Of Earth and Sky
When we first stepped foot on the property, I looked at the tall tussock and dry granite soil. A multitude of bush ants scurried about, unconcerned about our plans for stewardship. Climbing the hilly bushland knocked the air out of me. We are close to 1200m in elevation here, well over a kilometre higher than back in Melbourne. My husband and I took in the wildflowers, and the surrounding paddocks dotted with merino sheep, farm sheds, and twisted gums. It was ours now. A wedge-tailed eagle circled above; I waited for an ominous screech.
What were we doing building a pottery studio here? Jindabyne was a town that lived almost solely for ski tourism. In summers past, the shops seemed shuttered; the town dozing in hazy sunlight. Old Jindabyne sits drowned at the bottom of a Snowy Hydro dam. In a prolonged dry period, you can see the old church steps in the lake. Parts of the Snowy-Monaro are like the backdrop of an Australian gothic with their rock outcrops and eucalyptus die-back.
But our modest backyard was struggling to accommodate the expanding ceramics production. Trestle tables were lined up outside the studio where ceramic pieces sat glittering in the sun after being sanded and washed.
We needed space, but beyond that, working with clay tends to bring you up close to the elemental. The story of clay starts billions of years ago when the Earth was a mass of molten rock. Clay is essentially created by the breakdown of the Earth’s crust, decomposing through surface erosion, washed by rivers and rain over millennia. It is a product of the ‘grinding maw of geology’, as ceramic artist Daniel Rhodes put it in his 1973 book, ‘Clay and Glazes for the Potter’. A potter shapes this ancient matter into vessels and pieces which we then bring into our homes. We touch our lips to Earth when we sip that first morning coffee.
With the move, landscape soon began to inform the pieces that came off the pottery wheel. Andrei’s work took on the hues around us; burnt umber mugs, speckled finishes that resembled the granite tors, glazes mixed from eucalyptus ash that fire olive green.
Time was slow and thoughts were hopeful. We wanted to be part of the good things the Earth could give us. Blackberries, pine mushrooms, long walks, slow Sundays. We collected apples from feral trees on the roadside and made cider. Our daughters, always horse-mad, started riding lessons and I entered the fray.
Between recycling clay and crawling on the floor of a shed to take photos of the ceramics Andrei produced – I started scouring marketplace for second-hand Driza-Bone vests and jackets. While at the pub one night, I noticed my neighbour, a former bronco rider, had the same vintage yellow-tan Grosvenor jacket as me.
There is a process of shedding - of the old self and of expectations - when you find yourself in a rural setting.
It’s been four years since we christened the new venture, naming it for the alpine meadow it sits on. Andrei started teaching three classes a week, which quickly grew to five. We bought more pottery wheels, increasing the class size from six to eight. We held weekend taster classes, an introduction to pottery which also showcased some of our foraging and home cooking.
The gallery was opened and visitors arrived. Our students have claimed the pottery as a third space - a place to reset and come together outside of home and the workplace. Top Australian restaurants, and recently even a three Michelin Star restaurant, have asked Andrei to make plates. We’ve had lean years, too.
Our small orchard took a battering from hail in summer, chickens were taken by foxes, plates didn’t make it out of the kiln in one piece. A snowstorm in 2021 knocked out our power for almost three days, laying over a foot of snow over our acreage. Our kids skied down to the pottery shed while I warmed water on the woodfired stove.
We are not so much stewards as temporarily part of an ongoing story.
