Has this Bunho the enchantment
of a millennial vanguard.
Earthenware jug which gives up the close volume to spy on the daybreak.

Long ago they where used
to drink the father's blood,
the crooked handle certifies the meanness,
hook on the stump, incomplete hand.
Forgotten the awful rite,
on these days they hardly burn throats.

Undulating lines -as is the sea of the Costa da Morte, always in movement- and concentric circles, wich remind us of the abstract motifs in the petroglifos on the rocks of the mountains. In short, the popular ceramics of Bunho are a living testimony of the history of Galicia, perhaps since the times of Father Breogan.

Pottery is an act of creation. The divine hands of the potter convey the forms that the shapeless material of the clay potentially contains. That is why the biblical myth of the anthropogenesis speaks about God as a potter.
 

TThe cups of Bunho don't have wine any more, no milk, no broth, but they still keep up the forms, the appearence ofbroth, of milk, of wine. Windy days, uneasiness, we look for the names of things, identity. The lines of the cups make you feel well and give you comfort. I say to you Bunho and i  have on my lips the name of Earth itself.

Bunho, clayey body,
diaphanous outlines
whith waterproof
rememberances in memory.

Came the cocoa - from a misterious new land far away over the ocean- and a domestic miracle was made - chocolate. Black heart of America, now kept dense and hot in the baked earth of the potters of Bunho. High temperatures.
 

Potter: you were born from a dawn impulse
to improve the world
you'll preside
ploughman of the objects
the pure and new man's heart
we are preparing.

Where the potter's hands rest
He goes, she goes.
In the clay the body,
The smile in glaze,
And in the whole, turned by the wheel
All of us go, we go too.

unforgettably