A different class, clay, and an albino

The noisy street, the traffic, the jam. You're late for that sculpture class you signed up for because you left the house to do something.
"I'm sorry, miss, what can I say? That's just how the traffic is ," the sweaty taxi driver huffed, honking repeatedly. The fine drizzle made the heat stifling.
"I should have ordered the..." the taxi driver begins, but stops talking when you throw him a 20€ note and run out of the car, your hair damp from the rain and your glasses slightly fogged up. You head to that ceramics shop full of works, vases, and delicate ornaments. The class has already started, and people are making figures around someone sitting in the center of the room, his back to you on a stool. He has white skin, almost translucent hair, broad shoulders, muscular arms, and wears a white tank top.