Recollections: The Clay Duck
I remember sitting cross-legged on the floor in primary school, and staring up at this strange lady who breezed into our art room. She would remain with us for an entire week, moving from easel to easel, and around our workstations, with the lightness of a rare, colourful bird. I must have been in Grade 4. A few of these types of people came through from time to time, each showing us different methods and techniques. We had no idea how lucky we were, for on this occasion the visiting artist was Mirka Mora. Through the haze of early memory, this became a recollection where time stilled, as I became thoroughly impassioned and utterly absorbed in the process of making art.
Normally when the bell rings, everyone scrambles to pack up their brushes, paper and easels, and race out of the building with blue and red stained hands, into the noise of the tanbark playground. This time was different. For the entire week, I was somehow granted permission to spend lunchtimes and breaks working in the art-room on a particular sculpture, a clay duck. I recall paying attention to forming its shape, crafting its wings with special attention paid to carving the detail and flow of its feathers. I distinctly recall Mirka’s exotic accent, her clucks of approval, and her expert hands guiding my furtive attempts to bring this duck into being. I can remember us both sitting together on wooden stools in the empty art-room with the sounds of kids playing foursquare against the walls outside, and the strong smell of staffroom coffee on the edge of Mirka’s breath as she guided my process with the deepest solemnity.
I remember her joyous aura and the broad bloom of her fabulous smile, which banished any doubt that making art and midwiving the imagination was the single, most important work a person could ever do in the world. It is only later, in recalling this, that I realise it was the wonderful Mirka Mora, who had disregarded her designated staffroom lunch breaks, to help encourage an earnest youngster embrace a passion that, despite the u-turns and diversions, has held me in its thrall and never let me go.
Canta libre, Mirka.
Canta mi Corazon.
xo
HandSolo