moments I
It could be said that the clay with which the potter works measures its time in water. Long before, when it was latent, giving us soil as part of the earth's crust to the inhabitants that follow us on its surface, it already went through innumerable states through the geological ages, mutating without flinching. Then it was the quasi-divine whim of nature that gave it shape, sedimenting it here and there at will, without haste or purpose. During all those eons, the flow of time did nothing but fan the lands, bathe them and toast them, calmly painting landscapes, fleeing from all speed.
Nothing ago, and who knows how long it will last, the potter came to model the land. We of our kind like to think that intention came with us, but as a product of a nature without apparent purpose or cause, can we possibly have such things? Or vice versa. In any case, instinct or will, we create and feel that we want to create. But we, unlike the divine mud, are not eternal. That is why when we treat it, we humanize it, in addition to our forms, with our limited time as mortal creatures. And that compass that we give to the clay is marked by the same material that makes us up and that gives us life: water.