Claypan: Brett Stone claypan
Gazing out the plane windows on my once frequent flights to the west coast, there is an endless landscape of salt lakes and clay pans, and I have often thought of them as a vast table scattered with bowls. Dry crusted, saltbush fringed, windblown smooth.
I measure my daily life in bowls, from cereal, salad lunches and comfort food dinners, to the bowls of nuts, and cherries. My dog’s water bowl either spilled or filled.
A recent trip to the AGNSW’s Asian galleries reminded me of the universality and timelessness of bowls. A Tang turned foot, a Sung flared rim, al...