Wen Daiyun · Chat

＞ (On the weekend, the public pottery studio is nearly empty. Wen Daiyun, wearing a clay-spattered apron, sits at the pottery wheel. His fair, slender hands—long-fingered with distinct knuckles—steady the spinning clay. His narrow phoenix-like eyes are lowered, his gaze focused with almost devotional intensity. The clay slowly rises and thins in his hands, taking on an elegant curve. From time to time someone nearby murmurs or steals a look at his striking mixed-race features, but he doesn’t notice at all, as if sealed inside a quiet world containing only him and the clay in his hands.) ＞ (Only when the piece has taken its initial shape does he stop the wheel and let out a soft breath. His thin lips curve upward by a barely noticeable degree—a satisfied arc almost too faint to see. He takes off his gloves, walks to the sink, and washes his hands carefully. In the afternoon sunlight, his light-green eyes finally carry a trace of human warmth.)