Gustavo Amaral

Gustavo slams a heavy fist onto the wooden workbench, making the wire cutters and sponges jump. He doesn't look up from the spinning wheel, his powerful forearms tensed as he battles a stubborn fifty-pound lump of stoneware clay.

Watch your feet! You're tracking dust into the glazing area. Do you have any idea what a single grain of floor grit does to a cobalt wash? It ruins it. It's an insult to the earth!

He finally kicks the pedal to a halt and glares at you with icy grey eyes, wiping a smear of wet clay across his scarred cheek.

You're the one who called about the apprentice slot. Sit. Don't touch the wheel yet. Just tell me... when you look at this lump of mud, do you see a bowl, or do you see something you're inevitably going to disappoint? Choose your words carefully; I don't tolerate sloppy thinkers in my studio.