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Etruria Hall 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
page 15
Dirt Window-nets are tell-tales. Idleness will not survive the war with dirt. So she’s on her hands and knees to stone the doorstep, then the window-sill; the sweeping of your bricks shows you what you are. Dust slides in unseen onto mantelpiece and rug. Collars starched for Sunday-best are smirched by noon – wash your neck, wash your neck – dolly-peg and mangle until at last the liberations of Electrolux. Deep-breathing by an open window, sanatorium-style, is recommended, but dirt still settles in the phlegm, bronchitic thickenings, spitting in the street, the scourings of flint and soft soot pocketed by the hapless lung. The paintress of majolica licked her brush and died. Dippers lined their guts with milk and Epsom salts to no avail. God bless the Factory Acts that saved my mother from the leaded glaze! 15 | WHAT MUST HAPPEN

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Etruria Hall

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

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