Slow Art: The Unhurried Hand

In the coolness of the morning, accompanied by the cooing of doves, when I sit at the table and pick up the brush, I feel that the relentless rush outside has stayed at the door. Completing a work in my studio takes at least two weeks; it is impossible to skip any step from design to the kiln. So, why do I wait so long? Because in this two-week journey, I am not just painting patterns; I am coaxing the clay at every step. From the design to the meticulous cleaning of the biscuit, from the outline to that delicate painting stage, everything is actually a preparation for the kiln's 1000-degree heat. Moreover, not everything is always rosy. Sometimes, a plate you have worked on for days does not accept the glazing, or you encounter an unexpected surprise, a crack, when you open the kiln. The disappointment I feel at that moment is also part of the nature of this work. That is why every piece that comes out of the kiln intact and shining is a true 'miracle' for me. Sometimes people ask me: 'How can you slow down so much in this age of speed?' Actually, slowing down is not an escape for me, it is a path back to myself. I notice the details that I couldn't see while rushing, as I progress millimetre by millimetre over that plate or object. That slowness heals my soul; when the labour of the hand merges with the patience of time, what emerges is not just an object, but the spirit of the time spent. At first, waiting for the oven to finish challenged my patience greatly, but then I realised: The most beautiful details appear not in haste, but in calmness and patience. Now, when I look at each piece coming out of the oven, I see not only the colours but also the reward of the days I waited and my effort. I am now certain that a hand that does not rush touches the clay far more sincerely, and that work produced with patience and the right technique always yields much more beautiful results.