It stands before me, this vase that slips through my fingers.
I don’t know if it draws me in or pushes me away. Its silhouette has character, but a character that borders on the strange.
This dark green… I don’t like it. I never have. And yet I insisted, I spent so much time glazing it, almost too much. As if I wanted to give it a chance to win me over. But it remains stubborn, fixed in that deep tone that doesn’t reflect my light.
I look at its lines, its flowing curves. They have style, yes, but a style that doesn’t quite belong to me. I hesitate: should I add it to my shop’s inventory, or keep it as a studio piece, a witness to my uncertainties?
There’s something unsettling about this vase. Not ugly, not beautiful either. Odd. And perhaps that is precisely its strength.
Sometimes, my pieces teach me that not everything I create must please me—not even myself. Some are here to confront me, to teach me patience, or acceptance.
This vase may never find a place in my heart, but it has earned its place in my story.