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near the school stood a tall pile of something covered with plastic bags and such. I realized it was a heap of mud. The school's principle did not think the mud could be used for art. They were to be turned into bricks. We could use just a little of it for imagining, transforming... The children had fun with the clay. They made boda-bodas( motorcycles), all kinds of heads and objects real and imaginary with the clay. Afterwords we placed them on the roof. The next day, there was a sudden chaos. All the children souting, running. A sudden storm was about to arrive. Some students had climbed up to the roof and in a self-organized manner they were carrying the clay pieces from hand to hand inside.

They had a feeling for the peices they built.

I never showed them Gabriel Orozco's my hands are my heart. I did not even think about it. Just their questions: "May I take it home? I want to show it to my mom."

(Prior to working with clay or mixing colors to arrive at new colors and painting, they had to study English and math. That had to be the priority of the school for the children's future. After our time together and two weeks long experience of playing with materials, there was a change in the confidence and expression... All that time I was thinking how not to re-play the role of the saviour. How not to be the teacher. I saw their math teacher teaching the students how to make a duck out of clay. He would get angry if the student changed the duck. I had to beg the teacher not to "show" the students how to make a duck. To allow them to just play around and to make their own animals, faces, ducks... To discover how their duck would look like. There is not one proper way of doing anything. Dialogues among teachers was a new realm. What is a dialogue. What is an intrusion? Learning together. Knowing nothing. Trusting the process and the material. )