In my stepfather's kitchen, set on an oakwood tabletop, a small dish and beaker sit, waiting. Stationed there the night before, they will wait patiently for his return at breakfast, feed him and send him to work, only to sit and wait again for late evening when they will take up their post once more. An occasional rotation in service introduces an old friend back to the long table; a bowl, blue lip crowning yellow slip, welcomes cream-white milk and roast cereal grain while yesterday's plate is retired to a cupboard shelf. Whichever piece is chosen, Jean-Nicolas Gerard is inevitably its creator and the equally inevitable wait begins again. These pots have waited now for over a year and will, I suspect, continue doing so, calmly and quietly devoted to one man's daily ritual.
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