I was with my friend, who knew the potter. The man, has been working with clay for years. The workshop is on the outskirts of Dali. To get there, we walked through narrow streets lined with both old and newer houses. The first room felt like an office: a large table for tea, a bookshelf overflowing with books, and pottery stacked or placed everywhere. Later, under a porch, we reached the work table and a small hearth for tea.

We arrived in the morning under heavy rain. The sound of drops on the roof marked our movements. We started with a cup of tea, discussing his approach to pottery. He showed me how he roasted tea using his own creations. We tried different gestures. I watched his hands, the clay, and how each movement shaped the space around us.

Later, near the furnace, we cooked over a small clay hearth. The workshop could serve as a living space, even if he lived elsewhere. Every object, every gesture told a silent story. Rain, wood, clay, and hands responded to each other, forming a subtle coherence. I remained an observer. The place spoke for itself without needing explanation.

The Potter