Rows of clay men - statue-still and statue-silent - fill a gloomy gallery. The oldest are bundled in cobwebs. The more recent spare you a bland glance, then sink back into their thoughts; stones into a pond.
You watch a Clay Man work a waist-high mound of clay with his slow hands. A lumpen head takes shape, then uneven shoulders. Stumpy arms. Mismatched legs, separated by a simple groove. Two lumps you would cautiously describe as 'feet'. […]
