Somewhere, in a studio that echoes with the patter of rain on a steel roof, a potter is hunched over a spinning wheel of clay. A kiln in the back corner radiates heat and the windows let in no light. It has rained like this for eight days straight. His foot taps a rhythm on the pedal: one, two, three even pumps. This time next week, the gray disc, now centered on the wheel, will be a pasta bowl or a flower vase or a seder plate. The man’s hands are slick with wet clay. His back is a soft, curved thing in the low light.