I’ve always been an art lover.

Growing up, my house was the one with beautiful paintings lining the walls, the rare book library gleaming on the shelves upstairs, the classic 45s spinning on the record player. I decided to become a critic because appreciating the finest in artistic pursuits is the only way I know.

Yet for as long as I can remember, the act of making art has been the bane of my existence. I can’t draw, paint, sculpt, or act to save my life. I can operate a standard camera, but take a beautiful photograph? Forget about it.

While it’s true that I spent four years singing in an indie band, my inability to play any instrument proficiently led me to never consider myself a true musician.

In fact, my lack of artistic skill has been a constant source of frustration, so when it was time to write this piece, I decided to meet the challenge head on.

I dreamt up the idea of these Living Arts features because I wanted to see U of T students getting involved instead of standing silently in the audience. I knew it would be difficult, but I was determined to participate. If it meant getting my hands dirty and risking personal embarrassment, well, so be it.

I resolved to avoid any medium in which I needed to produce a realistic or captivating image, so sketching and painting went out the window immediately. I needed something that any idiot could do, given the right materials and a few minutes training.

Luckily, it wasn’t long before I hit upon the art form that matched my limited skill set—pottery. No messy paint, no colour schemes, no designs of any kind. How hard could it be?

I’ve long been an admirer of the Gardiner Museum of ceramic art, which offers clay studio classes twice a week. It seemed like a perfect fit.

For the uninitiated, the Gardiner is like the ROM’s low-key, attractive cousin. Located right across University Avenue, next to Victoria College’s girls-only residence Annesley Hall, the Gardiner has been through Toronto’s 21st century museum renaissance phase and emerged with a gorgeous collection of sleek interior designs and stunning ceramics.

As my sister Caroline and I descended into the Gardiner’s immaculate basement, sparkling white walls and glass partitions made up the clay studio that would be the setting of my triumph or tragedy.

The kindly instructor Karen provided us with a brisk three-minute tutorial—the many steps of which, I must admit, slipped my mind almost immediately.

As we sat down and began kneading the first bits of clay, Caroline was kind enough to deliver a word of advice: “Focus on your hands, not the piece.”

I wasn’t entirely sure what she was talking about, but it was easy for her to be confident. She’s an old pro when it comes to pottery. As a child, Caroline was the type of girl who had her birthday party at a ceramic painting studio. I took my buddies to a baseball game.

I swallowed my pride and accepted whatever help she could offer me. Sibling rivalry could wait until we took part in something that I wasn’t completely hopeless at.

At first, I was completely unaware of exactly how pottery works. Here’s the simplest explanation:

You grab a chunk of dry clay, splash some water on it, and smack it onto a flat metal wheel whose revolutions are controlled by a pedal at your feet. You begin by pressing your thumbs into the middle of the clay, and slowly pull outwards to create a bowl shape. My task was to take these simple steps and translate them into something that I’d be able to eat my Lucky Charms out of. To put it simply, I was scared.

I sat down to face the wheel, my only ally. This was where Caroline’s words came in handy. It’s imperative to work the clay by feel rather than sight.

I quickly learned the most important attribute of a great pottery artisan—a steady hand. With the wheel spinning and your hands massaging the clay into the perfect form, one false twitch of the thumb and your work goes from championship bowl to unidentified soggy mess.

My first realization was a pathetic one—I had horrible pedal control. I’d get the clay spinning and inadvertently hit the accelerator just when things were looking up.

My first two attempts were miserable failures. I overstretched my first bowl to the point that it flattened out like a vinyl record. I contemplated turning it into a dinner plate, but that would have been taking the easy way out.

An hour went by as I screwed up bowl number two. I seem to remember it at one point resembling a candle holder, but the details are sketchy at best. Novices all around me were beginning to craft fine looking pieces. Could I really be capable of screwing this up?

I was running out of time. My third chance would be my last. I got the wheel spinning and the basics were there, but I needed some one-on-one guidance.

“Karen!” I called out. “Over here!”

Karen approached and took stock of my situation. Her invaluable pep talk gave me the shot of confidence I needed to see it through to completion.

It was large enough, solid enough, just the right size for a hearty serving of chicken noodle. It was complete.

I beamed down at my finished piece: a practical, if not quite flashy, soup bowl. And was I ever proud.

I looked at my community of pottery makers around the table. To my surprise, everyone was wowed. Even the silent tough guy at the corner wheel cracked a smile and said, “Look at him—he doesn’t want to touch it. He’s savouring the moment.” He was right.

As time expired, I lifted my bowl and delicately placed it on the trolley to be fired, the technical term describing the kilning process that turns clay into ceramic. I had six weeks to pick up my baby and bring it home.

The last step in the process was designed to be the easiest—stamping my initials into my bowl. By this point, I was more than cocky. I had done the impossible, and I wielded the wooden stamps with passion and verve, the final touches on my masterpiece.

I looked down in horror to discover that the D was backwards.

I laughed out loud and passed off my error as an homage to carefree, fingers-in-the-clay, kindergarten-style artwork. Which, all things considered, is exactly what it was.

The Gardiner Museum hosts drop-in clay studios every Friday at 6 p.m. and Sunday at 1 p.m. Tickets are $8 for students and go on sale 30 minutes prior to each session.