The Colour Room Apr 2026

"You’re daydreaming again, Cliff," hissed her supervisor, a man whose soul seemed to have been fired in an oven of pure cynicism. "The world wants traditional roses and gold filigree. Neat. Tidy. Quiet."

Colley saw the fire in her eyes—a spark that matched the vibrant pigments on her palette. Against the advice of every senior manager, he gave her a small, cramped room at the back of the Newport Pottery. It was cold, damp, and smelled of turpentine, but to Clarice, it was a palace. The Colour Room

Clarice was a "lithographer" at the A.J. Wilkinson factory, a job that required precision but offered no room for soul. While the other girls gossiped over tea about suitors and silk stockings, Clarice spent her lunch breaks staring at "seconds"—the broken, rejected pots piled in the yard like white bones. To the masters of the factory, they were trash. To Clarice, they were blank canvases waiting for a revolution. It was cold, damp, and smelled of turpentine,

Clarice didn't flinch. "I call it 'Bizarre,' sir. Because that’s what they’ll say when they see it. But they won’t be able to look away." it was raining orange

But inside the mind of Clarice Cliff, it was raining orange, royal blue, and emerald green.