold it to him for a small fortune, but I did not feel right keeping the money. Here it is, Juan Pablo. This belongs to you.” She held out the stack of bills in her hands as an offering with her head bowed to them.
Juan Pablo was astonished and suddenly felt unworthy of the honor paid to him for mistreating the man who appeared to be a vagabond. He felt foolish for now he felt the validation he was seeking because he knows that the poor man is a real artist, but he did not value the appreciation of a simple pauper. What shame I have brought to myself, he thought. “Keep it, Mija. I am unworthy of this payment.” He closed her fingers around the money.
“The church will accept your tithe at the chapel on Sunday,” Padre Agustin added.
“But Juan Pablo, this money is yours,” the young woman was perplexed.
“Please take it and bless your family. I have received the greatest gift of all in the form of discipline. I will never doubt my worth again for I have been validated by the artist so I shall be satisfied by the praise of a poor man. What separates the prince from the pauper as men are mere perception, for they are both worthy to bless all the same.”
And so, Juan Pablo returned to his wheel.
