Chapter 13
Aashiq doesn’t speak to me for the rest of the class, and it somehow feels worse than the fact that I’ve absolutely butchered clay-making. I thought his comments were annoying, and the way that he was leaning into my personal space was bothersome, but now that he’s not doing it anymore, I miss it.
To distract myself, I throw myself into the clay-making.
I tried to follow Penelope’s example, but my clay morphed into something completely unrecognizable.
And we were only supposed to be making bowls, which, by all measures of clay-making, should have been simple.
Mine is like a half-smashed flowerpot someone squished with their heel.
Seriously, I don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to this.
I should have left when I saw the store name.
Great. Just great. Not only am I a failure as a writer, but I’m a failure at art in general. Am I wasting my time on something I’ll never succeed at?
By the time the class is over and Penelope wanders over to give compliments and tips for next time, I’m tempted to hide my monstrosity under the table, especially when she stops next to Aashiq and showers him with praise.
I’m going to be the last person she talks to, and half the room is already empty.
I debate it back and forth in my head, and just as I decide to toss my pottery to the floor and act like I accidentally knocked it over, Penelope reaches my table.
“Well, Ziya, let’s see what you—” She cuts herself off midsentence as her eyes take in my mutant pot.
“O-oh,” she says, and the hesitation in her eyes clearly suggests she’s desperately racking her brain to figure out a compliment she can pay my work before she tears it to shreds.
This isn’t my first time getting soul-destroying feedback, though, so I just toss my hands in the air. “It’s okay, you can say it,” I assure her. I rub my clay-crusted hands together. “It’s awful.”
“No, not awful ,” Penelope instantly says—I’m sure as a teacher it’s her instinct to cheer students up when they’re discouraged. “It’s just…what was your focus on?”
I furrow my brows. “What do you mean? I was trying to make the stupid pot, but every time I thought I had finally perfected something, I made a move that derailed everything.”
“Ahh, now there’s your problem,” Penelope says, though not unkindly. “You were so focused on making things perfect that you forgot the fun.”
“But…the purpose of art is to make something worth showing,” I argue. “If the end product isn’t something that’s without imperfections, then what’s the point?”
Penelope regards me for a long moment, then says, “Wait here,” before wandering off to a room in the back.
Aashiq and I don’t speak the whole time she’s gone, and even though it’s only a few minutes, it feels like a stretched eternity.
Finally, Penelope comes back, and when she circles around me, she holds out a ceramic dark blue bowl. “Here.”
I take it from her. At first glance, it’s like a regular bowl. But then I spot the cracked golden lines painted on the outside and inside. The off-kilter design mars the otherwise perfectly crafted bowl. I glance back up at Penelope. “What is it? Why does it look ruined?”
“This is a bowl I made using kintsugi,” Penelope begins.
“It’s a Japanese art form. You take broken pottery and mend the areas of breakage with urushi lacquer mixed with powdered gold.
” Her fingertip traces one of the golden lines along the edge of the bowl.
“And the part you call ruined is exactly what the kintsugi highlights. It brings attention to the imperfections of the art. It makes them a part of the bowl’s history, rather than something that needs to be hidden.
It can’t change what’s already happened; nothing’s going to unbreak the bowl.
But it shows we can recognize what the bowl has been through, and instead of trying to cover it up and act like the cracks were never there, we can embrace them and let the bowl become something beautiful again.
” She splays her hand out. “Its own definition of beautiful. Not anyone else’s. ”
I tilt my head to the side and glance back down at the bowl.
With Penelope’s words as a new lens, my perception of the pottery changes.
She’s right; it’s not ruined. The warped lines give the bowl an intriguing image.
It catches the viewer’s attention and gives the bowl personality.
I can’t help personifying it—instead of giving up, instead of accepting defeat, this bowl proved it had the strength to try again.
It proved that trying again isn’t something to be ashamed of.
There’s beauty in a new beginning even while remembering what it took to get there.
“I guess I’ve…never thought of art like that before,” I confess.
“Not many people do,” Penelope replies. She crosses her arms behind her back.
“We’re more concerned with wanting everything to be perfect right from the get-go.
Especially when old projects don’t work out the way we want them to.
It’s like we need the new ones to do the work those old ones couldn’t.
We want to prove to ourselves that we aren’t failures. ”
Wow. Is this lady the physical manifestation of all my fears when it comes to writing?
I’ve been too afraid to start a new project because the pain of the last one still scars me.
I guess Rachel’s rejection cut deeper than I thought, but I’ve been doing all I can to cover those scars up.
Still, every time I try to think of a new project, her harsh words echo in my ears and make me run in the opposite direction, because I don’t want to get hurt like that again.
I never thought to embrace rejection as part of moving forward.
To recognize my failures but not condemn myself for them, or think that just because I failed, I can’t try again.
She picks up my distorted clay creation and holds it up.
“We’re never going to get things right from the beginning.
Any art takes time, patience, and devotion.
And most importantly, a desire not to give up.
But not to prove to others that we’re capable, and not even to prove to ourselves that we’re capable.
It’s because as artists, we have to feed the part of our soul that craves creation.
” Her eyes brighten. “Listen, I have to keep your pottery to glaze it. But next week, when you come to pick it up, stay for a while and paint it. Sometimes all something needs is a splash of color to make it shine.”
“Okay,” I agree. “And thanks for what you said. It really resonated.”
I hold the bowl out to her, but Penelope pushes my hand back. “Keep it,” she insists. “To remind you of the importance of imperfections.”
I give her a grateful smile. “I’ll remember.”
“See you next week,” she says, bidding me goodbye as she picks up my supplies and carries them to the back of the room.
“See you,” I say, and even though just minutes ago I had no intention of ever returning to this store, now the idea of coming back…excites me.
My excitement dampens when I turn around to see Aashiq no longer beside me but standing beside the door. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, and he avoids my eyes, his gaze flitting around the room.
I sigh and place the bowl into my bag. I slip on my coat, then swing my bag onto my shoulder as I walk over to him. He opens the door and says, “Where do you want to go for dinner?”
I frown. It’s normal question, but his tone is stiff. “Aashiq, hang on,” I say. A rush of cold air sweeps inside the store, and I grit my teeth as I zip my coat.
“I saw a Thai place on the way up here,” he continues, still in a distracted tone.
His pace is quick and his strides are wide, so I struggle to catch up to him in my heels.
“It’s halal, too, so that’s something you wouldn’t have to worry about.
I don’t know if it’s any good, though, because I haven’t checked any reviews, but it’s always nice to try something without anyone’s opinion influencing you, don’t you think?
Like if I think something is good but then someone tells me it’s bad, I’ll start to think—”
I finally catch up to him, hooking my hand around his arm. “Aashiq, wait!” I exclaim, and he staggers to a halt. “I want to talk about what happened in the pottery store,” I say.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “What do you want to talk about?”
His confused tone only further confuses me. “I hurt your feelings.”
He scrunches his nose. “ Did you?”
If his expression wasn’t so earnest, I’d think he was trying to pull me into a trap. I quirk a brow. “Yes, I did. Isn’t that why you’re being… I don’t know…annoyed with me? With your tone of voice?”
Aashiq’s hand goes to his neck. “I was doing that?” His eyes widen, and his hand slips to his chest. “Wait, is that why I felt like someone pinched me here?”
My own chest prickles. “Yes, but it wasn’t just someone . It was me. I made you feel like that.”
“Hmm.” He tilts his head to the side. “It’s not very comfortable.”
Despite the context, I laugh. “It’s not,” I agree.
“And that’s why I have to apologize. I’m sorry I snapped at you and hurt your feelings.
I was getting frustrated, and I was weirdly jealous that you were better than me at making pottery, but that’s not an excuse to treat you poorly.
” I stuff my hands into my pockets. “I’m sorry I caused you pain. ”
Aashiq nods thoughtfully. “Okay. I see. That discomfort is called pain. I didn’t know it could happen without being physically injured.”
“Yeah, well…” I bite the inside of my cheek.
My mind wanders back to Rachel’s rejection letter.
“Pain is funny. Words can cut way deeper than a knife sometimes.” I suddenly remember the weight of the kintsugi bowl in my bag, and my shoulders relax.
“But we shouldn’t hold on to the pain forever.
We can move forward from it. And when it comes to hurt feelings, that kind of pain typically goes away with forgiveness.
” I tilt my head to the side. “Can you forgive me?”
Aashiq stares down at me for a long beat before he softens. “Of course I can.”
A wave of relief rolls over my body. “Thank you. And by the way, if I say or do something that bothers you again, you don’t have to walk around and pretend like it doesn’t hurt you.”
“I wasn’t pretending,” he says.
“Yeah, you were,” I reply. “By not talking to me when you were upset, you were acting like it didn’t hurt you.”
“Huh.” Aashiq furrows his brows. “I didn’t realize I was doing that. It felt like the obvious thing to do.”
“That’s because sometimes, even though we’re hurt, it feels hard to express it,” I say. I place a hand on the spot below my throat. “But you can talk to me, I promise.”
He regards me for a long beat, then nods once. “Okay.” He steps to the side, but only to wrap his arm around my shoulders. “And by the way, I wasn’t better at making the pottery than you were.”
“What do you mean?” I ask as we start walking. “You actually made a bowl.”
“That’s because I was focused on having fun,” he explains. “I wasn’t thinking twenty steps ahead. I focused on the here and now.”
“Yeah, I’ve never been good at that.”
“Don’t worry.” He squeezes my shoulder. “That’s what you’ve got me for.”