Wedgwood would not put such pain on his own Etruscan ware. None of his artists was invited in to capture him, woozy but upright in his chair as he watched Dr Bent saw through the thickened bone above his knee.
That goes under ‘breakages’, along with misbegotten cream-ware he will not back-stamp with his name but grinds beneath his wooden heel. Hithering and thithering, mithering on bucchero and what art should grace my lady’s table and Portland pots and salesmanship, he pegs it back by moonlight to Etruria Hall, his mind turning on the cogs of betterment as he goes, fresh glazes, firings and the smooth runnings of his new canal.
From the clay-end to St Martin’s Lane everything is canalised: the mould-maker, pugman, dipper, paintress, gilder, fireman, sagger-maker, placer, drawer, all in work, all provided for in New Etruria’s commodious light.
JEFFREY WAINWRIGHT | 14