The ways of doing it can —and surely should— change, evolve, the result of adaptation to a medium that inexorably moves through inscrutable time. Resistance is futile, naive, arrogant, and inevitably shares its fate with passivity. A vanity that perhaps only transcends by flowing with the future, consciously dancing to its music, letting its notes, although incomprehensible, take us and make us dance. Enjoying, feeling that perhaps we are no more than another instrument when we move by tapping our heels; by vibrating with events like a string to end up puffing later and letting that wind, sliding through us, be the melody that others listen to. Or maybe it's all a dream, an illusion.
Today's bowl, yesterday's and tomorrow's inevitably emanate from sister, but different sources; Children of the moment that adorns them at the mercy of time and the flame to be born over a slow fire from the hands of those who love them. His fate is to be odd, virtue and condemnation of those who are known to be without equal. United in solitary exclusivity, consoling themselves by dreaming of transcendence. Each one is the answer in itself to the question of who they are. They are the wordless description of every moment they existed. They existed because someone identified them. And so, in a certain way, the bowl is created by those who know how to see it, not so much or not only by the one who manipulates the profane matter that makes it up.