Vivid and Unhidden

Pottery lesson 1

Alessandra wandered through the less frequented parts of the Yamada ancestral home, finding comfort in exploring its quiet corners. The eastern wing housed several traditional Japanese rooms she hadn't yet investigated. Sliding open a shoji door, she discovered what appeared to be a personal gallery.

Wooden shelves lined the walls, displaying pottery pieces of various sizes—small animals with expressive features, delicate vases with intricate patterns, and bowls with uneven yet charming glazes. Unlike the refined antiques displayed in the main halls, these pieces had a youthful exuberance to them, some clearly made by inexperienced hands.

She picked up a small clay fox, running her finger over its pointy ears and playful expression. The craftsmanship was amateur but showed natural talent.

"I made that when I was nine," Akira's voice came from behind her.

Alessandra turned, still holding the fox. "You made these?"

Akira nodded, stepping into the room. "My grandfather insisted I learn. He believed working with clay taught patience." A small smile played at his lips. "I was not a patient child."

"These are beautiful," she said, carefully returning the fox to its place. She moved to a shelf displaying several vases with varying glazes. "I wouldn't have guessed you were an artist."

"I'm not," he said, coming to stand beside her. "Not really." His fingers brushed over a blue-glazed vase. "In another life, perhaps. If I wasn't born to the Yamada family."

Alessandra studied his profile, noticing a wistfulness she hadn't seen before. "You would have been a potter?"

"I would have liked to try." He shrugged. "There's something meditative about it—being alone with just the clay, feeling it respond to your hands, watching something formless take shape." He turned to her. "The discipline isn't unlike martial arts, actually. Both require complete focus, understanding of form, and respect for the medium."

"Would you teach me?" The question surprised even Alessandra herself.

Akira raised an eyebrow. "You want to learn pottery?"

"Why not? We've been training constantly for weeks. Maybe we could use a different kind of... release." The word hung between them, loaded with meaning after what had happened at the hot springs.

Akira held her gaze for a moment, then nodded. "If you'd like. The studio is through here."

He led her through a connecting door into a bright room with windows overlooking a small private garden. A potter's wheel sat in the center, surrounded by shelves of supplies, tools, and jars of glazes in various colors.

"This was my grandfather's workspace," Akira explained, moving to open the windows. Fresh mountain air flowed in, carrying the scent of pine and distant rain. "I still come here sometimes, when I need to think."

Alessandra ran her hand along the edge of the wheel. "Do you start with this?"

"For beginners, it's easier to hand-build first." Akira retrieved a block of clay from a sealed container and placed it on the worktable. He rolled up his sleeves and gestured for her to join him.

"The clay needs to be wedged first—like kneading bread. It removes air bubbles." He demonstrated, pushing forcefully into the clay with the heels of his hands, folding it over and repeating the process.

Alessandra observed his movements—the controlled strength in his forearms, the practiced precision. He made it look effortless.

"Now you try," he said, stepping aside.

She took his place and attempted to mimic his technique, but the clay resisted her efforts, slipping under her hands.

"Like this," Akira said, stepping behind her. His chest pressed lightly against her back as his arms came around her, his hands covering hers. "Use your body weight, not just your arms."

The warmth of him enveloped her as he guided her movements, applying pressure through her hands into the clay. His breath tickled her ear, sending a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cool air from the windows.

"Feel how it's beginning to give?" he murmured.

Alessandra nodded, hyper-aware of every point where their bodies connected. The clay softened beneath their combined effort, becoming more pliable, responsive.

"Good," he said, his voice low. "Now we can begin shaping."

He stayed close, guiding her through the process of forming a simple bowl, his hands occasionally covering hers to demonstrate a technique or correct her movement. The clay took shape slowly, its walls rising under their shared touch.

"You have a natural feel for it," Akira commented as they smoothed the rim.

"I have a good teacher," she replied, turning her head slightly to look at him.

Their faces were inches apart. Alessandra's gaze dropped to his lips, then lower, to where his shirt had fallen open slightly at the collar. Without thinking, she turned within the circle of his arms and placed her clay-covered hand on his chest.

"You're getting me dirty," he said softly, not moving away.