Visoko // Clay as Oxygen; or How to Save Art from Oblivion
© John Bills
Some things just take time. They should. I’m not going to stride down the “good things come to those who wait” corridor, but you get the point. It is better to do a job slowly and properly than rush something to get it done and make a pig’s ponce of it. Do it right once, don’t do it quickly three or four times.
If you can do it after chomping down on some seriously delicious ćufte (meatballs, basically), even better. It wasn’t just ćufte, it was punjena paprika too (stuffed peppers, tender things filled with meat, rice, onions and all the rest), burek and more. It wasn’t a feast, but it was more than enough to fill the bellies of those sitting around the table. One of those people was me, a devilishly handsome four-eyed Welshman in desperate need of a haircut. Across the table from me was Adnan, my guide for the day, a Sarajevo-born and bred hero full of information and good conversation (Funky Tours, for the record).
To my left was the head of the house. Jet black hair on his head, a bright red Adidas shirt with long sleeves rolled up. He looked like a cross between Steve Monk and a short-haired Eddie Guerrero, furthering my theory that you’re never too far from someone who looks like Latino Heat. His name was Vahid Ohran, and he was one of the last pottery maestros in this part of the world.
© John Bills
People have been moulding clay into functional objects here since the beginning of time. From the moment clay was found, talented people have put their hands to use in order to cultivate objects of practical use, pots of vast artistic value that contribute to an enriched life in both the spiritual and financial sense. As civilisations grew and the number of trades developed, the economic benefits of pottery skills decreased, but the importance of the craft continued unabated. Modern technology eventually came in and made the process easier, quicker, but that same technology removed much of the human aspect of the process.
Not so here. Vahid’s creations were true to the techniques that had survived generations and centuries. His pottery was the pottery of time, the pottery of this place. The place in question was a small village called Liješeva, a 15-20 minute drive from the centre of Visoko that remained lost in time, a disparate collection of houses on a hill looking out towards neighbouring towns. It would be disingenuous and inaccurate to say that life here hadn’t been touched by modern technology (we’d driven here, after all), but the pace of a day in Liješeva was altogether more human than the timbre found in bigger towns fixated on modernity. To get to Liješeva, we’d passed factories and other glimpses of recent history, but Liješeva itself existed as if in its own world.
Liješeva // © John Bills
It was in this environment that Vahid’s artistry flourished. After eating, we sat down with a healthy amount of Bosnian coffee (yes, I’m aware of the contradiction inherent there), talking of life and health and all things that fall under those vast umbrellas. Vahid had recently been given the all-clear after a cancer diagnosis, his survival the result of intense chemotherapy and an unbreakable will to live. When the diagnosis came, Vahid took it on himself to spend more time in the nearby forests, focusing on what he was eating, ensuring that he was doing all he could to keep himself free of harmful toxins. Vahid held up his end of the bargain, and modern science did its job. We'll ignore the smoking. There are never any guarantees with cancer, but for now, he was in the clear.
Coffee devoured, we moved to his nearby workshop. A bath of recently-collected clay sat on the left upon entering, next to a tilling machine and a fridge containing cultivated clay for future work. This atrium led to the room in which the magic happened, a tiny place filled with projects, clay, empty packets of cigarettes and the shimmering magic of creativity. Pots of various sizes were everywhere, projects that Vahid was working on, 35-litre jugs almost ready to hold wine in a most graceful manner.
Vahid spoke passionately about his craft, in the sort of manner that one expects from someone who has put the years into his skills and knows exactly what he is capable of. Everything that comes out of that studio is another baby of his. From collecting the clay in the forests to sending the finished product off to its destination, Vahid is in control. Nothing is left to chance. If you take your work seriously, this is the only option.
One charlatan, one artist (nice coat, that) // © John Bills
Vahid’s ability made all of this possible, but it was the quality of the clay that made Vahid’s ability possible. Good clay is everything. Time and space help, but a product is only as good as the materials of which it is made. Vahid spoke about the clay as if it was oxygen, and in this room, it was. Without that clay, nothing else could happen. The clay was moulded into form, baked in an oven that soared to temperatures of 1,200 degrees, and babysat until the final form was ready to be unveiled. Vahid did all of this by experience and understanding, using his eye to judge the size of the pot and the temperature of the oven. I can barely tell the time from three metres away.
I asked a couple of times how long various things took to finish, but Vahid’s reluctance to give a concrete answer said more than any number could. Each project is its own beast, and it takes as long as it takes. People come to him because they know they are getting quality, and quality is worth waiting for. If you want something done quickly and don’t really care about the results, head to the conveyor belt. If you want something of real value made by a maestro, a man continuing a family legacy that is always on the verge of extinction, Liješeva is the place to go.
Because these creations aren’t souvenirs. They are art. Vahid Ohran is the last of a dying breed, an artist controlling his variables, a pioneer saving this oldest of arts from oblivion. Respect your craft, people, respect your craft.
