apology of color
The mud paints the skin the color of my brothers; magical power and happy hands that are well dressed in Indian, Nordic, Oriental or African tones. See them dyed in a Guinean color or pale with porcelain of German bearing, perhaps iron ocher Asians or perhaps copper, like an Indian. Precious effect and so much more: healthy; that suddenly you see in yourself, what was once distant. And so, impregnated with a world, we feel, love and work. So, for potters, slip is the make-up we give ourselves for the appointment we have with each piece we create.
Yesterday she was blonde, yesterday she was brunette, today she is red and tomorrow she will be gray. But its tincture does not matter, it always wins us. Her shapes, her waist, will shine whether in dawn, dark, gold or scarlet. It will be precious in all ranges, because the coloration is a reflection, and the soul is a different thing. And this dignity is possessed by all, whether of divine signature, whether of profane authorship. So, enjoy without embarrassment the overtones of the land you emanate from, mix it up, get to know, if you wish, another one further away, which will always be beautiful, because it is based on what you do with it, not on the dye that adorns it.