Beauty is Inherently Rare
What is important to you about working with the large wood-fired kiln?
My approach to creation involves welcoming uncertainty. It is not the only way to make exquisite pottery, but for me, there is undeniable beauty that emerges from not seeking certainty.
Beauty is inherently rare. While the sunset over the Uji River is always beautiful, those breath-taking moments that captivate the heart are rare and change in mere seconds. My approach to firing the kiln captures such fleeting moments within the vessels.
This is why I prefer the uncertainty of climbing kilns, where I have less control and am invited to entrust my work to the fire. In the midst of such great uncertainty in the kiln, I do my utmost to control what I can. My creations are the results obtained through this dual process of control and letting go.
I load 400 pieces into the kiln, and typically, about 10% are considered beautiful enough by my standards to be put forth as finished works. Some colors can only be achieved in a large kiln, which is why I prefer them.
What is the beauty that you aim for in your work?
The Inevitability of Coincidence
If there is a true beauty I aim to achieve, it could be called the ‘inevitability of coincidence’.
To me, beauty is the highest state that an object can achieve in its existence, making it inevitable. My will and skills are essential to creating, yet the final pieces surpass these elements, embodying a series of fortunate coincidences that only in hindsight seem inevitable. This is the beauty I strive to manifest in my work.
What are the sources of inspiration for your work and creativity?
I find inspiration for my creations everywhere in my daily life. The nature of Uji that I observe during my daily commutes between the workshop and home, the tea ceremonies I am invited to, and the landscapes I encounter when traveling abroad all feed into my creative process.
However, the moments I most often conceive new ideas are when I am actively creating and when I see the finished pieces emerge from the kiln. It might sound contradictory, but the act of creation itself leads to the birth of the next piece. In my practice, bringing an idea or design from my mind into reality isn’t just about literal translation.
It involves a dialogue with the clay through the making process, embracing changes and the role of coincidence until the final piece is realized.
Do you think of your ancestors while creating?
Thinking Eight Generations Ahead
Sometimes, when I’m working alone, I’m overcome with the thought of how my father before me and his father before him all sat in this same place, doing the same work. This overlapping of the generations does not occupy my mind on a daily basis, but at times, it comes to me.
Everything I do was built up by those who came before me. This is especially true for me as a 16th-generation craftsman, but it is actually true for all of us if we look more deeply. Whether you are aware of this or not greatly influences how you view your work and life.
Could you share more?
There is a word in Japanese that is dear to me and that I would like to share with you. It is “雲孫 un-son,” which means a descendant eight generations ahead. It’s the furthest term for a descendant that exists in the Japanese language. I learned this term from a friend, and I believe it symbolizes the Japanese attitude towards craftsmanship.
At Asahiyaki, we use the clay dug by our grandfather and save the clay we dig now for our grandchildren. Meaning that the clay I currently use to create my works was dug from the earth by my grandfather 50 years ago and kept by him and my father for me to use. Just like the clay I now extract from the earth will be kept by me and the next generations so that 50 years from now, my descendants can use it. In this very embodied and practical way, each generation is a bridge between the past and the future.
This is underpinned by an unconditional belief that our descendants will continue what we are doing. This trust in continuity allows craftsmanship to be not just a one-generation affair but something that is passed down seamlessly through the ages.
Without this belief in continuity, such traditions would not exist. The word “un-son” encapsulates this Japanese trust in the continuity of practices.
Why do you feel un-son is also important for people outside craft to know about as they think about their life and the future?
A Sense of Belonging
From my perspective, we live in an era where placing our trust in a divine entity is challenging. Of course, many people still devoutly trust in God and live within their faith even today. However, for most of us our scientific education makes it difficult to fully believe in a religious God or the existence of an afterlife.
In such a world, although individuals can be concerned about their own future, it becomes harder to feel a sense of responsibility toward future generations.
In this context, the practice of craftsmanship visualizes the long-term continuation through generations. By understanding the concept of “un-son,” we become more aware of our responsibilities towards the future.
By positioning ourselves within the continuous flow of human activity from the past to the future, we can find meaning in our existence.
In an era where values are relativized, and universal values are hard to pinpoint, the word “un-son” and the practice of craftsmanship can provide a sense of place and belonging.
This reminds us that simply by existing in the present, we are all part of the human lineage, owing a debt of gratitude to those who came before us and gave us life. We also have a responsibility towards those who will follow us to take good care of the present so they can have a good future.
You pray to the gods at the kiln and visit the shrine of the fire god. You also have close ties with different Zen temples and priests.
What role do Shinto and Zen beliefs play in your own work and life?
Blurring Boundaries
This question is deeply meaningful to me. It touches on things I’ve never fully articulated before. Answering it is quite exciting for me.
Shinto is a systematized form of primitive worship, focusing on nature worship and reverent prayer toward all beings, including ourselves. No scripture documents its doctrines, and it is quite different from the concept of religion in the West.
In contrast, Buddhism incorporates elements closer to Western religions. Zen is a distinct entity within the different streams of Buddhism. I believe Zen focuses on achieving enlightenment through the practice of sitting meditation.
To me, enlightenment means blurring the boundaries between oneself and other beings, reaching a state where nothing binds you.
These two philosophies, Shinto and Zen, not only influence me personally but profoundly shape the life perspectives and lifestyles of many Japanese people. This is especially evident in the world of traditional crafts.
How so?
Trusting & Letting Go
In my case, this is manifested in my trust in the power of clay and fire.
My approach to creation is not about controlling these elements to produce beauty, but rather drawing out their inherent powers to create it. This attitude is heavily influenced by the spirits of Shinto and Zen. My trust in the creative energy of clay and fire is Shinto-like.
In Zen, there is a concept called “Ho-ge-jaku,” which means to throw away or let go of everything. This act of throwing away is also an act of entrusting. While taking responsibility is sacred and important, trying to control everything can become an arrogant attitude.
Accepting that there are areas outside of my control and effort where I can simply entrust is how I incorporate the spirit of Zen.
In today’s society, there is a strong demand for individual responsibility. It may be an era where many people find it difficult to trust entities other than themselves.
In such times, the Shinto reverence for all beings and the Zen spirit of letting go and entrusting could offer us a different perspective on our way of living.
You were diagnosed with cancer at a young age.
What impact did that have on you and your outlook on life?
Proof of Our Humanity
I was diagnosed with cancer when I was 24 and had just started learning the craft. It had a big impact on my outlook on life. I used to play it safe when I had to make a choice, but now I’m more open to taking risks.
I couldn’t believe how excruciating chemotherapy was. After I completed the first round of chemo, they had to operate on the area to which the cancer had spread, and I was up for another round of chemo. For the first time, I wanted to give up. My mother, who took care of me, said I didn’t have to do it, knowing how tough it was for me. But I knew that quitting meant that I would die, and I made up my mind to continue treatment.
I felt like I was allowed to live. I was allowed to live to do this work.
Is there a final insight from craft that you feel the reader should take to heart?
I have come to realize how important it is that I have time to think and to feel while my hands are working. We tend to believe that thought only involves logical thinking, but the way our mind reacts to our bodies is also a manner of thought. This is how children think and learn, through movement.
Most adults don’t have time to move around, and this is also becoming a rarity amongst children. I believe that not creating the time to move will only make you more tired. You lose out on a lot if you only work like a machine, if you only follow logical plans.
There’s something inherently human about moving our bodies, touching with our hands, about crafting objects. I believe that craftsmanship is proof of our humanity and that this will become more relevant with time.
