When I was young I had a concept of the perfect vase, should such a thing exist.
Smooth curves, elegant lines, and flawless clarity. Perfection via simplicity.
In my pursuit of such a rarity, however, I quickly came to realize that not only was perfection a myth, but a boring one at that.
A vase without color or flaw, provides no detail to catch the light or tease the eye. While sensual lines, and curves are always desirable, their varied composure and juxtaposition with one another increases their beauty exponentially, above and beyond the simple pairings of cold symmetry.
So I cast my vase to the floor. I dashed my vase to pieces.
I found new shapes and colors, textures and glazes, and began to play with composing something better.
The vase made from shattered parts does not always hold water though. Sometimes, for some reason, the flowers will not grow.
So it becomes a complex alchemy. A science of the art. To dream of a vase both beautiful and functional, and then to find one similar in a world of broken hearts.
But then one day as I toiled away to mend my own mistakes, I saw a vase with light and space, and everything else it takes. Glimmers of color, and shimmers of light, a cool dark base and a mouth wide open and bright.
A combination I hadn’t expected, but had longed for, for so long. I sit here now and think of how the light plays on her sides, a light that catches her mosaic for my unworthy eyes.
I couldn’t dream a dream like this, until it was before me, but now I have, and now I will, because this is the vase I want for myself. This is the vase made for me.
