The Journey Thus Far

 Welcome to my annual exhibition at Ebiya Bijutsuten in Nihonbashi, Tokyo!

It has been my great pleasure and honour to exhibit here almost every year since 1993, save a few interruptions with natural disasters and stuff. It is very much like coming home.

Ebiya is a dealer in antiquities, and Miyake san, the 9th generation proprietor, is the loveliest person you could ever wish to meet. They've been in business since 1673, originally in Kyoto, but they came to Tokyo with the Meiji Emperor in the 1800s as Purveyors to the Imperial Household. 

During my exhibition they put most of the antiques into storage, leaving mainly the furniture, and that is where my pots are displayed. 

I have always been conscious of the longevity of my craft. The pots I make are part of a ceramic discourse which has been going on for at least ten-thousand years, and my own works will last long beyond my own life for generations to come. As such, they need to be informed by and aware of that conversation, and add to it a perspective which is unique to my lived experience and relevant to contemporary society, but also translate across time and different cultures. 

My pots tell their own story, and their presence is just as calm and self assured in the historical context of Ebiya as it is on the kitchen counter, a restaurant table, or a plinth in a modern gallery. I hope that means that they speak to our shared human experience, our common understanding of ourselves in the natural world, no matter who we are.

I invite you to come and share this moment and the pots which are a testament to my journey thus far.

https://e-ebiya.com/

In the real world

 The full moon rises huge and golden over the horizon as I pick fresh basil from Mika's kitchen garden in the fading light. It is "Juugoya", the celebration of the mid-autumn full moon, and though the days are still warm there is a chill on the evening air. 

Back in the kitchen, I use the basil to garnish tonights "Chirashizushi". Using the remaining strands of last years crop I cooked saffron rice, then blended it with vinegar and sugar to make it a fragrant sushi rice. Our saffron should be blooming in a week or two, and we usually harvest enough to last us a year. I spread the sushi rice out in a wide cylindrical bowl, one layer of a three tiered lidded set (Sandanju). I julienne Mika's last cucumber and spread it over the rice, then a layer of thinly sliced omelette, prawns, salmon, avocado and, last of all, the basil. 

I make my art for these every day moments, because that is where we live, in the real world.

The Art of Practice

The afternoon light pools softly in the freshly thrown plates, overflowing from one to another as the sun pours the last of its liquid gold over the lip of the horizon. I breathe in the cool air of the studio, rich in the fragrances of earth and wood, and exhale in a long, satisfied sigh. It has been a good day. 

Even after forty-seven years as a potter, I still find joy and revelation in the intimate dance of the clay in my hands as it spins on the wheel, each piece a new and unique expression of that interaction of the elements of nature, universal forces, and the awareness of the human mind. And just as I never tire of the beauty of a sunset, and each ephemeral iteration still takes my breath away, so, too, the life of a potter offers endless joy and inspiration. The evolution of the forms may be subtle, almost imperceptible, but is that not how nature evolves? Is that not how we grow as human beings and mature into our craft, honing our skills with deliberate practice, day by day, step by step, until they are as natural to us as breathing? Only then, when the process is second nature to us, do we truly have freedom of expression, to tell our story with immediacy and spontaneity, unhindered...and then we take a breath, and continue to practice and learn for the whole of our lives.

Mingei is a patient art, as much a work ethic as an aesthetic, rather like agriculture in many ways, and cannot be rushed. It is about us humans as part of the environment, the simple, wholesome beauty of the process and how the resulting harvest will nourish the people we love, our family, our community. Beauty is the natural state of the world, and traditional society evolved with every thing we made and used imbued with that beauty. In an increasingly industrial, technological and artificial society, where we are more and more separated from nature, from each other, from ourselves, it is the task of the artist not to put up another mirror in a maze of mirrors that already surrounds us, but to open a window, or even a door. 

The Mingei artist strives to live and work according to the same principles that were the source of beauty in the everyday functional art of traditional societies. To add their own understanding of the world and give it a form, made by hand with natural materials and conscientious of the user, which they can touch and hold and lift to their lips, and which will enrich their everyday lives, every day.

Sadly, some people just don't get that. 

Across the cobblestones

The Autumn days flow gently towards Winter, and the mulberry leaves fall in a slow moving wave as the morning sun washes across the grove, melting the frost which has briefly held them in place and casting them into the breeze. The white eyelash of a crescent moon fades into a pale blue sky. I am warm by the wood stove, the logs crackling merrily as the kettle sings, and beyond the window the voices of birds twittering in the garden form tiny puffs of steam in the icy air. I wave to Mika as she drives off to work, the car bouncing over the cobblestones. I lean closer to the window so that she can see my face, but my breath fogs up the glass.

“Each breathe exhaled a drop of rain.” That’s what my friend Robert said…

What a deeply profound a beautiful thought. Clouds of water vapour condensing in the atmosphere and returning to the earth as rain, and every breath we exhale contains enough water vapour to form a single drop. Our very breath intertwined with the turning of the seasons, each of us the consciousness of nature aware of the wonder of itself. 

It is easy to forget that we are an integral part of the natural world when modern industrial society separates us so. I recently spent a week in Tokyo, where you cannot see the stars or the moon, and the only sunlight to reach you is reflected off the mirrored glass of skyscrapers all around. Stores where there are no windows, where the air is pumped through machines. The glare of artificial light makes your eyes sting, the cacophonic blare of duelling piped music and advertising rhetoric buzz painfully in your ears, and the miasma of competing artificial fragrances from the cosmetic counters and the milling crowd makes you feel nauseous. There are no staff to greet you, you select your purchases alone, and take them to a self serve cash register where an emotionless electronic voice rasps instructions.

“Put your money in now,” she drones. 

I take some notes from my wallet and try to feed them into the mouth of the machine.

“Put your money in now,” she drones, and spits the note back out. I unfold the corner and feed it back in, then try to find the right coinage to finish the transaction.

“Put your money in now,” she drones.

“Just wait a sec, I’m trying to get the right change.” I say to her as I rummage in my wallet.

“Put your money in now,” she drones.

“Hang on, hang on!” I say, getting more flustered by the moment.

“Put your money in now,” she drones. 

I don’t have exact change, but close, so I pour the coins into the hopper. 

A few coins rattle into the tray. She spits a receipt at me.

“Take care not to forget your change and receipt.” she rasps.

I take the coins from the tray…

“Take care not to forget your change and receipt.” she rasps. An electronic bell starts to ring because I am too slow…

“Yes, yes!” I say as I put the coins into my wallet. I reach out to take the receipt…

“Take care not to forget your change and receipt.” she rasps.

“Don’t be so bloody impatient!” I say as I take the receipt from her mouth.

The bell finally stops.

“Thank you for your custom.” she simpers, then falls silent as she waits for her next victim.

Out on the streets is the constant rumble of cars and trucks and construction sites, the reek of exhaust fumes, asphalt and sewerage. The days are grey and the nights are bright, and it is never quiet, and it is never dark…and it is not just the homeless, huddled under cardboard boxes in the corners of the bridge who are alone, we are all separated from each other and our greater selves, treated like machines by machines, like cogs in the industrial mill…

Faceless… 

Replaceable… 

Now that I am home in Minakami, however, back on my side of the cobblestones, I feel human again. I have been sorting my pots from the last firing for exhibitions over the next few months, and each vessel is a unique revelation. The plates this time are particularly exciting, the poured stripes of blue-green Sasa glaze breaking into subtle pinks, against the flashed salmon body, with twisting tendrils of Igusa Hidasuki rush marks over the soft spiral throwing rings. I’m sure that they would be wonderful mounted on a wall, but how much more splendid when serving food to nourish the mind and body! As I sort through the pots, they suggest meals that they would love to have served on them, so I select a couple of plates and invite them to dinner.

Yes, every piece has been made by my own hands, but I have not been alone in the process, because the forces of nature have been my collaborators. A potter’s task is not to enslave the clay and force it to their will, but to discover the potential of the clay and guide it into a new form. Knowing when to apply your skills and when to step back and allow nature to run its course; to be still and let the clay flow through your fingers until it finds its shape; to understand the living flame of the kiln and feed it when it is hungry and give it space to breathe; this is what is to be a potter. And every pot is a discovery and an expression of the beauty of nature, not as a separate thing, but as a realisation of your self as part of the biosphere. 

Our home is surrounded by rice paddies, orchards and farms, and beyond them forested mountains marching away to snowy peaks. With a large cloth bag which my friend Kumon-san made for me, I walk the ten minutes to the local farmer’s market. I greet the neighbours as I pass; Kawai-san and Honda-san with their helpers packing boxes of apples; Fuu-chan putting out the flags in front of their noodle stand. There is a chill breeze blowing down from the Mikuni Pass, and a hawk is riding it in slow circles over the fields, hunting for the small animals that move through the stubble, nibbling on the remains of the harvest.

At the market I fill my basket with a variety of local produce, leafy Daikon and Komatsuna from Kitano-san, Honda Kazuko-san’s Yuzu, Garlic from Umezawa-san, Tomozawa-san’s Chilli Pepper, Ukon powder (turmeric) from Harasawa-san, and some Shiitake from Tsukiyono. 

“Good morning.” says the lady at the counter as I put my basket of goodies down.

“Good morning!” I reply, “Wasn’t that wind cold this morning?” I hang my empty bag over the edge of the basket as she begins passing the produce through the checkout.

“Yes, indeed! But it’s brought out the Autumn colours on the mountains beautifully!”

“They’re spectacular, aren’t they?” I say as I open my wallet and start sorting through my coins.

“That’ll be ¥2,744, thanks.” 

I put a ten-thousand yen note in the tray, “Just a sec, I may have the right change.”

She waits patiently as I fat fingeredly fumble around trying to get the exact coinage. “Close!” I exclaim, pouring a fifty yen coin and four ones into the tray.

She smiles as she gives me my change, and we exchange our thanks as I put it away, then I pack my groceries into my cloth bag, slide the empty basket into it’s rack, give her a smile and wave as I leave the market. On the way home I get a bag of apples from Honda-san, with a friendly little chat that follows a similar pattern. She pops a few extra scarred apples into the bag.

“Oh, thanks!” I say. “Say ‘Hi’ to your dad for me!”

I’ll take them a small jar of Apple Chutney later.

The hawk swoops into a dry rice paddy as I pass, rising again moments later with something small and struggling in its talons. It must be dinner time…

A home cooked meal is an intimate way of saying, “I love you.” The hand crafted vessel adds the art of nature to the everyday, and enriches the life of those who serve and those who are served. Every aspect of my life is interwoven in the creation of these works, and I am blessed to be able to share this beauty with the people I love. 

  

I wash some rice and put it in the suihanki with some ukon to cook while I prepare dinner on the wood stove. A bit of olive oil in the frypan, some garlic, ginger and chilli pepper. Onion that Mika’s father grew, some mince meat from the freezer, the green leaves from the daikon, red capsicum, apple, cumin, coriander, cloves, and cinnamon. Finally I add home made yoghurt and leave it to simmer down until it is thick, while I go and light the wood fired bath.

Mika comes home to a house full of the fragrance of spices and wood smoke, and I serve the Curry onto a bed of Turmeric Rice in my new plates. We share a goblet of white wine as we dine, and she regales about her adventures at the library. In a book it would probably say that I hang upon her every word…but that’s not quite the way it is. It is good to listen to someone that you love speak honestly and openly about all their thoughts and feelings, knowing how cathartic it can be, yourself, when someone whom you love and trust listens sincerely. Her story winds down about halfway through the second cup of wine.

“How was your day?” She asks.

I smile…

The New Dragon

 

The Dragon slid quietly over the misty horizon as the Hare fled into the west, and a cold grey dawn marked the turning of the year...

A dragon saw our first new year in this house twelve years ago, and on new year's day I made the new stamp for this year's vessels. It is a smaller dragon than the last, and faces left instead of right, and so an imprint in the clay becomes a footstep in the sands of time. The dark cherry wood gleamed as I rubbed olive oil into its grain, beautiful in and of itself, as each step of any creative process should be...

It was a good day, a day of sharing with my family, a day to celebrate thirty years of marriage with my wife, and all the joy and sorrow on our journey together. But as the evening drew near, and I prepared to light the wood to heat the bath, the house began to shake...

The earthquake was long, and we waited outside till the house stopped swaying and the ground beneath our feet stopped moving. It was not so strong here, only a four perhaps, enough to knock a few things over, shake open the doors and open a few new cracks in the plaster walls, but it brought back memories of the destruction of 3/11 for us all. But we learned that others were not so fortunate, and, in the days since, the devastation in Ishikawa has become apparent. One friend in Wajima, a lacquerware artist, has lost everything, home and studio, and only has the clothes she stands up in, but gratefully neither she nor her husband were injured. I don't know how we can help her yet...

Our experiences of each day are unique to each of us, joy for some, tragedy for others, and it is hard to celebrate our personal triumphs in the face of other's suffering...yet it is these simple things which are important, even in difficult times, perhaps most of all then. In everything we make, in everything we do, we leave a little of ourselves. And our experiences, our moments of joy and beauty, become moments of joy and beauty for others. It is a journey that we take together.

Preparations for Christmas dinner begin weeks before the day. Cutting up dried fruit, grating carrots and apples and lemon rind, steeping them in brandy for the pudding...

...mixing the eggs and butter, brown sugar and flour, spices and bread crumbs, and the well matured fruit. Giving everyone in the house a stir to make a wish...

...steaming the pudding for hours on the wood stove, then letting it rest and mature...

...stuffing the poultry, trussing the roasts, making the sauces. Hours of baking and roasting and steaming and simmering...

...making the Christmas Crackers, finding the treats and thinking of the riddles to go inside...

...and then we all gather for the feast! With toasts in Brandy Alexanders, Champagne in pottery chalices, and the courses all served on plates and bowls which I have made throughout the year. Everyone and everything comes together for this wonderful festive fare!

 

We take a break after our main course to exchange the presents from beneath the tree, then return for the final course; The Pudding!

It has steamed again for hours. I turn it out, piping hot, from the pudding basin out onto a platter, then pour a little warm brandy over it and turn off the lights. I strike a match to it, and we watch as the blue flames dance and vanish into the darkness. 

Served with antique silver coins hidden inside, and a sweet béchamel brandy sauce, the Pudding brings Christmas Dinner to a delicious close...

 

...and the house is quiet now. Christmas; Eve and Day, and Boxing Day are done. The family has dispersed. The flames have danced and disappeared into the dark, and the cold days and nights of winter lay ahead. Time, now, for me to cut some fire wood. New year and Hogmanay will soon be upon us! 

#christmasdinner

 

ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD...

There is a golden lustrous surface quality to much of my work which is almost impossible to capture properly in photographs. It is not an applied glaze or metallic lustre, it is a natural effect of the 1320c reduction wood firing process on my porcelaneous stoneware blend. 

"Reduction" gets it's name from the chemical change that occurs when a reactive element like Carbon (C) steals Oxygen (O) atoms from metallic oxides, like Red Iron Oxide (Fe2O3), to make CO2 molecules, thus "Reducing" the amount of Oxygen in proportion to Iron and forming molecules of Black Iron Oxide (Fe3O4) or even further to (FeO), and eventually to the pure metal (Fe). 

This is the same process by which metals are smelted. 

For the purpose of pottery, this chemical change results in colour reactions like those of Tenmoku and Celadon Iron glazes and Copper Red glazes in reduction firings. But it also causes the golden lustrous surfaces on some Shino glazes, where Iron which is present below the glaze migrates to the surface under heavy reduction. I suspect that this is similar to what is happening in my firing, though there has been no surface treatment, no glazes, no slips, just the Tatami rushes and the wood ash and gaseous fluxes coming into the kiln with the flame from the fire boxes...

Wood firing is capricious and serendipitous, and therein lies its unique and unassuming beauty, variety and charm.