Pina Seaweed Wreath Serving Plate — Medium

A seashell is nothing like a canvas. It grows to be held, not looked at; as layers of calcium settle one upon the other, one side lifts slightly while the other opens toward the water. To truly understand what a shell is, you have to turn it over in your palm — and so it is with Pina's form. When you pick it up, your fingers notice before your eyes do that the rim drops on one side and widens on the other. This asymmetry is not a preference but a testimony. No shell grown at the bottom of the Mediterranean was ever drawn with a compass; the form yields wherever the current came from. Coulthard calls this "broken symmetry": the eye finds symmetry familiar, but perfect symmetry soon bores. A slight shift gathers attention for a moment, then releases it. At nineteen centimetres, this measure is about as much space as one person claims at the table. The cream surface holds light like mother-of-pearl, while the dark bronze along the rim ties it to the shadow at the water's floor. Set down on the table, it neither shouts nor disappears — it carries what is placed upon it the way a cupped hand would. Place another Pina beside it and the two will not be the same. This is one of the quietest gestures a table can make: before each guest stands their own variation, all belonging to the same rule.