Clay paths most often wind their way to farms. Sometimes, in these places which are always a little bit magical, there are workshops. And when the workshop is right next to the farm, it’s as if work and life become one. This is what it like where Anne Reverdy lives. When you arrive in the farm yard with the dog and the hens living happily side by side, you find her vegetable garden which can feed the family year-round and the meadow with a horse playing with the donkeys, so it’s even more surprising to discover within her workshop a large-scale production, one where every piece is unique. There are pitchers, bowls, plates and cylinders, dishes, teapots, small and large tiles, boxes and hand shapes, all with salt glazes. This pottery is joyful and very beautiful, often utilitarian, carefully glazed and decorated with a sure yet free touch. For Anne nothing is systematic, it is carried along like a dance, the spontaneous movement, jumping into childhood and returning to playfulness. A conflict between good sense and respect for the clay, which holds water, feeds humans and animals, and when fired has provided crockery since time immemorial. Working as a potter has enabled her to escape from the discrimination of men and the presumption of their clichés. Anne is a liberated woman so she knows how to recognize a prison and to fight against the warders. She is a daily activist, mother courage in this new war between the poor and peasants, and she sows seeds of love and fantasy in the garden, and in the long tradition of ceramics, a grain of gentle folly. Just like her game of Ladies, whose beauty is stunning, providing the terrain for a struggle which is pacific but one of every moment. Anne Reverdy gardens the earth, and so understands that what the weather is doing is more important than what the time is. The utopia we are seeking exists.