I found myself becoming attached to this piece of clay as soon as I had gouged out the eye sockets and marked the position of the mouth. Is this normal or is my narcissism pathological?
I kept on loving it, I said goodbye to it when I went outside for a break, up to a certain point, when I lost the contact. When I opened its mouth (the theme of the workshop was the scream) the weight tilted forward and I had to prop it up against a block of wood to work on it - so I didn't feel as close to it, I couldn't squeeze (hug) the whole head into shape - also there comes a point, as in a painting, where you become scared to touch it because you think you'll spoil it rather than improve it.
But I came through the other side and started liking it again.
And I starrted thinking about relationships, between me and the clay, between me and the blog... Sylvia Plath's poems with their piggy and fishy air.
As you can see, my head doesn't button up the back...