The cencibelles of Cliousclat

For years, I've gazed at a photo in my favorite book on French pottery, Poteries et Faiences de Provence. It shows a pottery shop--or rather, the shop of a pottery--in the Drôme Provençal. The scene is a rustic room, with a woodstove in the center and sunlight streaming in through a window. On the woodstove is a pitcher of lilac blossoms. And on shelves, on the floor, on and under tables, and hanging from the rafters is the most beautiful pottery I've ever laid eyes on. Some pieces are hand-painted with elegantly naif designs. Others are richly marbled in swirling harmonious colors in the technique known as jaspé. Others are simply solid-colored--but, oh! what colors...moss green, golden ochre, umbre, and rich earthen brown. The number of forms is dazzling. These are the cencibelles of Cliousclat, a village whose history is so entangled with pot-making that its inhabitants have their own local word for the many varied forms of their creations.

So imagine my excitement when I pulled into Cliousclat around 7 in the evening last week. I was on the last leg of a trip through Provence with my son, and we were planning on spending the night here before heading back to Paris. Signs of pottery were everywhere--literally, pottery signs pointing us toward different pot-making destinations. While everything was closed by the time we checked into our hotel, that didn't stop us from taking a reconnoitering walk before dinner.

Cliousclat is one of those villages of the South that seemed soaked in a peaceful silence. The very stones seem to exude quietude. We passed by a ruined house, framing an eye of sky through an empty window. We walked on, exploring, the only sound our footsteps and the occasional call of a drowsy dove. The history of the village crunched below our feet as we climbed a hillside path full of pottery shards. We peered into alleyways leading to secret private worlds. Not a soul was about. We passed the village lavoir, or clothes-washing fountain, where in the past women gathered to wash their families' laundry in a long stone trough replenished with constantly flowing water. The water flowed still, its splashing gurgle loud in the surrounding silence.

I spotted a ceramic jar perched by a stairwell, silent testimony to the village heritage. We passed many different potteries, but after looking at their storefronts and peering in the windows, I felt certain that they were not The Pottery for which I was searching. We passed an immaculately raked petanque court, ready for the next round of the game that is a staple of social life throughout the towns of southern France. Some handy benches were placed facing the court in the deep shade of flowering linden trees. As my eyes explored the area, they lit on a strange contraption sitting at one edge of the park. On closer inspection, it turned out to be an old baby buggy ingeniously transformed into portable rolling barbecue grill--perfect for postgame cookouts among hungry petanque players.

We were circling back to our hotel for dinner on the terrace when a bunch of red hollyhocks growing out of a crack of soil caught my eye. Just beyond them, on the opposite side of the road, I saw a high, windowless, pale ochre wall which was covered with graffiti. High on the wall, a string of big red letters announced "FABRIQUE DES POTERIES." An arched door in the wall allowed me to peer into an interior courtyard garden. I felt like Alice in Wonderland when she was giant-sized, peering longingly through the gate of that lovely garden where she couldn't possibly go. For I couldn't enter this magic doorway until the following morning. Nevertheless, I was sure that I had found The Pottery--the one in the picture.

Not a bit reluctantly, I tore myself away and we headed back to the hotel. We had a long, leisurely dinner on the terrace, trying to imbibe as much as we could of the rolling landscape of golden wheat fields and distant mountains, darkening slowly in the impossibly long summer evening. I know both Jesse and I were savoring this last evening of the trip, burning it into our memories, already nostalgic for its beauty as it slipped away from us into the darkness. We drank plenty of excellent local wine, and discussed our experiences of the last week in a desultory way. indulging ourselves as our only remaining responsibility would be to climb the stairs to our rooms.

I awoke early--too early. By eight o'clock, I had showered and packed my bags and was wondering how to make the time pass until 10 when the pottery would open. A lazy breakfast helped, as did a bit of reading on the sunny terrace. Finally, it was a quarter of, and I headed toward that magic doorway to the Pottery Garden.

I glanced at my watch. Only 10 till. I have an almost military sense of time and propriety, but I couldn't help myself. I walked into the garden, nearly tiptoeing, and then drew in my breath. It was a pottery garden! Gigantic jars and urns of diverse Mediterranean origins were arrayed under a pergola. Shelves and shelves of pottery were lined up in the shade as if they were plants in a nursery. But where was that magical room I'd seen in the picture?

I heard a radio inside the open doorway of one of the three buildings lining the courtyard. A young man emerged, striding purposefully toward me. "Am I too early?" I asked. No, no, he replied in a friendly fashion, directing me to look for Isabel in the atelier behind his back. She would open the boutique for me. I walked through the verdant garden of roses, daylilies, and clambering grapevines toward the dark doorway of the atelier. I poked my head in. It was cool and dim inside, and it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to from the brilliant light outside.

Inside, a small herd of young men were in various stages of activity, either turning pots, stacking or carrying them. All of them were splashed with a blue-gray clay. The single woman in the place approached me with a smile. She showed Jesse and me around the atelier, and then explained how it functions. This pottery, she explained, had been in production for well over a hundred years without ever having closed its doors. While the advent of galvanized metal and plastic threatened its survival, it persisted thanks to the perseverence of its owners and their dedication to the traditional pottery of the region. Public records dating from the seventeenth century alreadyrefer to pottery making in the village, which is endowed with a quarry of fine clay nearby. As the pale yellow clay of Cliousclat is not heat6resistant, the Pottery of Cliousclat also 'imports' clay from Provence for production of culinary pieces. Isabel led me into an inner, entirely dark room where she lifted the edge of a plastic shroud. "This is our purified local clay," she said, touching it fondly. "We age it for several months in here before using it."

Vessels made of Cliousclat clay have always been renowned for keeping foods--especially milk and milk products--fresh longer in the days before refrigeration, Isabel explained as we walked down the path toward the promising door of the boutique. She unlocked the door and switched on the light.

And there it was--the pottery in the photo, wood stove and all. She showed me 3 different pieces the likes of which I'd never seen. The first was a charming ceramic bucket--for milking goats. The second was a beautiful, potbellied, giant jar in deep brown. "This," she explained, "is the traditional pot of Cliousclat for culturing milk." And finally, a truly unique faissellière for draining cheeses. These three items, explained Isabel proudly, are theheart and soul of Cliousclat's pottery tradition.

By now, I was suffering sensory overload. I had never seen so many beautiful pieces. There were rustic, simple jars meant for storing confit and other aliments; elegant soupières with hand-sculpted and -painted details; stacks of plates; bowls of every description; charming, double-barreled cutlery drainers particular to the tradition of Cliousclat...And I counted nine different forms of vinaigriers--or vinegar-fermenting jars. Best of all, there were jaspé pieces everywhere, their rich swirls of color calling to me from all sides of the room. One of the most intriguing pieces was a pyramid of fused jars with removable covers. I examined it for a long time before asking Isabel what its purpose was.

"C'est une épicière provençale," she beamed. A Provençal spice rack! I, inveterate spice collector, was in love. I imagined this incredible piece in my future kitchen in Provence. No more spices in dusty yogurt jars! I spent the next half hour plying Isabel with questions, until finally she kindly left me to myself to make up my mind.

It didn't take me long to decide I had to have the jaspé Provençal terrine with a lovely domed lid, which was oven proof. I also found a fascinating beanpot called a mougette, with two arched handles coming off one side, which Isabel explained was copied from a Norman model a customer had brought in. I also chose a beautiful umbre and ochre, jaspé tian, big enough to ferment bread dough in, as well as a set of six different miniature tians as condiment bowls. Also, as samples to try to offer on this site, an abreuvoir, or drinking fountain, for birds, two traditional bird-nesting jars, and a ceramic watering 'can' modeled after one from the era of the Sun King. As for serious purchases this website, I was going to have to come back when I had more time to consider calmly. (Any suggestions, Dear Reader? What would you like to buy from the Cliousclat Pottery?) For now, we had an 8-hour drive ahead of us and it was already noon.

I brought the car over from the hotel and we loaded up our purchases into the little space remaining in the Citroën C3. Deciding to put off our leavetaking from this enchanting village just a bit longer, Jess and I decided on an early lunch on the terrace. My mind was swimming with images of all I had just seen. But one particular image persisted on my mental screen--an assortment of pottery caught in a beam of sunlight on a windowsill. These pieces seemed to be looking out the window, yearning to begin life in the home of someone who would use them as they had always been used, in a tradition of hearth and home going back thousands of years.

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Products of Interest:
Jaspé tart plate