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On an autumn morning when the wind was blowing hardest, in a small village in Anatolia, an old potter took the soil in his hands. This soil was taken out of the courtyard of the workshop that he inherited from his grandfather and had been kneaded with sun, rain and patience for years. Each of them carried a story.

The master kneaded the soil with water, shaped it with his hands. His fingerprints merged with the earth with every touch. The result was this beige vase, which took shape in a simple yet elegant form. There was neither a pattern nor an ornament on it — for simplicity had a language, a nobility.