The most delicate of porcelain is made by angry fire. The magma of manufactory, Vesuvial spits, globs and drops, imitating how the earth made itself from a belly of entombed or tunnelled flame.
And it creates this wasp-waisted girl in crinolines, cheeks just ablush, slim fingers offering a posy of forget-me-nots for their ceramic scent, her slipper cool enough to step on ice.
Soon she shall have her spaniel and her swain, Jemima Puddleduck and Mr Fox for company, he in knee-breeches and frock coat, hands behind his back looking most lawyerly as he inclines to listen in.
This is her domain where she can breathe air as un-flecked as her gown. Live here my lady, safe from all that muck outside: you are the beauty we have come to know.
JEFFREY WAINWRIGHT | 16