The Shape of Repetition
Years before I knew where Umbria was, I bought a face mask called Umbrian Clay.
I remember reading the label and wondering whether Umbria was known for clay. At the time, I knew almost nothing about the region beyond the fact that it was somewhere in Italy. The thought lasted only a few seconds before I paid for the purchase.
I never looked it up.
Years later, after moving to Umbria, the memory unexpectedly resurfaced.
The mention of Umbrian clay reminded me of something else I had wanted to try for years: learning how to make ceramics.
Soon afterwards, I came across a ceramics teacher in Perugia and signed up for my first lesson.
What began as curiosity soon became something I genuinely looked forward to.
My teacher had previously worked in the fashion industry before deciding to pursue ceramics full-time. Today, she continues to travel to japan to deepen her knowledge under a ceramic sensei.
I found that inspiring.
Not necessarily because of ceramics itself, but because it takes courage to leave a familiar path and start again.
Sometimes we spend too much time worrying about outcomes before taking the first step. Yet many worthwhile experience begin simply because we are curious enough to try.
What kept me returning to the studio, however, was not only the ceramics.
It was the atmosphere.
There was no rush.
We would drink green tea, talk and work slowly.
The lessons felt less like classes and more like a few quiet hours set aside from everyday life.
Looking back, one of the things I enjoyed most was the repetitive nature of the process.
I have always been drawn to activities built around repetition.
Swimming is probably the best example.
Many people enjoy exercise that is fast, varied, or competitive. I have always preferred swimming laps.
The rhythm of breathing.
The repeated movement of the arms.
The feeling of settling into a steady pace.
Working with clay felt surprisingly similar.
The wheel spins.
Your hands repeat the same movements again and again.
Gradually, your attention narrows to the clay in front of you.
One of my favourite photographs from those lessons shows my teacher’s hands guiding mine on the wheel.
Before learning how much pressure to apply or how to shape a vessel, someone else has to show you the basics.
The photograph reminds me how much of learning is passed from one pair of hands to another.
These were among the pieces I made during those lessons.
At the time, they were simply exercises.
I was learning different techniques, experimenting with texture and slowly beginning to understand how clay responded to touch.
The glazing was done by my teacher so that I could focus on making the pieces.
That meant there was always an element of surprise when the finished work emerged from the kiln.
The pieces I brought home were not exactly the pieces I remembered leaving behind in the studio.
The clay had hardened.
The colours had changed.
The glaze introduced details that only appeared after firing.
Today, more than two years later, these remain among my favourite objects in the house.
They sit in the living room where I see them almost every day.
I rarely use them.
Most of the time they simply sit there quietly.
Yet every now and then they catch my attention.
Unlike most objects we own, I remember exactly how these came into being.
The spinning wheel.
The green tea.
The conversations.
The patience required to turn a lump of clay into something worth keeping.
The anticipation of seeing the finished work emerge from the kiln.
Whenever I look at the bowls, those memories return as well.
Looking at them today, I realise the bowls themselves were never really the point.
The enjoyment came from making them.
The same could probably be said for many things we choose to do.
Sometimes a passing curiosity becomes a hobby.
Sometimes a hobby becomes a profession.
Sometimes it simply becomes a happy memory.
Further Reading:
Waiting for Tomatoes - on seasonality, patience and finding joy in everyday life
The Joy of Aperitivo - a reflection on simple rituals and why small moments often matter most
The Luxury of Silence - on slowing down and creating space for attention in a busy world
Unless otherwise credited, all photography and written content are original works by Foodie Goes Travel.
