GUIDES to Creation

So said my late master some years ago. In offering such thoughts, I should add that the endeavors of potters like me invariably fall into one of two categories. Specifically, what we create tends to be either “decorative” or “instantaneous” in its execution, the former seeing much time expended on marquetry tasks or the application of detailed painted designs to pieces, etc., while the painstaking process of paring-down on occasion is likewise. By contrast, the latter might involve potters sitting at their wheel or employing techniques so as to highlight the distinctiveness of a particular clay. Personally, I am more a practitioner of executing instantaneous pieces, and in that respect, my efforts align with those craftspeople whose principal mediums of expression are to be found in the worlds of cut and blown glass. Meanwhile, I feel that the works of lacquerware specialists tend to be even more decorative, and the situation is similar among those whose living revolves around the manufacture of traditional dolls. Among the latter fraternity, however, there is nevertheless an exception in that each piece is concluded by the manual drawing in of the subject’s eyes, that in itself representing a more instantaneous form of execution.

Having offered such recollections, I should also comment in a more general sense as to the nature of traditional Japanese arts and crafts. Specifically, it is my belief that the vast majority of what is created is underpinned by the decorative imperative. Then again, perhaps pottery is an outlier, because while on one hand the wares of Arita, Kutani and Satsuma, etc., are clearly driven by a decorative aesthetic, those of Shigaraki, Tamba, Iga, Bizen, Hagi, Karatsu, Seto, and Tajimi, etc., are generally more instantaneous. Such variation represents one of the many attractions of our rich and long-established domestic traditions. To wit, many of my contemporaries who live in urban areas far removed from the traditional regional strongholds engage in the execution of decorative pieces, and in doing so I appreciate their underlying desire to remain astride of fashion, in that such closely aligns their wares with the lifestyles of the mass market.

As to what initially influenced me to pursue my profession, in that I was born into a family whose business was the selling of kyo-yaki(pottery wares created in the Kyoto tradition), I was fascinated by the variety of highly-painted and delicate pieces that I encountered when still young and impressionable. You could say that I was drawn to the apogee of the different techniques that I saw, and I desired to acquire such skills myself. Again, I thought that such represented everything that pottery as an art form offered.

However, at around about the time that I was undertaking my second year of vocational study, I became conscious of the different types of pottery being produced in other regions. Similarly, I came to know of certain practitioners, and I likewise felt the attraction of instantaneous execution. I was also very much energized by the expressionism that was being incorporated into various wares. The experiencing of such an awakening of my emotions set my spine atingle. As to an episode that subsequently turned out to be decisive, I recall the first time that I witnessed my master applying himself to the wheel. To describe what happened, it was totally unlike the previous occasions when I had seen others at work as part of my apprenticeship. In my master’s hands, the clay seemed to come alive. What is more, the bowl he created was quickly cut from the wheel upon completion and placed on a board. What amazed me was that it was already finished, there was nothing about it that required further adjustment. Its softness, sense of warmth, underlying strength, and design, were all in perfect equilibrium. My mind was thus in a state of confusion. I asked myself, “What just happened? What have I witnessed? What about the skills and techniques just employed?” Upon reflection, I was shocked to have seen so many different things happen at numerous locations on the piece in no more than a few seconds.

Having subsequently completed two years of vocational school, I was initially quite confident in terms of my ability to “make” most things. Thus, I was quick to apply myself to the potter’s wheel, to add my clay, and to give it a try. However, no matter how many times I attempted to create something, matters didn’t go smoothly. Even with the simplest vessels, despite their being visually pleasing, delicate, and well-proportioned, I was unable to incorporate an emotional component. Put differently, even though I could finish my executions well and supply them with a sense of originality to the extent that they would be well received when beautifully glazed and fired, I sensed that the subsequent results were rather cheap-looking and failed to stir the heart. Perhaps my overall mindset at the time had something to do with my upbringing. To wit, because of what I had seen when growing up, it was my belief that I already possessed a rather good nose regarding what might sell. However, I was unable to create such works myself.

Viewed from such a perspective, I think that being able to create things that sell is somewhat removed from the nature of technical excellence. Accordingly, against the backcloth of there being differences in the nature of the human vessel, I struggled at times in terms of lacking confidence in my own abilities. Looking back from my present self, I am uncertain as to what to make of how I used to be. However, there are still those words that my master shared with me all those years ago. Namely, “the more mundane an item, the harder it is to create.”

Fast forward to the present, and I still reflect upon my master’s thoughts from roughly 40 years ago. During his own career, did he experience periods of self-doubt? If somebody of his stature, widely recognized as a genius, had such feelings, what hope is there for me as somebody already self-conscious of his own mediocre skills? When sitting at my own wheel and taking up my clay, I know that if I don’t constantly reinvent myself, I cannot hope to get close to achieving a similar quality in my own executions. Then again, perhaps such ramblings don’t really answer the question as to who I am as a potter. Instead, maybe they give some insights into what I hope to achieve through my work.

In his well-known commentary entitled, “The Flowering Spirit,” Zeami Motokiyo, the 15th Century aesthete, offered a somewhat cautionary tale as to the nature of the arts. Although open to numerous interpretations, generally speaking, what he wrote may be construed as it being a positive to cast off whatever recollections are tied to the period of one’s own innocence. However, as to my own thoughts, I am “wary of the evil designs, conceit, and callowness of youth” as depicted in what he wrote.

On the topic thus raised, I should mention that I cursorily gave some thought to Zeami’s ideas as a result of them being featured in a book that I read in my early 20s. The backstory there is that, at around the same time, I was in the practice of attending a series of impromptu study sessions that attracted a variety of people from various backgrounds. The venue was a restaurant that was run by a classmate of mine. We who participated gathered so as to discuss a diverse range of topics, whose breadth stretched from Japanese cuisine, the tea ceremony, flower arrangement, the Noh and Kabuki theaters, through to even wine and sake, etc. Through such exchanges I must admit that I personally learned much about the rigor and psychology of the Noh form.

Likewise, I became aware as to the “inexperience of all concerned” in that, until that point, our mindset was to reflect on ones’ own lives as various milestones were achieved, and what invariably happened then was some thought was given to whether or not there were any evil designs displayed, any hint of ambition or conceit, or any mistakes made in whatever choices presented themselves as future possibilities. Next, after some admonition as to our own immaturity, the flow of the exchange among the group would quickly proceed to a new topic of discussion.

As to the nature of the arts, I sense that, without there having been an ongoing and conscious buy-in at the time, what would have happened is that unknowingly the tension that underpinned our endeavors would have waned. Meanwhile, concerning those participants who we somewhat irreverently called “old farts,” it was not the case that they had become all dried out in their ideas while still relatively young. Rather, they turned up with a confidence that stemmed from a certain ongoing self-centered cautiousness.

Concerning those in our coterie who were referred to as old, if anything, they possessed more confidence in that they had lived much more than the rest of us. Although there exists a difference between self-reflection and caution, now I feel the need to undertake the former each morning. In that, I aspire to become a low-key elder of society.

When I was still attending high school, I heard this from my uncle. It dealt with training in sales talk for those business folks who might find themselves being dragged into attending a memorial banquet for somebody’s dear departed. It touched on the serious topic of how to drink any alcohol that was offered and how to implement a discussion at such times. Personally, under such circumstances, I don’t think it can be helped that those whose bodies are alcohol-intolerant and others who lack the ability to control their intake will initially have a bad experience. However, when I heard what my uncle had to say, my simple desire was to be able to go that far. To talk about my own circumstances, from a physical perspective, when I was young, I was not really in a position to drink that much. Then again, that did not stop me from any number of failures in my attempts to train my constitution because, if I remember correctly, I had more than one or two ambulance rides. Although after such incidents, I reflected on the error of my ways, I did not learn much. In that respect, the process by which potters practice and develop the required professional techniques is similar. My own thoughts are that the acquiring of skills requires repetition, and it is only through such means that the individual’s humanity is developed.

When learning both how to drink and how to achieve professional competence, certain basic skills have to be developed. However, much like the route by which the rank-and-file potter rises to master’s status, the road to connoisseurship in both cuisine and alcohol is fraught with danger. Personally, there was much that I learned when growing up in classrooms that happened to be Showa-era bars.

To touch on such establishments, my introduction to Showa-era drinking culture occurred in my 20s. Specifically, perhaps 20 or so young potters would be treated to a midday meal by our masters at a high-class French restaurant. When toasting the company, I stood up in response to my name being called, and I remember being singled out as “somebody who only drank sake.” Upon hearing that, with a glass of draft beer raised in one hand, I responded to the accusation by saying, “I have enjoyed my life due to such salubriousness,” and “through their comparative abstinence, I feel that some of my colleagues are missing out on half of theirs.” Such quick wits on my part saw me awarded “a get out of jail free card” for my failings as seen through the eyes of the amassed company.

Is it the case that answers to questions be revealed?

About 40 years ago, when the topic of my being accepted as his apprentice was initially raised, my master responded along the following lines:

“Basically, there is nothing that I can teach you because I feel that your father already knows everything. Put differently, you are in a different position to my other prospective apprentices because they have been raised by adults working at rank-and-file companies. In your case, however, your ability to succeed as a potter will boil down solely to your own perseverance.”

To put that into perspective, what he seemed to be recommending was that I cut to the chase and hang out my own shingle immediately. I took such feedback positively, and after thinking overnight with my father about what had been said, I followed my master’s suggestion. Thus, from that point on, nobody taught me anything in particular during my apprenticeship, I instead commenced producing my own pieces at a frenetic pace. If I think back on that, what I ended up doing would perhaps now be considered rather straightforward. However, at the time, it was not the norm. Although I had thought that up until that point, I possessed originality, in reality, because nobody really taught me anything, it was from that point on that my artistic distinctiveness came to life. I am somebody who was taught from elementary school, through junior high and senior high, and then at a cram school and finally a vocational college. Since embarking on my career, however, it has not really been the case that more senior potters have attempted to teach me much.

As to on-the-job training and the acquisition of skills in a profession like mine, it is often said that such occurs via “stealing with one’s eyes.” What that actually means is that much can be learned by watching more experienced potters at work. Concerning my own experiences, I really got a sense of such a mentality when taking on my own apprentices.

In that I personally experienced some difficulty in that a lot was not taught to me during my own apprenticeship, when I became responsible for the training of my own charges, I instructed them both carefully and attentively. Such included teaching them how to move their fingertips millimeter-by-millimeter, how to correctly roll their wrists, and how to control spatula angles, etc. Obviously, some of my apprentices could not do such things. Indeed, if they could do so from the outset, they would not have needed me to train them. When they finally succeeded, it was at that point that they could replicate my own tastes.

Again, to recollect on my own development, at a certain point, I was surprised to notice that my own style had been given life. Concurrently, I also realized that such represented something that could not have been taught.

When much younger, for no particular reason at all, I was in the habit of sometimes visiting my master at home. When going to see him, I would carry with me something I had been working on in the hope that he would evaluate my efforts, whether they were good or bad. That is all I wished. On some occasions, however, he offered no feedback at all. Rather, I was left to judge his facial expression as I started unwrapping what I wished him to see. Put differently, he was not the type of person to suggest specific improvements about my pieces or the glazes that I selected. Likewise, in that my master knew all the answers, I sometimes thought that I might have received recommendations. However, I never thought to raise such queries myself. Rather, it was usually the case that I would take my pieces home; and following some days of indecision and anguish, I would then implement my own improvements.

Personally, it can be rather easy for me to provide younger colleagues with answers to their questions. Likewise, it can be rather difficult to keep one’s own counsel. For the convenience of a quick result, I can well understand the desire of people to receive answers then and there. I also appreciate that I will be thanked if I oblige. However, concerning the relationship between teaching and being taught, I only go as far as is required by the basics. I say that because it is important not to be overgenerous when passing on knowledge. Rather it is kinder and more important to leave something for whoever is being taught to discover themselves.

Finally, I would like to say that I feel greatly indebted, both to my master and my fellow apprentices, who played a part in nurturing me all those years ago.

When still in junior high school, I purchased a really beautiful training top.

As to how the top itself looked, it was decorated using a random patchwork of purple and white squares, each of which measured about 5 cm. Furthermore, the purple ones were further broken up into some 10 different shades. Overall, there seemed to be no regularity in the design, but I remember the use of the white elements being attractive. Concerning the bluish-purple squares by comparison, within them lighter and darker shades of the color had been incorporated. I bought the top even though it was quite expensive when compared to other options.

Upon getting it home, I proudly showed it to my mother and father. However, contrary to my expectations, my parents proceeded to chew me out. As to the color purple when it is used in clothing, they told me that it was associated with both expressions of frustration and a lack of class. Accordingly, I was told in no uncertain terms not to be seen wearing the top in the immediate neighborhood. I ended up being quite upset for being criticized about something that I felt was quite beautiful. Conversely, I even remember being told at a local temple that “purple was the most princely of colors.” Recalling that just rubbed more salt into my wound. Then again, from the distance of many years, I now concur that the top was quite garish.

But still, I remember wearing that same trainer when I visited my grandmother’s home in Gion. Upon my arrival, there was an aunty of mine and a number of Geiko also in attendance. Having recognized me and my attire, my colorful clothing was very well received, and questions among the group flew back-and-forth regarding both the origins and the suitability of the 10 different shades of purple. What is more, the use of the white elements was also felt to be well balanced. Finally, the unknown person who decided upon the colors was unreservedly praised for their choices.

To change the topic slightly, at my grandmother’s house, there was always an air of confidence regarding the work of the kimono dyers. From a very young age, I remember that when I visited her, there was always a lot of interchange with my aunties regarding their evaluation of the colors and designs of the kimono worn by visitors. Accordingly, perhaps I unconsciously learned much about such things.

On the topic of classy and vulgar colors, I believe that the opinions of people vary.

To return to that top that I fell in love with at first sight, if it had featured any colors that I felt were unseemly, I might well have forgone the purchase. As to my next comment, it does not apply to manufactured goods, but rather to those one-off items that have been made by hand. I think that such offer a connection between the past and the present. Then again, on each occasion that I subsequently wore my top, my father expressed his displeasure. Upon reflection, I feel that such highlighted the fact that my father and I had quite different views regarding what constituted beautiful clothing.

I developed a strong interest in color as a result of the training top saga. In bringing the reader up to speed, sometime later, I was greatly surprised when my grandmother lectured me on the huge number of different shades of white and black that existed in the surrounding world. Upon hearing her reasoning, I concluded that what I had previously known about such monotones was grossly incorrect. Indeed, at the time, I had only really been aware of a shade of white used in paint, and the different shade that was often seen in standard drawing paper. Subsequent to her treatise, I found myself paying much closer attention to just how much white (in its myriad shades) dominated the neighborhood around me.

To offer some examples of what I discovered all those years ago, behind the shade of white that was then used to paint motor vehicles, I noticed touches of other colors such as reds and blues, along with browns and greens. Meanwhile, within those vehicles painted red, I noted blacks, yellows, and browns, etc., as they drove past. Likewise, when growing up, I also enjoyed passing judgment and breaking down into groups the colors used by the different manufacturers. Further on, when I was about 20 years old, rather than any interest in modern industrial hues, I instead bought a thick dictionary of color upon being made aware of the various vegetable dyes that had been used in Japan since ancient times. Concerning the tome, rather than it classifying matters in terms that I then understood, it instead aligned certain colors with one another. What got me even more interested in the topic was the idea that each individual shade had a name drawn from Japan’s traditional flora and fauna, or from other natural phenomena. I feel that gaining such knowledge greatly helped me in my subsequent career. Likewise, as my father’s evaluative boundaries differed from my own, I am readily conscious that around me there are people whose abilities to perceive and distinguish between colors far outstrip my own efforts.

When I was still very small, there were a couple of old guys whom I often encountered in our local neighborhood. Concerning both, they were the sort who seemed to loath children. Looking back, I do not know if they knew who I was or not at the time. However, every time that I passed them on the street heading in the opposite direction, there would be a smirk, and then something said. They seemed to act much the same when I was undergoing puberty. I also remember both were quite slovenly, and that even in winter, would wear sandals on bare feet. Both used to slink along while assuming an attitude, and I recall thinking that they represented a type of person that I definitely did not want to become. Another recollection is that they always insisted walking right down the middle of the street. What is more, if somebody happened to have the misfortune of coming the other way, under no circumstances would the old guys yield the right-of-way. When strolling with my father one day, he told me to not walk on the side of the street, but to put out my chest and be confident in my movements. However, with the two old guys, whenever I saw them coming, I always shifted to the side a fair way prior to crossing their path. Nevertheless, even if I attempted to pass them while taking no notice, there were still the snide remarks about me attempting to “walk like a man” or “hurrying to get home before something happened.” Thus, I really hated those clowns.

Having offered that information, after I joined the workforce, it was revealed that both old guys were pottery industry insiders. One was a very famous creator of tea ceremony implements. The other turned out to be the head clerk of a very old and respected shop. Knowing that, I then realized that from a very young age, they must have known whose son I was. Nevertheless, they had acted in the way they did. With the passage of time, however, we started to exchange pleasantries on occasion, and such sometimes amounted to actual conversations. Be that as it may, their style of speech never varied, it always seemed to be angry language. Anyway, about 10 years later, at around the time that I started to be recognized within the industry, one day when I was walking down the middle of the street, I saw that one of the old guys was doing the same from the other direction. Before colliding, however, he yielded the right-of-way. When doing so, his usual snarky remark was transformed, he said, “You seem to be going places.” In that instant, I thought that I had won out over one of my childhood tormentors, but later I developed more complex feelings.

Again, I was very much conscious of the fact that the two old guys had seen me since I was very small. It seemed that they both hated me, and that they were always ready with a wry smile, and that just their presence in my general vicinity would drive me to the side of the street. However, what I later realized was that in both cases, each represented an important link with the local community. Sometime later, I remember that one of them called me up on the telephone rather unexpectedly, and it was then that I came to know that he was not in the best of health. I also found out that due to his illness, the outlook was quite bleak. Anyway, when I shared with him the fact that I also suffered from the same disease, we got into the practice of talking to each other on the phone each day. What I remember in particular about those conversations was him telling me to make sure to look after myself and to not follow his example of not doing anything about our shared illness. After a while, I no longer received phone calls, from this chap who when I was small, would invariably send me on my way with something nasty ringing in my years. However, over the course of the final month of our exchanges, we each took the opportunity to listen closely to what the other had to say. In offering a prayer on his passing, I will always be grateful for having met the old man and for having got to know him.

What is written above was said to me in my late 20s. The person concerned was the head of a traditional tableware wholesaler who lived in my neighborhood. To describe them in more detail, they were involved in the local community, and had known me well since I was a small child. Their comment was made in response to their having attended a group exhibition in which I was involved.

To offer some more in the way of a backstory, to my family’s trade name, tsubo-ya (literally “a retailer of tsubo”), was attached because the first head of the business during the Edo period was a noted potter who specialized in the production of such wares. Likewise, my own master to whom I apprenticed was recognized as a famous producer of some high-quality examples. Meanwhile, among the potters of my own generation, perhaps it was me who spent the longest time in the sharpening of my tsubo skills. Indeed, at the outset of my career, I focused solely on such wares in order to get examples of my work included in public exhibitions. Concerning the nature of the form itself, while relatively speaking it can be somewhat frustrating to shape their mouths, personally, I preferred such a focus rather than applying myself to the creation of tokkuri, which with their smaller working area and diameter, were merely a form of tableware. Indeed, creating the spout of a tokkuri only meant making use of a piece of chamois leather to create a beautiful lip. Accordingly, if I am honest, I should say that back then, I did not make such pieces any great numbers.

Nevertheless, was it really the case that the spouts of my tokkuri lacked class? In responding to that, I should mention that from quite early on in my professional life, I was highly conscious that my output required a degree of “class” and “character” in order to be successful. Additionally, I was aware that my efforts needed to deliver on the “alluring” aesthetic. Concerning that last requirement, I suppose I was fortunate in that such often developed within my own works with the passage of time. Likewise, I should mention that, when I was young, I had the opportunity to examine a great variety of tokkuri. Thus, I was conscious of the fact that there were a great number in circulation whose sense of “class” was lacking. Nevertheless, I will admit that I didn’t really understand what represented a superior spout. Was such witnessed in those examples recognized as masterpieces of the form? Were such elements found on the wares of famous potters? If I think about some of the Bizen-yaki and Kyo-yaki tokkuri that I examined, certain pieces had spouts that were clearly excellent. Having shared all those details, however, after investigating so many tokkuri, I went through a period of about 20 years of not producing many pieces myself. Reflecting on that, perhaps I moved away from the form due to having experienced some trauma. Likewise, the greater interval during which I didn’t make any, the more and more I forgot about chancing my arm. To wit, during the time when I focused more closely on private exhibitions, there was a corresponding boom in the popularity of the reishu drinking style. That in turn meant that I devoted much of my time to the production of katakuchi. More recently, however, I have gone back to producing tokkuri. Concerning that, because when I was a youngster, I probably made more tsubo than anybody else, my associated skills are still of a passable level. Nevertheless, I do consider myself to be a novice in certain areas in that, regarding them, it is only possible to produce something initially by relying on those acquired techniques that come with age.

Finally, to touch on another subject, there used to be a certain pottery group that felt that it was not good for its younger members to challenge themselves and attempt to create matcha tea bowls. Recalling that mindset, when members of that same group started to display their own efforts once they had obtained seniority, their output was not very good. That was despite the fact that some of their other pottery forms were quite impressive. Personally speaking, I don’t want to end up confronted by such a predicament. I say that as well because of some of the private exhibitions I have witnessed over the years.

The following represents somebody else’s opinion.

Namely, when considering Japanese pottery, there is no real difference between how its mouths and how the mouths of overseas vessels (including glassware) are made. Such an observation particularly applies to vessels into which a liquid might be placed, and from which such would then be drunk directly. In offering such a bold statement, what is being suggested are the mouths of guinomi, yunomi, and wineglasses, etc. In expanding further, the mouths of the vessels in question represent a boundary line that such liquids transcend as they enter a drinker’s mouth. However, I am of the opinion that such are not in fact a true line of demarcation, but instead a point of separation between a vessel’s content and the human mouth, and that such might be measured and appreciated in terms of representing mere millimeters of thickness. As a potter, in creating those few millimeters, my job is to decide as to just what extent I shall utilize my nerves, and how much I will try and incorporate a sense of expression into such works. Concerning such an idea, I feel that my fellow Japanese potters place quite a weighting on it. To wit, such is an important enough consideration for some of them to throw their whole being into the forming of guinomi and matcha tea bowls.

Although perhaps it cannot be helped in the case of industrial products, with expensive overseas glassware and certain Japanese mass-produced pottery as well, in almost all cases such design elements are seen as representing mere boundaries. While I think that such represents a premise that is good enough for the wares in question, among some Japanese pottery, such elements are not considered so simply. In offering that, I am not merely focusing on whether something can be easily drunk from a particular vessel. Rather, I am touching upon the consciousness that certain potters attempt to imbibe their pieces with.

In one of my previous writings, I discussed the spouts of tokkuri.Concerning that topic, instead of simply focusing on whether or not a piece can be rated on the “classy” aesthetic, sometimes there also exists the desire to drink from something whose execution might be somewhat “coarse,” “alluring,” or even overly “sharp.” Indeed, sometimes a tokkuri whose spout was considered “slovenly” might also seem fitting. Regarding such ideas, I recall an interview conducted with a well-known colleague, in which they were asked to describe what they felt to be a good tokkuri spout. I actually posited as to whether that was a foolish question or even a throwaway line. Whatever the case, the answer offered was of a “spout that a drinker would find difficult to drink from.” Personally, I don’t think such a reply should be considered as excessive if it described a piece that a colleague consciously decided to put everything into.

Such words were often uttered by my father as I embarked on my career.

Put into context, he conveyed each as representing an aesthetic imperative, thus they would have a vital role to play in whatever pieces I created going forward.

To comment on each one in more detail, early on, I struggled with the quintessential essence of “character.” Thus, as I developed my craft, such was something about which I was especially conscious. Concerning the idea that my wares should also be capable of delivering on “class,” I made sure to both infuse what I created with life, and to then nurture such forms extensively. Concurrently, however, as to how I related to it as a construct, on “class,” I felt that it was possible to exercise some control over the extent to which it might be developed. Finally, “allure” was something that I felt that I did not know that much about. Thus, I suppose that it was not necessarily good enough for it merely to be a general player in what I was doing.

In letting my thoughts stray to the world of kabuki, in addition to the need for practitioners to polish their skills, to improve the nature of the work more generally, the importance of drawing on the lives of those individuals involved is often cited. However, depending on the type of job in which the individual is employed, and their relative position to it, I feel there are certain ways of living that are maybe not as important within a given context. Concerning that premise in and of itself, perhaps because I have been conscious of such forms since starting my career, I particularly like pottery to which I feel is attached a certain smell. To put that declaration into perspective, among the works of historically-famous practitioners, and among those forms often described as representing a masterpiece, it is not necessarily a given that everything will coincide with my own sensibilities. Similarly, there are wares for which the “class” aesthetic far outshines everything else. There are also pieces whose depiction of “character” borders on being oppressive. Additionally, there are still other examples of traditional domestic pottery for whom the “alluring” imperative has been overstressed. Concerning aficionados with a soft spot for such pieces, I suppose that the forms successfully reach out to them on a certain level within the context of their lives. Either that or such pieces are desired and taken in hand so as to provide their eventual owners with a sense of fulfilment.

Having offered such thoughts, in the recent past there has been the appearance of new genres of both creators and purchasers. For each, in addition to the “class,” “character” and “alluring” imperatives, there has been the emergence of being “fashionable” as well. What is more, in recent years within the world of Japanese pottery, there has been the establishment of a more defined position. Thus, when I consider the wider world that exists beyond these shores, I feel it was inevitable that differences occurred in tableware as a result of those variations that are present within the lifestyles and food cultures of different peoples. Put differently, it is quite obvious that previously we did not produce wares that might be used for serving pasta or curry, because such culinary options were not within the collective consciousness or on our traditional menus back during the Edo period. Such might also be expressed thus. Namely, whereas to date when eating such cuisine, we made best use of Japanese tableware as substitutes of necessity, it is only recently that we have got to the point of having access to a range of genuine purpose-created domestic items.

To mention the world of Japanese arts and crafts again, there has been a long-term manifestation of the so-called “Galapagos Syndrome,” in that essentially there has been the isolated development of a range of products that merely represent an offshoot branch of something globally available. What is more, I would argue that with the end of such isolation, there are now also some traditional techniques within our domestic arts and crafts that are being pushed to the point of extinction. Against such a backcloth, concerning those particular pottery forms to which I feel there is attached a certain smell, in looking to the future, I would like to see them “roped off” and protected for prosperity.

When I consider the stylish aesthetic as it has arisen from the world of Munemaru Ishiguro, the celebrated potter, within my mind’s eye I see a Bizen tokkuri paired with a guinomi created in the madarakaratsu style. Using Oribe tableware, what could be better than pieces finished using old glaze setting the stage for servings of snapper and tuna. Adding to such an ambiance would be a vase in the Iga style that contained but a single bloom of a wildflower. Such would represent a satisfying time in space to which everyone might be invited.

In contrast to individuals who work only when motivated, there are a group of people who seem not to stop. In singling them out, I am not referring to those who take what they do very seriously, and thus essentially keep chipping away at whatever there is on their slate. As to that first type, when such individuals feel motivated to act, they try very hard and maybe put in a 120% effort vis-à-vis any work at hand. Likewise, concerning those who demonstrate staying power in that they don’t cease, they might be capable of 80% or more of an effort all of the time. Finally, those who chip away on ongoing basis perhaps do so at a level that represents 60% of their total capacity.

To put such into perspective, when young, we all try and put in as much effort as possible on a daily basis, with the result being that we work at maybe 100% or more of our innate capacity. However, with the passing of time, such a high level of output is unsustainable. Thus, when I was young, I was both vigorous and inclined to chip away at whatever chores presented themselves. However, upon actually entering the workforce and becoming a potter for a living, for some reason or other, I transformed into somebody whose inclination is to only work when I feel motivated enough to do so. Accordingly, in my career to date, there have been periods during which I have not put clay in my hands for many months. Likewise, I can recall instances of me sitting at my wheel for an entire month. Among the latter occasions, even if my hands were largely inactive, my brain was invariably in overdrive.

I should mention that over the years, I have had the opportunity to visit the premises of a well-known culinary giant in order to study under them. Then again, maybe the position of craftspeople like me and the interactions we have with such entities is somewhat different from that of the run-of-the-mill clientele. In offering suchan observation, when visiting restaurants, my purpose is not expressly to visually check up on how the food prepared is presented, or whether or not its taste is good. Rather, seeing how a particular chef conducts themselves represents for me a form of study.

To turn to the culinary giant, when sharing their knowledge, they offer that they are often judged based on their stance when standing behind the counter. Thus, among their clientele, “how they stand” personifies what it means “to have been recognized as one of the best chefs in the country for literally decades.” In having maintained that status, the person concerned suggests that they have “worked at around 80% of their abilities day-in and day-out.” To wit, once they have finished shaping and pressing a single piece of sushi for somebody at the counter, they immediately retire and disappear into a waiting room until called upon again. Before their next call happens, however, they are often witnessed thumbing through a newspaper. That is a snapshot that I have seen on occasion. To talk about such interactions, although I cannot see such clearly myself, I feel that there is a certain buzz. Thus, although I try and keep abreast of what transpires so as to not miss out on anything even for a second, the sense I get is that there is nothing in the way of any wasted movement. Furthermore, having witnessed my acquaintance work, it is hard to determine whether or not their actions are fast or slow. Personally speaking, over the years I have nevertheless become enamored by such a sense of fluidity. However, when I tried to replicate such an approach when sitting at my own potter’s wheel, I found it very difficult. Indeed, I thought that such would not be undertaken on an ongoing basis without there being an accompanying shortness of breath.

There is a colleague of mine who trained in the Seto pottery tradition. To not mince words, I willingly admit that I greatly respect their work. The person concerned is especially famous for their employment of celadon green and certain rice-colored glazes. Likewise, there is a certain something about their Oribe ware. I should also mention that they are felt to be a master of the potter’s wheel. Thus, personally speaking, I am greatly enamored by both the sharpness and depth of their efforts. Similarly, in a professional sense, I feel that what they have already achieved in their career closely coincides with some of my own aims. I make mention of that because the pieces they produce are liberally sprinkled with a rare and special essence that can sway the human heart.

Having offered all that as background, I shall now proceed to describe what happened on one occasion when I was holding a private exhibition of my work in Tokyo. Quite unexpectedly, on a certain day, I recognized a visitor as being none other than a noted collector of the works of my colleague. Thus, I was presented with an opportunity that I could not overlook. Accordingly, after having engaged in some small talk, I asked the visitor straight out whether or not I could view their noted collection of pottery pieces. However, my first request fell flat, and the collector turned me down. Not to be denied, I made the same request a second time, but nevertheless the outcome was the same. Finally, I made a third request, and much to my surprise, my wish was granted. Thus, it was decided that I would call at the collector’s home on the day following the conclusion of the exhibition.

To offer some additional information at this juncture, upon previously attending an exhibition that was put on by my much-admired colleague, I encountered certain pottery pieces whose glaze was of a milky cream hue. Without a doubt, such had occurred during the firing process. Accordingly, upon those works, my colleague had conferred the collective name of kamahen (literally “kiln changes”). What is more, although the exact origin of that naming in particular was unclear, I had previously witnessed similar results. Such had been pieces that I knew to have been fired at the wrong temperature after the application of a celadon green glaze. Thus, what should have been a bluishness with a certain transparency, left the kiln entirely milky white. Nevertheless, my colleague had included both a bowl and a guinomilike that in their exhibition. The result was that when those same works were seen by the collector, they were singled out for special praise as being fine examples of my colleague’s art.

Now, to return to my own interactions with the collector, whether or not it was right, when visiting their home, I turned up at about 9:00 am. In doing so, I had it in the back of my mind that we would probably be finished talking about the collection at around about lunchtime. Boy, didn’t I get that wrong.

Having set out, I arrived at a house that was truly spectacular. What is more, upon being given permission to enter, I was shown into a room in which just about all of the space was taken up by a mountain of wooden presentation cases, each of which contained a spectacular piece of pottery. To say I was stunned would be a dramatic understatement.

In any case, the proud owner then proceeded to take each individual piece from its case and present it to me. Having done so, we then took time to talk about the motivations and emotions that underpinned the creation of every single work. Additionally, we debated both the good and bad elements of the calligraphy descriptions. Furthermore, we did not stop there, we then proceeded to consider the braiding used to decorate the presentation boxes, and the differences we perceived in how the pieces had been placed in them. Of course, due to the breadth of such a wide-ranging discussion, time flew by with the result that we both were confronted by the prospect of lunch. It was prepared by my host’s wife, and much to my great enjoyment, the meal was served on tableware that had been made by my esteemed colleague. Then again, for my hosts, it seemed to be very much just an extension of their day-to-day lives. Meanwhile, I will tell you that my hands literally shook every time I held a piece of pottery.

Anyway, more time passed, and in the afternoon, I was given the opportunity to not just see and talk about my admired colleague’s work, but about numerous other pieces produced by some of the giants of this nation’s traditional arts and crafts. By then it had got to 5:00 pm in the late afternoon, but there was still a sizable mountain of presentation boxes that had not been opened.

In following on, for dinner I was given a full course meal, with each dish served on a piece of pottery that was the creation of a master craftsman. Additionally, among the lacquer and glassware as well, there were numerous truly amazing examples. What is more, following the meal, the procession of wonders continued, with my being presented with certain works in glass that normally resided in the collection of an art gallery. By that time, I had begun to worry as to whether or not I would be in time to catch the last train home. Without giving away any secrets, I should tell the reader that this wonderful experience took place in Nishi-Funabashi. I thought I would never return to Kyoto.

Finally, to conclude the proceedings, all that was left unopened seemed to be a presentation box that contained a guinomi, and while looking at it out of the corner of my eye, I continued to talk to my host about matters such as changes that were occurring within the pottery industry, what I should do in the future regarding my own career, and what should be the attitude of potters more generally. Indeed, the discussion had gone on for so long that I was on the verge of thinking that it was perhaps not that important if we did not get around to opening that last box. However, obviously my host had other plans. Without any warning, he turned to open it while saying, “there is just one more thing that I would like to show you.” When the contents were exposed, I was amazed as I was presented by a guinomi glazed in red in all its finery. In an instant, I realized what it was. It was one of the famous red pieces of pottery that were done by Munemaro Ishiguro, who was not just a giant of Japan’s traditional pottery, but who also happened to be the master of my own beloved teacher. After being shown such a piece that is considered to be better than perfect by many individuals who are much more equipped than me to pass such a judgment, I was simply lost for words.

Upon closer inspection, however, I noticed that something like the letter “S” had been cut into the base, and as a professional potter, I thought that it was rather strange that somebody might seek to size a guinomi. What is more, I realized that there was some damage to the presentation box, and that the red glaze was almost faded like what might be seen with an ancient artifact.

In any case, in that it seemed that I was having trouble in commenting on the piece, my host asked me to give “my honest opinion” of what I was being shown. Accordingly, I started by saying, “Excuse both my directness and choice of words, but the workmanship of this piece is pretty shoddy.” Upon hearing that, somewhat rather unexpectedly, my host said, “I agree.” Furthermore, he told me that he had asked his wife and children to place the same guinomi into his right hand when placed in his coffin.

To comment on the situation of potters, I think that many are left wondering as to whether or not they are able to work on a day-to-day basis at 100% or even occasionally 120% of their inherent abilities. Nevertheless, when still very young, such a style of working is taken for granted. However, with the gaining of age and the acquisition of an old person’s body, even if somebody has the same vitality and desire to work, it can be difficult to replicate the same sense of tension. As to my own circumstances, when I was young and fulfilling the role of a business owner, I was more than willing to put my life on the line while working like crazy. Back then, what gave me the courage to act was the simple love of my art. Fast forward to the present, and I have now handed over the business. In saying that, I suppose that what I want to suggest is all about putting things into perspective. Thus, with the onset of maturity and then successively old age, it is only to be expected that the skills of a craftsman will falter. Nevertheless, even with a relatively simple pottery piece such as a humble guinomi, rather than evaluating its quality within the context of a specific snapshot that has been taken at a single point in time, I feel that it is more pertinent to be aware of the idea that such works represent the culmination of a craftsman’s entire efforts to that point. It is only through such means that the next sip of sake we drink from such vessels will be delicious.

To conclude the story of what I experienced that day, I managed to make it to Tokyo station on the last train while being very much in a dazed state. Subsequently, in having made no accommodation arrangements, I spent the remainder of the evening in a sauna in the Shimbashi District. Upon waking up the next morning, I caught the train back to Kyoto with my mind still awhirl. Truly, visiting the collector at his home was an earth-shattering experience. Finally, I should mention that thereafter I only saw the collector on one more occasion, and sometime after I heard that he had passed away. I thus believe that he passed into the next life with his cherished guinomi in hand. All in all, I feel that my chance encounter with him represented one of the biggest events in my life, and I hope that at some point in the future, I can become the sort of potter that the late gentleman described.

Such was said to me at a joint exhibition that had been put on by a collection of traditionally-aligned pottery studios. To put such matters into perspective, the occasion in question was an event that took place just a few years after I had put out my shingle. Back then, I was still in my mid-20s, when out of the blue one day, I was contacted by somebody regarding the possibility of my submitting a few pieces to the aforementioned exhibition. Furthermore, I should provide the reader with some more details regarding the situation at the time. Specifically, our group of traditionally-aligned studios used to hold a joint exhibition in January of each year in Tokyo’s Ikebukuro District. Following on, we repeated the exercise in April with an exhibition at a gallery run by a department store in Osaka’s Tenmanbashi. Regarding the first occasion on which I submitted pieces to the event, at the time, I had nothing really suitable in my studio’s inventory. Thus, upon further reflection based on many years of subsequent experience, I realize now that what I submitted was highly unsuitable. To expand on that sentiment, when I went to the gallery prior to the exhibition opening, my first reaction was that I felt extremely embarrassed when seeing my own offerings lined up alongside those of other potters with whom I had apprenticed. Thus, I felt like packing away my own works before anybody really had a chance to see them. However, perhaps unfortunately, one of my fellow ex-apprentices was kind enough to compliment me on the quality of my work, and because that touched my vanity, I allowed what I had made to remain on display for the rest of the week. That was a decision that would come back to haunt me.

To continue the narrative, there was a tradition back then for everybody who participated to gather for a banquet on the exhibition’s first day. On this particular occasion, however, when all the ex-apprentices came together, many were reticent to talk. Likewise, in such a claustrophobic atmosphere, many smoked incessantly while we awaited the master’s appearance. When he finally appeared, the tension in the room literally hit the roof. He proceeded to nonchalantly peruse the pottery pieces we ex-apprentices had put on display, before taking his seat without uttering a word. To the credit of his wife, she attempted to calm the situation by engaging him in conversation. However, all was for naught as he cut her off with a curt single-word response. The department store manager in charge of the gallery fared no better. He attempted some light conversation, only to end up standing ramrod straight to the extent that the imprint of his spine was clearly visible through his shirt. Next, what should have been an enjoyable lunch was eaten in complete silence. Concerning that, because I was the youngest ex-apprentice who attended on the day, my meal was served last. To wit, the menu was charcoaled eel served on a bed of white rice. It was accompanied by a bowl of steaming eel liver soup. However, I was not able to enjoy it. Instead, I had to get it down quickly in order to keep pace with everybody else. Accordingly, I stuffed my mouth while taking copious slurps of the soup, which I had in turn cooled down by adding to it a large volume of mineral water. Subsequently, having battled on and finished the meal, I remember what happened next. Namely, when I took my turn and stood alone as a representative of all the potters whose work was on display, somebody who I recognized as a long-term patron of my master suggested that I quickly pack away my own pieces, and “not besmirch my master’s name.”

Speaking more generally, from a mental perspective, as a working potter I found my 20s to be the most difficult period of my career. In saying that, rather than having regrets, I feel that there were occasions on which I felt overly embarrassed. At that point in my life, it had been a few years since I had graduated from pottery school, and by that time I had developed a small measure of pride in my skills. Accordingly, what my master’s long-term patron unexpectedly said was like a lightning bolt out of the blue, and it literally felt like I had been punched full in the face. Following on, some of my contemporaries got to the point of being able to create both self-expressive pieces and others upon which they conferred names. While noting their new-found freedom, I decided to focus on thoroughly brushing up my own skills. In doing so, I wanted to both quickly approach their level of technical competence, and to receive their approval. Furthermore, I wanted to be able to meet such stressful situations head-on.

For some reason, recently I recalled the recollections that I just described. Thus, in some strange way, it was almost like some of my contemporaries had experienced a baptism due to their participation in the event.

When recalling Kamakura’s Zaimokuza Beach, perhaps it was there that I underwent my own epiphany and was subsequently firmly placed on the path to becoming a potter.

Before proceeding, however, I should offer something in the way of a backstory for the reader’s benefit. Specifically, as has already been mentioned, I arrived in this world as the son of a business that has engaged in the sale of pottery for many generations. To wit, when young, I did not really think consciously about what I would do other than to take over the family business at some point. Thus, I reached the ripe old age of 18 years without anything specific being said about my future. Back then, when I was a high school student, it was thought that everybody in my age cohort would seamlessly proceed to university. However, personally, not much thought had been given to where I would end up or what I would study. Nevertheless, I took the challenge of taking the entry exam to an institution whose academic standards were far in excess of my own very modest school results. Accordingly, and quite obviously, I failed to gain admission to university by such a route. Meanwhile, and by comparison, among my high school classmates, there were some individuals who had clear aims, and who thus were quite clear on the subject of what university they wished to attend. Among their number, some then proceeded to do the study required to pass the entry exams of the schools in question. By contrast, many were like me in that they failed to pass their entry exams first go, and thus they ended up so-called ronin (or cram school students). Likewise, in that I personally had nothing better to do, I ended up in the same boat. In my particular case, however, for a second time I proceeded to fail the entry exams of the university of my choice.

After that happened, initially I felt very remorseful toward my parents. Thus, in that the resulting atmosphere at home was stifling, I rushed to catch an express train from Kyoto to parts unknown. When morning broke the next day, I accordingly found myself getting off at Ofuna, Kanagawa Prefecture. What is more, in that during the night I had decided to head for Kamakura/Shonan, instead of waiting for the morning trains to start, I got a move on and headed for a nearby beach so as to see the sunrise.

Although that plan did not work out, I ended up right on the coast at a place called Zaimokuza. However, I only learned of its name much later. While on the beach, I sat on the sand and threw numerous pebbles into the water. It must have been for hours. Who knows how many? In any case, at a certain point I realized that I was not alone. Rather, there were people on the beach who were walking a rather fashionable dog. Just their presence was a crushing experience because there seemed to be such a gap between them and my own circumstances. Such thoughts made me so bereft that I subsequently threw so many pebbles that my shoulder began to hurt. Next, having regained my composure, I visited Enoshima and the Kamakura Daibutsu. I also walked somewhat aimlessly along the Enoden Railway. Later, I found myself at Tsuruoka Hachiman Shrine in Yokohama, and I then spent some days down on the harbor in the vicinity of both the statue of the “Girl in Red Shoes” and the Hikawa Maru (a retired luxury cruise ship that was tied up at the dock). Next, when I was in a Japanese pub one evening, somebody I didn’t know, a timeworn fisherman, bought me a meal out of pity. How many days had I been on the road? My meager finances were long exhausted, and without really figuring out what I should do, I returned directly to Kyoto. Having done so, based on the subsequent recommendation of my father, I decided to attend a vocational school in order to study pottery. Then again, up until that point in my life, I had never handled clay or seen a potter’s wheel. Nevertheless, while still largely ignorant as to the details of what it was that I proposed to do, I filled out an application and was lucky enough to be granted admission. That put me on the path to where I am now.

Subsequently, when it had been decided that I would hold the first private exhibition of my works some years later at a gallery in Ginza, I related to the owner the same story. Having done so, he asked me about the location, and then drove me all the way to Kamakura on little more than a whim. Of course, his destination turned out to be the same beach, and it was then that I learned that Zaimokuza was its name. As to its history, the location had served as an unloading point for the city as far back as the days of the Kamakura Shogunate. As to what was unloaded, it represented part of the trade that was then taking place between Japan and Sung China. To mention that dynasty briefly, it was strongly associated with both the celadon and temoku pottery glazes. Meanwhile, as to the contemporary situation here in Japan, at around the same time there were still the famous six sites where the production of local ceramics had commenced. Regarding such matters, the gallery owner said the following: “Please look at the beach. You will notice the lack of pebbles. In actual fact, what you previously threw into the sea were probably pottery fragments that dated back to the Kamakura Period.”

Upon reflection, I realized that he was no doubt correct in that what I had thrown were pottery fragments whose previously-sharp edges had been worn down by incessant wave action over many years. Examining around me, among those fragments still on the beach, I could discern the sort of celadon glaze encountered at Tenryu-ji Temple, as well as the transparency of the same glaze as may be witnessed in relief. Additionally, there were also fragments of iron glazes and inscribed jars. The gallery owner also commented that years previously, Koyama Fujio and Munemaro Ishiguro, both celebrated potters, met at the same beach as friends in order to both collect such old fragments and to cast shards of their own works into the sea. That made me think, in the future, somebody might gather such fragments as well in the mistaken belief that they represented shards of Song pottery. Indeed, those fragments finished with an iron glaze might have been the same. In any case, while I felt very privileged to unexpectedly be told such an interesting story, I liked to think that, as a result of my having picked up some fragments of the past, the spirit of some long-deceased unknown craftsmen from 1000 years ago had passed into my body. Thus, I have visited Zaimokuza subsequently on any number of occasions so as to cast shards of my own pottery into the water when feeling down, and to possibly receive the spirit of a professional forebear via any fragments of old work that I gathered.

Such was asked of me in passing by the owner of the Ginza gallery where I held my first private exhibition.

Let’s consider the significance of what was conveyed in the asking of such a question in somewhat more detail. What were its implications? Did what was posed quite unexpectedly have a deeper meaning? To wit, at the time, in all probability, I did not dislike what I was doing. Nevertheless, perhaps a related and valid query would have been to subsequently ask why I continued to ply my trade? Likewise, in that it was asked out of the blue, I don’t think that I gave much thought as to why I was undertaking a private exhibition then-and-there in that specific time in space.

However, unfortunately by my over-analysis of what was originally asked, I missed the optimum timing and the opportunity to offer a simple “yes” by way of response. Doing such would have led to the flow of discussion quickly moving on without much disruption. Instead, the gallery owner picked up on my momentary hesitation, and thus he offered the following: “If it is the case that you are so undecided, I would suggest that you learn to love your art. Learn to love it more and more over time. Also, learn to love it in all its myriad forms because only then will you have positioned your feet firmly on the start line of your career.”

Having listened to his impromptu speech, I felt pretty good about not responding to the initial question straight away. I say that because, if the truth be known, I really love and have a passion for what I do. However, back then, I felt more comfortable not blurting such out. I say that because that is not who I am as a person.

Thinking back on that episode as well from the distance of some decades, I feel that the interaction described probably represented the second significant turning point in my career vis-a-vis it leading me to become much more serious about the nature of my profession. In that respect, it followed in the footsteps of the occasion on which I was told not to “besmirch my master’s name!”

Put in a slightly different way, it was in the wake of such occasions that I knuckled down and started to really put some effort into the study of pottery in all its glory. The same was the case all those years ago as it is now. Such thoughts apply to both domestic pottery and whatever forms there are created overseas. My attitude is the same both with respect to antique pieces and objet, likewise when I think about both different styles of bowls, and those regions in which pottery is produced. To sum up, when it comes to pottery these days, it would be correct to say that my passion borders on being a form of mania. Having mentioned all that, however, if the truth be known, all those years ago when I was asked such a question while still in my late 20s as well, I really loved what I did for a living. Of course, the difference between me in my late 20s and now is that I knew much less back then.

When firing pottery, it is first vital to ensure that the newly-created pieces cannot affix themselves to either the boards or shelves upon which they are placed in preparation to being packed into a kiln. Likewise, when working with wood-fired equipment, etc., it is very important to ensure that the base of each piece being fired is fully exposed to whatever heat is generated. For that specific purpose, the following technique is often employed. Namely, small pieces of a highly heat-resistant clay are applied as miniature feet to the base of each individual item. That results in the entire mass of the unfired piece being effectively raised up and placed out of direct contact with everything else. Such then allows the heat of the kiln to both freely circulate and thoroughly penetrate all parts. In industry parlance, the employment of such an idea is referred to as “applying feet”.

Having offered the reader that contextual setting, I shall continue with my recollections. When I was still in my 20s, there was a research group whose activities were centered on a particular chambered kiln that was then in service. To it, young potters from throughout Japan would flock, both to learn more about the firing process itself, and to contribute their muscle when a packing was to take place. Additionally, to assist in the reader’s further understanding of what I am trying to convey, I should mention that, as structures, kilns are invariably cramped spaces. Thus, when they are being packed, it is not the case that there is a constant stream of people going backwards and forwards. Rather, whoever is calling the shots positions themselves inside, and they then proceed to issue their instructions to the help that is waiting beyond the kiln’s walls. Such instructions include asking for help in the carrying of items, the application of feet to those pieces being fired, and the handing of over of such to the person inside the kiln so that they may be properly placed in order to receive maximum benefit.

I remember the preparations that took place for one such firing. I was in attendance on my master at the time, and when he said, “three feet,” I picked out the pertinent pieces and passed them over by hand. He then proceeded to pack them as he liked in the kiln. After we had dealt with a number of such items, he then turned to me and told me to get more involved and to get my hands dirty. When doing so, he deftly put into my hand numerous chunks of a highly heat-resistant clay. Then, upon noticing that the person next to me was already applying “three feet” to pieces and then passing them over, he turned to me and said, “you do five feet instead”.  Meanwhile, while that exchange was going on between us, somebody else was peering at what appeared to be some bowls, and they ordered that some get “five feet,” while others were assigned “three feet” each. Additionally, concerning another portion of the packing that was taking place, somebody dictated that we youngsters start applying “somewhat bigger feet” to certain items that were bound for the kiln. Still again, within the space within the kiln that was assigned to them, a certain potter told the youngsters he was working with that he wanted his “three feet” and “five feet” pieces clearly separated within his assigned area. By contrast, there was somebody else again whose attitude to the positioning of their own pieces was much more laissez-faire. In mentioning all those differences, what I am suggesting is that matters initially seemed to be in a state of confusion, with somebody’s pieces being separated into small, medium, and large sizes in a somewhat disordered fashion that reminded me of a candy box. Nevertheless, after two or three packings of the kiln, we youngsters gained an image of what the different potters had in mind, so we became able to pass over by hand the various items that were to be fired.

Having shared all that information, when assisting the different creators of the pottery, I realized that there was a lack of consistency in the insistence that they were inclined to express. Such was also evident vis-à-vis how each both visually perceived their pieces and the atmosphere they attached to their work. Upon gaining such an understanding, I came to appreciate the expressionism that each individual hoped to instill in their works and how it differed from person to person. Concerning that, when collectively embarking on our pottery careers, I think that on at least one occasion, everybody learns about the art’s physical manifestation acting as a vehicle for self-expression. However, through such experiences when younger, I came to appreciate that it was acceptable to incorporate inner feelings as well into the pieces I created. Put differently, I learned that both the external and internal were given a justifiable context.

Finally, I will briefly turn and discuss the keen eye of my master. He was somebody who could pick up on matters at a glance. He knew if something required “three feet” to succeed, or less of a curve, or whether, when bringing out the expression of an individual item, it should be balanced and in proportion or not.

On a day-to-day basis, much of my job involves the creation of vessels. Likewise, I should also mention that often I am fortunate enough to be commissioned by restaurants to create custom pieces.

In the second scenario, my job is quite easy and straightforward if there is something on hand that can be used as a sample that may be replicated. By comparison, however, if what I am commissioned to create is something entirely new, then my work processes might include dictates as to the dimensions of a piece that are to be measured in millimeters. Likewise, with some commissioned pieces, there are customers that will supply me with a set of rather detailed instructions. Concerning such a scenario, it very much comes with the territory as being part-and-parcel of the work of a professional potter. Following on, to talk about some of the custom pieces that I am commissioned to make, certain clients only tell me about the purpose for which what I make will subsequently be used. To wit, beyond that I am given total creative control over issues such as color and shape. Additionally, there are even customers whose interactions with me consist only of telling me how many units of a particular piece they will need.

Regarding such a sense of freedom, on occasion it does impose on me quite a lot of pressure. Then again, I tend to transform such into a source of motivation to do my job.

The above was said by a certain chef who was a pottery aficionado.

I should share with the reader that, when much younger, I heard lots of different things from people who were involved in various professions that saw them handle pottery.

To wit, on occasion, I was told by certain chefs that they felt it was difficult to physically place their cuisine on my tableware. Likewise, I also remember when my tea bowls were described as being essentially unfit for purpose. Still other customers were liberal with their free advice in that they offered the “helpful” suggestion that I consider spending more time and effort in investigating further the nature of certain old and established pieces. Regarding them, I would assume that the persons concerned possessed some expectation that I would prove very capable in copying the styles of others.

What other reminiscences may I share? Somebody once offered the following pithy comment: “even if you look at 100 examples of cheap and nasty work, that won’t improve your skills.” Meanwhile, another kindly soul said, “with such a thin layer of glaze on the foot of some of your vessels, all that is achieved is the rather heavy scratching of table surfaces.” Likewise, yet another card mentioned, “even if you are planning to save money, it would be acceptable to splash your cash on occasion so as to make sure you get to eat some delicious cuisine.” I must admit that such thoughts were heard by me with some regularity in my younger days.

Concerning such interactions, at the time I was not really that understanding of the views thus expressed. Indeed, I attempted to rebel against them sometimes. However, courtesy of the insight that comes with the acquiring of age, I can now better appreciate at least some of what previously transpired. Regarding such a mea culpa on my part, as my professional skills improved, I began to develop and store a body of knowledge upon which I could better rely, and accordingly there was a change both within me and with respect to my overall outlook. Meanwhile, when I was younger, there was a certain discomfort that I experienced when told by others that I was not necessarily using all my brains. Jumping forward to the present, however, I am conscious that on occasion I resort to expressing similar thoughts to those I once despised. Thus, I feel the need to reflect on certain aspects of my previous and younger self. 

Concerning the passage of time and the acquisition of age, I know that my life has become one of greater repetition. However, if I consider the conviction of those persons who mentioned certain things to me previously, and if I compare such to finding myself to be on the receiving end of thoughts that are based upon limited real knowledge, I think that I am cognizant enough to perceive that a difference between those two scenarios exists.

To explain that construct differently, if I consider the skills that I have personally acquired as a potter, and likewise if I have both a concurrent awareness of the knowledge possessed by chefs of pottery vessels and those insights that antique dealers have, then when conversing with one another, I feel that it is possible to undertake such mutual interactions at a rather high state of consciousness. Indeed, I have heard of similar being experienced over the years by chefs, antique specialists, and tea folks of a similar age to me. What is more, on occasion when talking with actors and master carpenters, I have been able to come away feeling that I could agree with what was said.

There is a program in which questions are asked of street professionals. Regarding it, and the building up of more and more experience, my belief is that it might well result in further conversations between professionals of different backgrounds. In looking to the future, I try my best to not alienate my younger colleagues by attempting to point out to them things that are blatantly obvious. Instead, when I have something to say, I do so with conviction.

I decided to broaden the range of my wares when in my 30s. What induced me to do so was the wake-up call I received when visiting a colleague.

Having offered that opening and possibly piqued the reader’s interest, I should perhaps commence the narrative by offering a bit of a backstory. Namely, at around the same time, some hot topics within pottery circles were the activities of a certain objet creator. Indeed, does that term still have currency in the current day and age? Whatever the case, I was a great fan of the colleague in question. As to why, such shall become more evident as my story unfolds. Nevertheless, by way of a teaser, I can tell the reader that I found it an irresistible idea that somebody like my colleague could ferment ideas literally from nothing and then transform them into tangible pieces. Additionally, I should add the following insight. Namely, in his youth, my colleague worked at a particular pottery studio as a master of the wheel. Other people have also told me that his output of pieces at that time was prodigious. To wit, there was talk of him being able to produce literally hundreds of yunomiteacups each day. What is more, I should mention at this point that I was taken to see him by a gallery owner. Obviously, I was really grateful for the opportunity at the time. Anyway, upon meeting him initially, my reaction was that I found him to be very much as I had expected in that he seemed to possess a rather exuberant personality. Concurrently, however, there was the sense of him being rather sensitive. Noting that, I was initially somewhat wary as to whether or not we would hit it off. Afterwards, however, I found my new friend to be both fashionable and possess a certain flair.

To continue on, in light of it being the first occasion on which we met, as a tool by which to break the ice, my colleague handed me some clay, the implication being that I might like to make something. However, such actions threw me off. I say that because, when sitting at my own wheel in my own studio, things are organized to the extent that, concerning those work tools that surround me, they are positioned in specific locations to a certain extent. Back then, that was also the sort of arrangement that I was very much accustomed to. Likewise, in the back of my mind, I no doubt assumed that colleagues in their own studios adopted a similar approach. However, what confronted me on the day was entirely different. His wheel sat alone almost an orphan, with nothing in the way of recognized tools surrounding it. Thus, I was at a loss as to how to best proceed, despite my host saying, “please feel free to make use of anything that is lying about.” Hearing that created within me somewhat of a quandary, which wasn’t resolved by the fact that my host then proceeded to produce a ruler speckled with clay, some small pebbles, various wood fragments, and what appeared upon reflection to be the lid of a tsubo, etc. Likewise, while pulling such items out of his proverbial hat, my host encouraged me to use them as impromptu tools. He then proceeded to chaff me with the following comment, “perhaps Kyoto potters cannot make anything without there being formal tools on hand.” That last shot really hit home, and I made up my mind to act. Thus, I took up some clay and set it to the wheel, then I started to work it. However, the quality of the clay itself was other than the norm. It seemed to have the consistency of something found in a field in that it lacked a sense of stickiness. What is more, it appeared to have been infused with grass roots. Thus, I could not thoroughly work it. Additionally, it seemed riddled with air pockets, and it appeared to be a lost case in that it didn’t stick together. While all those observations were passing through my mind, my host was still attempting to encourage me. In any case, I put the clay on the wheel, and dampened it with some water. It was then that I realized that, despite the wheel spinning freely, I could still not work the clay. Instead, in that it possessed no body, as the wheel proceeded to go around and around, the clay spread out and simply remained flat.

It was at that point that my host again intervened, “when you first touch such a clay, it is vital that you refer to your own mental filing system so as to best work out how such a material might be worked so as to give it form. Under no circumstances whatsoever should you just resort to something like the sprinkling of water. Put differently, what I am trying to suggest is that, from where I stand, people like you from Kyoto seem to be especially set in your ways. It is almost like you only have a single card to play. Again, throughout this country there are numerous methods for the working of such materials. Thus, you need to take a moment in order to fully appreciate the problem that confronts you.” When that was expressed by him, I realized that what I had been given to work with was essentially a form of very sticky mud. He also told me to not make decisions merely on the spur of the moment, while passing to me some very sticky clay and suggesting that I use it almost as an adhesive. Additionally, my host also mentioned my countenance. He said, “with such a scowl on your face, there is no way you could work at the wheel. Thinking about that, I feel that you folks in Kyoto can only make pieces that seem rather stiff, that just is not good, it is not good at all.” Having been that blunt, he then surprised me again by passing over a couple of cans of beer. When doing so, he told me to “get those down my throat in short order.” He then brought in a large-screen TV and set it up next to the pottery wheel. Following on, he turned up the volume of the TV, and I noticed that on the screen, it was the late Michael Jackson who was dancing up a storm on MTV. My host then said, “I hope you are enjoying yourself.”

With everything that happened, I chose that time to show some of my own backbone. Thus, while fighting to master an uncooperative clay that I felt would be difficult even when forming the smallest of plates, I managed to quickly create 10 yunomi teacups and 10 bowls. Upon realizing my efforts, my host said, “you are the first person I have ever met who could make something from clay like that. Indeed, just last month I had a master potter visit me from Kyoto, but even he threw in the towel when I posed the same challenge to him.” By that point, both of us had partaken of a fair bit of alcohol, and thus we talked about the emotional inputs that we were instilling our wares with. That in turn brought to my own mind that my host’s inputs had assisted me. Thus, I took the opportunity to inscribe the pieces that I had done with “HELP” as a form of commemoration.

On the next day, rather unexpectedly, I found that the works I had created had been pared down. Rather than traditional paring, however, the process seemed to be more of a case of some of the clay having been pinched off. Then a few months later, I was sent some of the same pieces that had been glazed and fired. Of particular note was there seemed to be a design that resembled the capturing of a crying soul. Such were something that I have only seen produced on that single occasion.

All-in-all, I feel that meeting up with such a colleague was a very special experience. I also feel that he passed onto me an idea that is very important. Thus, since our meeting, I have been sure to have in my armory of tricks multiple ways of doing things. What is more, I also try to not get hung up on received ideas. Accordingly, such a mindset as taught to me by my colleague continues to help me out.

*Sometime later, like me, I heard that the colleague in question held both Ishiguro Munemaro and Yagi Kazuo in great esteem.

I recall a particular occasion when I was in my 30s. Out of the blue, I was contacted by the owner of a Tokyo gallery, and asked whether or not I would like to travel to Osaka in order to see an exhibition. Apparently, the owner of an antique shop down there had gathered together a number of individual examples of Ding Yao White Porcelain. Anyway, I took him up on his offer, and we ended up going down there in the company of the objet creator whom I have previously mentioned. Additionally, we were accompanied by a much older colleague who at the time was based at Kyoto’s Sennyu-ji Temple. That person was also known for dabbling in the production of objet on occasion. Upon attending the exhibition’s venue, we were confronted by numerous complete and major examples of the Ding Yao form. What is more, when the owner of the antique store realized the members of our little group were in attendance, he kindly took us aside to the glass showcases, and then proceeded to take out the different pieces that were on display one-by-one. He then handed each over to us for our closer inspection. When that took place, the tension of both of my colleagues and of the Tokyo gallery owner went through the roof. Thus, right then and there, in the middle of an exhibition venue, there commenced a rather passionate conversation among them about the clays, the carvings, the glazing, and the firings, etc., of the various pieces. Meanwhile, and by comparison, in that I did not become that motivated to participate in such discussions because despite my exposure to any number of antique pieces, my passion for such had never really developed, I instead looked on somewhat bemusedly at the vigor with which my colleagues were talking. Indeed, my own feelings did not really go beyond feeling that such animated behavior was quite unusual. Nevertheless, I was unashamedly surprised when, upon overturning a large bowl so that I could better inspect it while placing it on a cushion so as to prevent any damage, on the outer edge of its base I clearly saw evidence of an ancient potter’s fingerprint. When such also came to my colleagues’ notice, their conversation ramped up even further as they tried to establish at just what point in the production process such an indelible and personal mark was inadvertently applied. From my own perspective, there was no doubt that such a blemish had been caused by an errant fingertip.

Personally, on seeing what I saw, I felt that such represented a form of affirmation, that some 1000 years ago, a now unknown potter was both alive on this earth and actively plying his trade. Subsequently, the conversation of my colleagues ceased once they reached the point of talking about such in the context of the historical romance of eternity. Additionally, as we returned home, I sensed that all in our group had been emotionally touched by what we had witnessed.

Next, to touch upon the reactions of my colleagues, I had initially assumed those who were objet creators were perhaps not that much interested in the subject of antiques. However, based on what I now know, I can say here and now that such a presumption on my part was totally wrong. Likewise, I thought they only possessed a relative interest in pottery. However, it turned out that their level of passion bordered on that of a mania. It was almost like they had been transformed into antique geeks.

Again, as previously mentioned, I did not actively participate in the discussions of my traveling companions. Having said that, upon reflection, I somewhat reproached myself for not having become a pottery geek myself. Nevertheless, and this might sound rather simple, since the aforementioned exhibition, you might well encounter me lazily walking down certain streets two or three times a week, such being known for their numerous antique shops.

I shall commence with some rudimentary thoughts. Namely, I feel that the endeavors of most potters fall into one of two categories. Specifically, the first is comprised of those works whose execution is of a more “decorative” nature, while the second pulls together other aspects of the profession whose underpinnings are different. Having offered such perceptions, for the reader’s benefit, I would posit that my own creative efforts predominately fall into the latter grouping, in that what I produce tends to be more “instantaneous” in its execution. Furthermore, while avoiding the sin of offering an over-generalization, I feel that my own body of work is more closely aligned to those of my artistic brethren whose expressive mediums are the fields of cut and blown glass. To wit, both oil painting and literary endeavors might also represent valid comparisons given the context. Thus, if I were to straddle the divide that exists between pottery pieces and the various categories of cuisine, then perhaps the instantaneous and expressionist aspects of my own efforts would find somewhat of a parallel among those practitioners of traditional Japanese fare in the form of sushi rather than something like French.

Having offered that, perhaps it would also be valid for me to further touch on pottery whose underpinnings are felt more “decorative” in nature. Regarding such, it is important to understand that much more time is required to complete each individual piece. To wit, the efforts of those of my colleagues who focus on such work are perhaps more closely aligned to what lacquerware specialists do earning their living. Put differently, with “decorative” pottery, there is the never-ending pressure on exponents to exhibit constantly increasing levels of perfection in their work. Obviously, in and of itself, that means that such cannot be produced in any great volume. By comparison, my work involves the concurrent creation of multiple executions at any one time, the caveat being that the pottery thus created is of a decent quality and is produced at reasonable volume on an ongoing basis. To wit, so as to remain in business, and ensure that I can continue to produce decent quality work, I must constantly sharpen my technical skills so as to increase the probability of success.

To make another comparison, if I consider the nature of Japan’s traditional culinary arts, I think a strong argument could be made vis-à-vis how closely my own work aligns with the efforts of sushi chefs. Thus, while the nature of the cuisine in and of itself would seem to be rather simple in terms of its preparation, I would argue that such is what makes the mastering of sushi that much harder. Put differently, there exists only a very fine line between run-of-the-mill fare and masterful and exquisite examples of the art. However, crossing that line again and again on an ongoing basis to the point of being recognized as a true master chef is next to impossible. To wit, due to how I make my living, I have numerous opportunities to talk with multiple sushi chefs. What is more, within their own small world, the brethren describe such excellence of execution in terms of certain individuals being able to do a “graceful job.” When I heard that terminology for the first time, I squirreled it away within my memory as an especially important idea. Thus, for the purpose of doing a job simply but well to the point of perfection, it is important that whatever is superfluous be both scraped away and dispensed with.

To change the subject somewhat, prior to their season or prior to an especially important event, professional sportspeople take the time to get themselves into condition so they can both endure and overcome the rigors of competition and come out on top. When I think about true professionals, I am also aware that it is impossible for them to be at the top of their game constantly. Indeed, even elite-level athletes sometimes experience a slump in form mid-season.

Meanwhile, in returning to my own job, on a day-to-day basis, I always attempt to raise the probability of my being able to create quality pieces. I say that because, without ensuring the mental toughness that needs to be called upon when delivering the best performance, it simply is not possible to put runs on the board. Then again, wouldn’t it be great if I could tinker about in my spare time and produce something whose quality was fantastic? Unfortunately, however, life is not like that. Indeed, with the passing of time, and the cumulation of age, it becomes impossible to think about one’s work just in terms of oneself. Thus, there are more and more things that need to be done and organizing everything in concert also becomes more difficult. However, such developments may not be used as an excuse. Rather, steps must be taken so as to be able to deliver top performance when one manages to organize matters and find even just a few minutes to tinker. Only by doing so is there a possibility that something wonderful will come into being.

When I create guinomi cups for the drinking of sake, the users of my wares who always come to mind are the people I have met over the years as fellow lovers of Japan’s most famous tipple. To offer more detail, when shaping an individual piece, I often posit as to whether a certain drinking buddy will take a shine to it. Likewise, sometimes I experience great happiness when daydreaming while working, and thinking as to whether a certain seductiveness will be drawn from whatever I am making when held by a particular friend.

These days I sometimes visit local schools in order to teach the basics of pottery to neighborhood children. On such occasions, the theme of my lessons is “Just for whom are you making it?” To offer more detail, before having them get their hands dirty, each child is asked to decide for whom they will make something. Likewise, they are asked to think about their mindset when doing so, and to consider the nature of what they hope to make. Once that has all been decided, their youthful eagerness and expression is let loose, and the lesson then goes through to the point of something tangible being produced, which the children will then give as a present to whom they have in mind as a recipient. To wit, among the youngsters whom I have taught to date, in almost all cases the recipients of the completed works have been mothers. However, on occasion, there are also examples of great effort being put into gifts to fathers, grandfathers, special friends, and even being kept by the children themselves.

To mention the effort thus expended, the youngsters really put their hearts into it. Likewise, the lessons themselves provide the enjoyment of making something by hand. There is also the satisfaction of giving something to somebody else as a present. Finally, such lessons also expose such youngsters to the very roots of my own profession. Thus, when I personally see the seriousness of my young charges as they think about what they are doing, I understand that such activities represent an important first step in assisting the penetration of Japan’s traditional arts and crafts into the collective conscious of society.

Before concluding, I should mention that an exhibition entitled, “the first link to Japan’s traditional arts,” was held at the Takashimaya Department Store in Tokyo. It showcased the works of such budding artists. Furthermore, with the cooperation of Panasonic, a record of the event was recorded for prosperity. Personally, I was grateful for that because, while the creators of the individual pieces remained nameless, it was possible to appreciate that among their number, there might be some youngsters who take up pottery as a profession in the future.

To comment on my nature, I am both rather serious and perhaps more unassuming than most folks. To wit, I can even despise who I am. On the flipside, however, I am able to praise myself for not being too lazy, and for also being, quite daring in my actions as is required. Additionally, I can be quite crude, and unexpectedly masculine, while concurrently displaying certain feminine traits. Having mentioned such a gamut of inputs, however, I do not really understand how others perceive me, and on occasion I will actually recoil from myself. Similarly, a sense of self-pomposity sometimes comes to the fore. Thus, I am also occasionally perplexed as to the true nature of my being. Having confided all that in the reader, however, I know for certain that when I was a child, the adults around me often said that I was of a rather serious disposition.

Having offered that brief and perhaps conflicting self-appraisal of my personality, I remember one evening ending up at a certain Goin pub while in the company of some adult pottery students whom I was teaching. As to my companions, there was a group of older ladies whose fashion sense was quite gaudy. Likewise, there were others about whom it was readily apparent that their daytime occupation was quite a dangerous one. Meanwhile, there was also a great difference in how the individual students went about completing the tasks that I set them as part of the syllabus. To wit, in almost all cases my charges seemed to welcome any offers of assistance on my part. However, there were exceptions to that rule. In particular, I remember one woman who was normally quite the chatterbox. Nevertheless, she would clam up and not speak at all when I was in close proximity. Additionally, certain others never seemed to ask for help. That in turn just highlighted the range of mindsets among the group as a whole. Indeed, at one point, I wondered as to whether or not the individual traits that were on display were merely a continuation of each individual’s day-to-day personality, or whether among my charges, there were certain individuals whose external persona was constantly changing and in the state of flux.

Among the group, I also remember one male student who was both physically intimidating and had a face to match. It took him about two hours just to produce a very small guinomi cup. I remember being literally transfixed by watching him beautifully form his piece with his massive fingers, and I readily admit that what he ended up creating had quite a beautiful shape. Upon realizing what I had witnessed, it dawned on me that this rather big fellow was deserving of my sympathy in that his true personality was both quite serious and unassuming.

Likewise, among the same group there were also chefs and pottery shop owners who were the epitome of such character traits. There was also another individual about whom it was said that he lacked any professional qualifications despite working as a chef. In both of those cases, the individuals concerned seemed to be more cautious than anybody else, to take more time over the details of the tasks I had set, and to be of unassuming personalities to the point of despising who they were. Thus, in conclusion, among my adult students at the time, there were quite a few whose personalities were very much suited to a career in creative arts.

To speak of myself again, I feel a certain affinity with others who share my tendency to be thorough about matters. Indeed, I view people whose disposition is not like that as essentially being like “oil and vinegar” to myself. To wit, the apparently scary individual who spent two hours not speaking while executing his own piece might well have been a gentle soul. Nevertheless, he did give off a definite aura of not wanting to be interrupted.

When I was still a fledgling potter, there was a group exhibition in which I was given the opportunity to participate. Thus, I submitted a number of matcha tea bowls that were subsequently put on display. Anyway, on a particular day at the venue, I encountered the owner of a tea-ceremony supplies shop from my own neighborhood, and I watched as he turned over a number of my exhibits in order to look more closely at their bottoms. What happened next was perhaps a result of both my own inexperience and vanity. Indeed, maybe I was hoping to receive some praise for my work. Instead, however, the shop owner asked me a very blunt question. It was something along the lines of “have you ever bothered to learn anything about the tea ceremony yourself?” When I responded, “not really anything of note as yet,” he proceeded to give me an impromptu lecture. To paraphrase what he said, he felt that it was “quite presumptuous on my part to believe that I could actually create tea bowls without first having acquired any real knowledge of the associated culture.”

Concurrent to allowing the visitor to complete his little spiel, as somebody both born and bred in Kyoto, I felt somewhat offended by his manner of speech. Thus, after placating him to the extent of superficially agreeing with everything he said, later on the same day I consulted with my mom, whom I always felt was quite knowledgeable regarding such matters. Furthermore, in that the creation of such pieces had become part of my job, in order to gain some knowledge of the related culture, I searched out and then applied to join some tea-ceremony classes that were held at a culture school in front of my local railway station, the business in question actually being run by a certain newspaper company. What is more, when applying to attend initially, I thought I could manage the classes in the late afternoon. However, the busier my work schedule became, the greater the number of absences. Thus, I switched from the late afternoon to the morning class.

To offer some more detail about the nature of such classes, the late afternoon ones were both quite lively and enjoyable because many youngsters turned up. However, when I switched over to the morning class, I quickly realized that I was the only man in attendance. What is more, all the other students in the class were older women, with each of them making the effort to wear kimono every week. Additionally, in that the classes were run by a newspaper company, the instructor turned out to be somebody quite senior from one of the leading tea-ceremony schools. What is more, about twice a year, the grandmaster of the school in question would make an appearance. When I learned that fact, it dawned on me that all of the older female students were actually tea-ceremony instructors in their own right, with their own networks of students. Thus, I realized that figuratively speaking, I had plunged my head directly into the lion’s mouth.

To be fair, I should declare for the record that all of my classmates were very kind, in that they took the time and had the patience to teach me everything I needed to know. However, sometime later when I puffed out my chest and proudly reported to my own master that, “I had taken the plunge and started to learn all about the tea ceremony,” he cut me dead by saying, “is knowing about such things something that actually has to be learned?”

On a related topic, I remember when the aforementioned grandmaster turned up at my class in order to participate in the first ceremony of the new year. They turned out to be somebody who was quite perceptive, and upon noticing that I was starting to suffer from pins and needles in my legs because I was both so nervous and rigidly kneeling in the seiza position, they suggested that I take my ease. However, I was very much determined to show what I was made of, thus, I decided to endure the discomfort that I was by then experiencing. Likewise, I declined two further entreaties that I relax. Regarding such behavior on my part, it is said in Kyoto that somebody who is born and raised in the city should at least turn down two or three such requests. Having achieved that benchmark, when the grandmaster asked me a fourth time, and then adjusted their own position in order to sit cross legged, I relented and then adjusted my own posture. Having done so, the only thing I was really conscious of was the sensation of my blood’s circulation returning to my lower extremities. When that situation settled, I was then at ease and able to concentrate on everything that was being said. Upon becoming relaxed, I glanced at the grandmaster and received a slight smile in return as an acknowledgment of my efforts. Upon reflecting on matters later, it dawned on me that, by enduring such a torment, my posture when kneeling had become more attractive.

Then again, what followed everything I have just described was a form of hell, as all of my gentle classmates evolved into wolves. They gave me a rare scolding for my efforts or lack thereof. I was told that I would have to train a lot more so that the circulatory system in my legs could endure up to two or three hours of kneeling. Lucky for me, at around the same time, my job became quite busy, and that proved to be the death of my tea-ceremony classes.

Over the many years that have followed what I described; I have been fortunate enough to have come into contact with numerous people involved in the tea ceremony. Additionally, on occasion I have also thought about enrolling in some further classes so as to deepen my own understanding. However, in that I also have some bad recollections of the classes I attended all those years ago, I have hesitated to take the plunge.

Of the famous families involved in the sale of tea-ceremony supplies in my neighborhood who also do some pottery, there are certain individuals who are both very frank and open. Likewise, there are others who seem to always look down their noses at mere mortals like me. Additionally, I sometimes think about the significance of the grandmaster entreating me to take my ease on so many occasions. To wit, what did my own master mean by his throwaway comment as to whether or not “tea was something to be learned?” What is more, in that the tea ceremony is sometimes called the “way of tea,” I have also pondered as to the extent of such a “way.” Whatever the case, I believe that as a vehicle, the culture has also certain spiritual implications. By contrast, if there is a “way of pottery” that is of a similar nature, then perhaps I am well on the way to some form of enlightenment.

Finally, when putting what I have just described into perspective, I like to think that the smile of the grandmaster all those years ago was a real one. Additionally, even now there are people who like to terrorize my younger colleagues by telling them that they cannot make tea bowls without an appreciation of the related culture. Considering that makes me ask about what “knowledge” actually means.

Some years ago, I was fortunate enough to receive an email from a Japanese woman who lived in the United States. For some reason, we had got into contact with one another via social media. When she was still living in Japan, she became quite enamored with one of my pieces, and after purchasing it, she continued to take great care of it upon moving to America. What is more, having moved overseas, when feeling down or somewhat upset, she used what I had created to eat from, and that both strengthened and raised her spirits. Subsequently, she married and was blessed with children, and she wrote to me that she felt very grateful for having encountered my pottery. As to the email itself, it also brought me strength as well as a tear to my eye.

If I recall my own background, upon visiting art galleries when I was young, I was fortunate enough to encounter a number of pieces in the glass showcases that gave me a thrill. In particular, I remember some plates that were rather run-of-the-mill. However, through the power of the potter’s wheel and the austere elegance of the glazes that were used on them, those same pieces were very much alive with a sense of emotion. I looked in awe on such things and hoped above all that I could recreate something similar in my own professional future. Being truthful, my dream was that I would achieve something if one of my own works instilled within even a single human heart the courage to go forward with the prospect of enjoying their tomorrow.

Obviously, considering the set of circumstances that I described initially, that dream of my youth was achieved. Upon realizing that, I felt very satisfied that over the years I continued in my profession even through the toughest of times. Additionally, knowing such things represented the start of my searching out new professional goals.

Subsequent to the episode that I described above, a few years later, I unexpectedly ran into the same woman. To offer some more detail, her and her family had come to Tokyo for a holiday, and the date in question just happened to coincide with the last day of one of my own exhibitions in the city. Anyway, despite the tight nature of her schedule, she turned up after having seen an update that I had posted on social media. Apparently, her husband strongly encouraged her to come and see me. In the resulting atmosphere in which the woman once again expressed her gratitude to me for the pottery I had created, I also felt very fortunate for having encountered customers through my work like her. Indeed, I felt myself tearing up.

To wit, on that day I decided on a new professional goal. Namely, I wanted to increase the number of customers of my work who were so obviously moved by it.

Finally, I should mention that in a professional sense, I have never really wanted to be either especially famous or to see my own creations sell at particularly high prices. Indeed, when doing my job over the years, I think it has been important for me to keep searching for clues so that I could produce run-of-the-mill but nevertheless very special works, like those I saw in the glass cases at various museums back when I was young. To make that argument differently, professionally speaking, I don’t believe I will be capable of leaving behind a legacy, unless I am able to retain a sense of sincerity each time that I take my clay to hand.

As mentioned elsewhere, long before I personally took my first breath in this world, for many generations my family ran a pottery shop in Gojozaka, a district of Kyoto considered to be both the beating heart of the Kyoyaki and Kiyomizuyaki schools of pottery.

To go into a little more detail regarding the former, rather than all of its pieces being considered high-class, in a traditional sense, it was possible to obtain stocks of Kyoyaki ware from a number of production areas located throughout Japan. Having shared that with the reader, however, I should add the caveat that, at the core of such production was certain vessels that have traditionally been produced with the Kyoto market in mind. Meanwhile, concerning the massed-produced clay pieces sourced from Seto and Tajimi, and the porcelain wares that have traditionally come from Arita, Imari, and Hasami, etc., back in the old days, there was only a limited volume of such that was actually handled by my family’s business. By contrast, for the record, I should mention to the reader that I do not have any solid childhood recollections of having seen examples of pottery from the strongly individualistic Kutani, Tobem or Satsuma schools. Similarly, I don’t remember seeing anything from Shigaraki, Bizen, Hagi or Karatsu either. Finally, although there were some examples of written works and tea-ceremony supplies in evidence within my childhood home, such were not things that the family business specialized in.

When I embarked on my journey to become a professional potter, it was not the case that I had any special interests in the field. Instead, all I knew at the time was encompassed by those pieces that I had encountered in my family’s shop. Thus, it was perhaps only when I started to formally learn at trade school, that I had some exposure to many other pottery genre. Concerning that, what I saw gave me a taste of the sort of wares that were traditionally produced by the Shigaraki, Bizen, and Karatsu schools. What is more, I developed a consciousness of what it meant to be a potter, and objet art also popped up on my radar. Additionally, to a limited extent, I also gained an appreciation of those works that were produced by fellow potters in overseas locations such as China and the Korean Peninsula. Concurrent to all of those developments, I also came to the realization that both art colleges and universities existed. Thus, the reader may appreciate that I set out on my career path initially from a perspective of almost total ignorance.

To talk about Kyoto’s pottery industry, when I was growing up there was still the unspoken rule that those families involved were to be distinct from one another in that they engaged in certain businesses only. Thus, there were those families (like mine) who sold pottery to consumers. Likewise, there were others who made their living either as a wholesaler or as a custodian of a firing kiln. Having mentioned such divisions, at the time, my simple level of understanding was that it was such a system that supported the city’s pottery industry. Then again, when talk arose of the son of a pottery retailer (me) actually becoming a working potter, I remember a kiln owner remarking, “haven’t you given any thought to the fact that as the son of a pottery shop, your job should be to sell as much of the pottery that my colleagues and I produce?  Are you intending to take the mickey out of us?” Thinking about that, I do not know as to whether or not my own father was gifted with some foresight. Nevertheless, he quickly realized that it was important that in the creation of pottery, what needed to happen was that the industry as a whole in Kyoto needed to be more responsive to customer needs, and in that respect, it would be important to produce items and sell them directly in much the same way as was occurring in other production regions in Japan. Accordingly, I believe what he initially had in mind was for me to learn to become a creator, and then come back to the shop in the role of a back-room studio boss who could make wares right there on the premises.

Nevertheless, as young men are often inclined to do, I rebelled against my father’s wishes and decided to take the path that would end up with me becoming a fulltime artisan. Of course, there was also the option for there to be a tag-team relationship between a shop like that run by my family, and one or other of the firing kiln custodians. However, back then, there was not much in the way of mingling between the business of running a store, and the reclusiveness that is traditionally associated with fulltime pottery. Thus, right up until the time that he died, my father and I continued to fight fiercely about how to best proceed. During those altercations, he would always close the debate with the following lines, “in the final analysis, we might end up deriving our nourishment from nothing more than mist.” Concerning that observation, perhaps some readers would agree with it, while others would not. Indeed, when I was young, there would probably have been more support for the latter observation. These days, however, among my younger colleagues, it is perhaps the believers of the former who are in the majority.

Whatever the case, while continuing to openly spar with my father, secretly I perhaps hoped that the former view would win out. Having mentioned that, in that my father continued to push his own views regarding such issues until the end of his life, I am very grateful because his perseverance made me into the person I am today. Actually, after my father’s funeral had taken place, one of his friends told me the following concerning something he said at around the time that I was still trying to become an established potter. “Concerning potters who are able to accumulate wealth, they are able to sell a lot.”

Regarding the life of a Kyoto potter, it comes with its own unique challenges. For example, within the overall Kyoyaki school, there are a number of sub-genre all attempting to eke out an existence. Some of my colleagues make a living by producing pieces targeted at the souvenir market, others are more into the creation of lifestyle goods. Furthermore, when it comes to the mainstream tableware category, there is everything from those pieces that are used in itamae (the serving of over-the-counter sushi), through to large-scale banquet style settings for traditional Kyoto cuisine. The same could be said regarding traditional Edo style cuisine, while other restaurants (and their tableware needs) attempt to copy the traditions of China and the Korean Peninsula. Finally, there is also a set of pottery traditions that arise from the markets for tea-ceremony supplies, sencha accessories, and flower arrangement.

Within the Kyoto pottery scene, there are certain factions that are aligned to different bodies. What is more, there are varying characteristics evident among objet artists with different academic backgrounds. There are also certain non-aligned and modern artists, and people who have decided to go it alone. Indeed, there are just too many types of potter to keep track of them all. Everybody seems to do their own thing, with there being no real coordination at the local municipality level. There is also no organization among galleries, shops, or antique dealers. Nevertheless, in recent years I have come to feel that such a level of disorganization is something that is good about Kyoto.