Home for Christmas

We are home. The snow has covered the world in a white blanket, the wind wuthers around the eaves, but we are home at last, warm and safe. The children sleep soundly in the washitsu, and Mika wraps presents at the kitchen table, as I write while I wait for the christmas pudding to steam on the wood stove.
This last month has been a whirlwind, and I am eternally grateful to all my friends who rallied together to get us into this house before winter. The first task was to clean the house free of dust and mold, remove the piles of accumulated trash and give ourselves a clean and healthy start. My friends travelled from all points and gathered for a working bee, working at fever pitch. Steve, who organised the event, made a video which is here on youtube. The upstairs floor was a single layer of boards with gaps between, warped with age a loosened by rusty nails. Any dust from upstairs would sift down to the rooms below, and any attempt at heating would leak up through the gaps and vanish into the rafters. Gennevieve, Debbie, Julie, Bill; Thank You.

Separating into four main groups, we tackled each challenge. One group was dedicated to the continuing clean up operation, cutting up the scrap timber from upstairs and stacking it around the old shed for winter. It is their efforts that are warming the house now. Giichi, Laura, Heather; Thank you.

Another group cleaned the mold, dust and soot from the downstairs walls and ceilings, and the children sleep soundly in that room right now. Jane, Jo; Thank you.

A third group tackled the kitchen, ripping up the old floor, laying damp proof sheeting, relaying the floor, putting in new studs and insulation, then laying a new floor on top of that. This evening the children helped me mix the christmas pudding, each making a wish as they stirred. We sat at the kitchen table for dinner and laughed and joked...Thank you.

The fourth group screwed down the ricketty floor/ceiling boards upstairs, layed new studs and insulation, then a new floor on top of that. With funds from donations from friends around the world we managed to buy enough materials to repair and insulate three rooms downstairs and the studio work space. With the cieling insulated and sealed, I can now keep the living and working space warm...Steve, Brendan, Takashi, Aja; Thank you.

We shared the work, and went where the help was needed. At breaks we would drink starbucks coffee essence (Thank you Startbucks!) while Bill played his guitar and sang...the children all helped, I gave them each a hammer, and in years to come they will be able to point and say,"That is where we fixed the floor" or " This is where I bent a nail...". This is their home, they have helped to make it real, it belongs to them.

Since then our young friend Raku has been helping, finishing the floor, filling gaps, sticking bubble wrap to windows...As I walked home from seeing the children off the school the other morning, the sound of his cello hummed across the snow, and as I entered the house it's music thrummed through the new floor, the whole house becoming a sound board.

I have made a door above the stairwell from an old sliding door, and it keeps the warm air downstairs where we need it. I hope that the upstairs will become a gallery in the future, but not this winter. It will take a lot more work to achieve that goal, this year I have more important things to do...

We moved in on the 15th of December, nine months to the day since we evacuated from Ichikai. A good time to start a new life. I bought a small fir tree that day, and this morning we set it in one of my large bowls in the washitsu and decorated it. The christmas tree from Ichikai I planted in the garden there when I returned to pack our bellongings, it belongs there. This is our new christmas tree, and I hope that it will grow along with the children. We sang carols as we strung the tinsil on the tree, hung baubles on the boughs and as I set the star on the top most point of the tree. Our home is already full of love and music and laughter, friends become family, a house becomes a home.

The work is far from finished, but that's OK. Tomorrow is christmas eve, and we will move the last of our belongings here in the morning. Because of you, who have sent us help when we needed it, we are home. Now we are truly safe, and I have what I have wished for...a home for christmas. Thank you.

God Bless, and Merry Christmas to you all.

Merry Christmas

'Tis the night before Christmas, and all through the house,

Not a creature is stirring......

The children have had their stir of the Christmas pudding, made their wish and gone off to bed, and now the pudding sits steaming on the wood stove, two hours gone, two more to go. While they sleep and dream of Father Christmas the tree lights up the lounge room. We bought this tree as a seedling when we moved to this house, and we bring it inside every Christmas. Before long it will reach the ceiling, and then we shall take it out of its pot and plant it into the ground, and we shall buy a new tree. It has grown with the children, and we all take great pleasure in decorating it every year.

The star atop out tree is not gold, but it is precious to us. I made it when the kids were small, and one day they will tell their children, "You're Da made that!" I am in no hurry for that day to come, because each year my children hunt through the decorations for "Daddy's Star", and the tree is only finished when I put the star in place.




Christmas is not complete without Mika's wreath hanging beside the door. She uses the prunings from our cypress trees, and holly from the local community hall garden (Yes, she even asked permission!).


In the morning, if the children have been good of course, their stockings will be full of presents, the last job for Father Christmas before he goes to bed.


So, whither so ever scattered over the earths broad surface you may be, I wish you a peaceful and blessed Christmas.


Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Just My Cup of Tea

I was sitting with Miyake san in the tea room, enjoying macha from some of my new bowls. This is where my tea ware is really tested, and we have done so every year. Tomorrow we will be having a tea ceremony here with fifteen Japanese guests and we are selecting the bowls today from those which I have in the exhibition. Some are better for summer than this cold autumn day, and some might be better on the lawn under the cherry blossoms in spring, but the choice of bowl is an expression of the tea masters sense, and there are plenty to choose from. As we talk I remember other days in this room, other bowls and conversations. A couple of seasons ago I wrote an essay about such a day, and I share it again with you here, with some photos of this years exhibition.

Just My Cup Of Tea

Sitting in the tea room at the back of the gallery, I listen to the whisper of the water as it simmers in its iron kettle on the charcoal brazier. Its lid is slightly askew, leaving a gap at the edge which stops the water from boiling over. The mid morning light filters through the paper of the shoji screens to softly illuminate the tatami floor.

In the Tokonoma alcove is a bottle shaped vase with a single blossom. “Hidasuki” straw marks circle its neck and drape down the side where the wood flame has hit the porcelain surface. Beside it on the wall is a “kakejiku” scroll. It is a painting from the Edo period of the view of Nihombashi from the street outside. The merchants bustle about between what has now become the Mitsukoshi department store on the left and the Mitsui bank on the right, with the road between them leading up to Edo Castle, now the imperial palace, and Mount Fuji in the background. Usually the kakejiku would be calligraphy, a poem or phrase in Kanji characters, but Miyake san has chosen this painting because it is of where we are, an echo of the past which lives on in the tradition of the tea ceremony. Among the characters bustling in the street scape is a merchant carrying a large chest wrapped in a furoshiki cloth on his back. I joke with Miyake san that this is his great grandfather moving to Nihombashi from Kyoto with the Meiji emperor in 1868.

The writing was on the wall. It said;

“By Appointment to the Imperial Household

Ebiya Art Gallery

Dealers in Tea Ceremony Wares and Antiquities

Since 1672”



On the mat in front of me, on one of my small square plates, is an exquisite “Mame Daifuku”, a cake of sweet bean encased in rice paste. These are from the same shop in Ueno where I first tasted them, and though I have had them from other makers since, none compare with these.



Miyake san enters the room with a tray, his soft white footware brushing gently across the tatami. On the tray are arranged tea bowl (Machawan), tea caddy (Natsume), whisk (Chasen) and bamboo spoon (Chashaku). He bows deeply and then carries them to the space in front of the brazier.

In the back of my mind I can hear my mothers voice, “Take the pot to the kettle, dear, not the kettle to the pot.”

The tea room at Ebiya is unusual in that the brazier is in the back left corner, meaning that many of the actions must be done in mirror image of a normal tea ceremony. “Ki An” is the title of the tea room. It is difficult to translate, as the “Ki” means to return home, and the “An” means tea house. This is especially significant for me. When I came to Japan I had to choose kanji characters for my own name, as stamps, not signatures, were necessary for all legal documents. It meant giving new meaning to my self. The kanji I chose were “Yu” which is glaze, and “An”, the same kanji as the tea room, to which I have returned every year since 1993. This tea room, at the back of the gallery in the centre of Tokyo, is where I sleep during the exhibition, and I prepare my breakfast over the brazier and welcome guests into my home here. This tea room is a home to which I can return.



Removing a cloth from the “Obi” sash of his kimono, unfolding and refolding it, he begins to meticulously clean the tools on the tray. First the natsume, then the chashaku are wiped and replaced on the tray, each movement economical and elegant. The chasen and “chakin” (tea cloth) are removed from the bowl, and he begins to wash it. Setting the lid straight on the kettle he lifts it and pours some hot water into the bowl. After replacing the kettle he lifts the Chasen, examines it, whisks the water, turns the chasen to examine it again, and replaces it on the tray. He then empties the water from the tea bowl into a “Kensui” bowl that he had prepared behind him. The Kensui is taller and wider than a chawan, flared at the top to accept the discarded water. Using the chakin he wipes the bowl dry, four strokes which cover the base of the bowl and spell the word “Iri”, to “put care” into an action.

“Always warm the pot with hot water first, dear, before you make the tea,” says mums melodious voice.

As he lifts the Chashaku, he turns to me with a smile. “Okashi o douzo,” he says, please enjoy your cake. I lift the plate from the floor, cut a piece of the “Daifuku” with my cake blade and place it in my mouth. These are one of my favourite cakes, the soft sweetness of the coarsely ground bean inside playing against the slight springy resistance of the rice paste casing, with just a hint of salt.

Mum used to serve the best scones with lemon curd and cream for morning tea, the savoury flavour of the fresh baked scone, the tartness of the lemon, the saltiness of the butter, the smoothness of the cream…….

As I eat, Miyake san removes the lid from the natsume and spoons out some bright green powdered tea into the bowl with the chashaku, striking it gently but sharply against the edge of the bowl to shake off any clinging powder. Each year he has a special delivery of macha made from the first leaves of the new crop, the “Shincha”. The colour is more vivid than most tea, the fragrance lighter, the flavour sweeter.

There was one brand of tea that Mum insisted on. “All the others taste like the sweepings from the teahouse floor!” she’d say, “Now, one spoon for each person and one for the pot….”

Pouring the water once more into the bowl and replacing the kettle on the brazier, he lifts the chasen and begins to whisk the tea. Making a bridge from rim to rim with the thumb and middle finger of his left hand he vigorously whisks the tea into a foam, finally slowing to a stop and gently lifting the chasen from the bowl. After putting the chasen back on the tray he lifts the bowl with his right hand onto the palm of his left, turns it twice, perhaps a quarter turn each time, until the front of the tea bowl faces me. He reaches out and places it wordlessly on the tatami in front of me.

“Always turn the pot three times in a clockwise direction,” says mum….

“Chodai itashimasu,” (I gratefully receive this) I say as I reach out with my right hand and slide my fingers under the hip of the bowl till I touch the foot, place my thumb on the lip and lift it to the palm of my left hand. The foot fits comfortably between the first and third joints of my fingers, smooth against my skin. I also turn it twice, till the face of the bowl is now towards him and then move the fingers of my right hand to the side of the bowl. After a slight bow, I lift it to my lips. The colour of the green tea against the orange flashing on the wood fired surface lift each other, and the warm fragrant fumes waft across my face. The lingering sweetness in my mouth from the daifuku mingles with the spicy flavour of the tea. There is no other flavour to which it can be likened. It is macha.

I finish the tea and smile in satisfaction as I lower the bowl. The last skerrick of tea runs down into the throwing rings in the centre of the bowl, making a green spiral against the flashed porcelain, like the ying and yang. I wipe the lip and turn the bowl once more so that I can see the face, where the “hidasuki” marks of the tatami straw mingle with the wood ash where the flame has licked the surface and begun to form runnels. I invert the bowl to examine the foot, the turned surface distinct from the thrown, with shell marks on the foot ring from where it was set in the kiln. I turn the bowl once more and pass it back to Miyake san, who has been waiting, watching, patiently.

He takes the bowl once more, washes it as before and says to me, “Moh ippuku ikaga desu ka?” (Would you care for another cup?) I waver for a moment, then reply, “Iie, oshimai kudasai.” (No, please feel free to finish.)

He bows. “Oshimai itashimasu.” (I will draw to a close.) He pours hot water in the bowl once more, this time to wash the chasen, which he examines carefully to make sure it is clean and undamaged. After disposing of the water in the kensui once more he wipes the bowl and places it on the tray. He wipes and replaces the chashaku and natsume into their correct position on the tray, refolds his cloth and tucks it back into his obi. Rising to a crouch, he lifts the tray, stands, and shuffles quietly from the room, kneeling to bow deeply at the door.

I wait quietly for his return, savouring the calm, alone for a moment once more with the kettles song. It is easy to forget that the bustle of central Tokyo is only metres away. Just on the other side of the shoji screens, beyond the display windows, crowds throng and traffic oozes along the “Chuo Doori”(central road) to and fro across Nihombashi, the bridge of Japan. The river which runs below it is named after the bridge. The centre of the bridge marks the geographical centre of Japan, and the imperial palace is just a short stroll away.

He returns with the bowl and places it in front me.

“Doh?” (How was it?) I ask.

He smiles. “Hijouni tsukaiyasui!” (Very comfortable to use!) he says enthusiastically. “The shape and surface make it very easy to foam the tea, and the size fits the hand exactly. Did you see how the colours worked together?” I smile and nod. We sit and examine the bowl again, dissecting it, holding it and turning it. Discussing how it fits in the hand, how stable it was to whisk the tea, how beautifully it enhanced the tea. We have done this every year, and I have learned about tea. It isn’t just the bowl. It’s the entirety of the ceremony that is art, art in process. I would never pretend to be a tea master, for to become a tea master is a life long dedication. No, I am just a potter who is a student of tea at best.

The tea ceremony isn’t an arcane mystery, it is an exploration of the beauty of simplicity. It touches all your senses, gently, with no embellishment. How simply, beautifully and most of all deliciously can you make a cup of tea? For that is the essence of a tea bowl, not a rigid structure of size or form or colour, not a regurgitation of how other tea bowls are, but a foray into the pleasure of a nice cup of tea.

It is the morning of my fourteenth annual exhibition here at Ebiya Gallery, and the doors will soon be open for business. But for this little time Miyake san and I have it to ourselves. We step from the tea room into the main gallery space, with my pots displayed on its antique furnishings. Later I will wrap the teabowls in saffron cloth and sign boxes for them, sealing them with my Japanese stamp. And hopefully they will come to life in someone elses hands and give them joy in using them, just as I have taken joy in their making.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, “There’s nothing like a nice hot cup of tea.” Say’s mum…

Bamboozled

I walked through the woods, the shafts of morning light piercing the crisp cold air. The boys, Canaan and Rohan, followed behind me, chattering excitedly as if some great adventure was afoot, their breath bursting out in billows of white vapour. In my hand I had my trusty double edged hand saw; the traditional Japanese style, with coarse rip saw on one edge and fine cross cut on the other. We had a mission, and now was the time, after the winter solstice and before the vernal equinox, when nature was dormant and saving its power deep inside. We were hunting wild bamboo!

As we crossed the no mans land between the ash grove and the bamboo, a brace of pheasants broke from the undergrowth, their thudding wing beats compressing the air, their raucous screeches shattering it. The boys laughed in surprise, and we cracked and crunched our way down into the shadows of the bamboo. We selected out several good, thick stalks, ones with a bit of dust encrusted above the segment rings and a satin sheen, not the shiny green ones. Bamboo is best when it is about three seasons old and the walls have become thick and hard. The young ones, still thin and glossy, are too weak for the task I have in mind.

Down low, close to the ground, I use the cross cut saw to sever the stalk, then thrust my shoulder against it and march forward in a powerful tackle that brings the fifteen metre giant crashing down behind me. We drag him through the brush, then cut him into 3.6 metre lengths, finally throwing his bushy head onto the ever growing pile we have started on the edge of the woods. This pile will rot down and compost over the next few years, deepening and enriching the soil, a home for stag beetles and lizards. When we have gathered a stack of poles enough to sate our needs, we tuck a pole under each arm and drag them back down through the woods, and display our booty on the lawn in front of the house and studio.

We now cut them to exact length and fit them into the empty shelf frames in the studio. The old ones have been removed after serving their time on the rack, some of them nearly ten years, supporting my pottery from it's birth on the wheel till it's trial in the kiln. The years of wood smoke from the stove in the corner have cured them so that they can now be cut down into bamboo dragon flies and other traditional tools. What is left over will be burnt in the stove to keep my family warm this winter. Nothing is wasted.

The sweet fragrance of the freshly cut bamboo fills the studio as I look at the clean empty space from the bedroom doorway. It beckons me, it dares me, like the clean fresh pages of new diary.

Craftsmanship and time

"As I was going down the stairs,

I met a man who wasn't there.

He wasn't there again today,

I wish that he would go away."


After a hundred or so years of being polished by slippered feet, the stairs of the Okazaki Ryoukan have worn into soft waves around the wood grain. As the morning light caught the edge of the step on my way to the onsen, I felt part of the long line of guests who had unwittingly participated in the creation of this beauty.


Traditional Japanese architecture is a study in light and shade. Shoji screens that allow diffused light to enter a room, light filtering through the "Ran Ma" screens above the walls, light reflected off the tatami floors. These Ran Ma also allow a flow of air between rooms, helping to prevent mold and ventilate the rooms.



There is no glue used in making this screen, the component parts having been cut by hand with impeccable precision. There was a pride in the creation of these works, made by unknown artisans. It was not about fame or wealth, though reputation brought work, and work brought income. It was about the beauty of the every day, and creating beautiful spaces in which to live, and finding value in living every day.


The light changes with the seasons, and the symbols of nature were used as themes in the architecture. These clerestory screens have sprigs of pine needles incorporated in the lattice. It was beautiful waking in the morning to the soft autumn luminescence, and the view of the leaves changing across the mountains beyond the hand made glass of the engawa. I look forward to returning again next year.

Friends in Mashiko

Michael Warner and Kate Carruthers came to visit us on their way to Australia from their pottery "Starfish Ceramics" on Mull in Scotland. During their stay we visited the Hamada Museum in Mashiko. The original Hamada pottery is now a reference museum, and the current Hamada pottery has been moved next door. Sitting at the kick wheel brought back fond memories of my time at Shimaokas.

Of course Hamada sensei himself usually worked cross legged at the hand wheel. A stick would be notched into the hollows at the edge of the wheel and the wheel "wound up", then momentum would keep it spinning long enough to centre, form the basic shape and then "wound up" again to finish the pot. Very soft clay and slow revolutions makes the process very expressive. Without the hum of the electric wheel, with a veiw of the garden through the shoji screens, it could not help but imbue his pots with a great sense of peace.

In the garden stand a pair of statues of sheep. Mika wondered if he put them there to remind him of his time in england. The leaves are turning to orange as the autumn gets colder.

Beside the workshop firewood is stacked between bamboo to warm the space through winter. Fire was always a danger with thatched rooves, so the Kanji for water is marked in the end of the thatch, along with a turtle to ward off fire.

Many of the buildings are thatched in the traditional way. They are all buildings which Hamada moved to the compound from other parts of Japan to preserve them. This guest house was moved to the site on horse and dray on dirt roads. Some of the beams are so massive they had to be moved by two drays in tandem.

We let ourselves get too busy and flustered to take notice of the beauty that surrounds us. It is that simple beauty that inspire Hamadas work and which we must try to discover in our own lives, not only for our own sakes, but for generations to come.

Thank you!

Being busy is a good thing. Finding a balance between making, selling and being with my family is not always easy. It was wonderful to meet with all of the people who visited my exhibition at Takashimaya, but I could only be there for seven days out of the total three weeks. Thank you all for coming, and I'm sorry to those of you I missed.



Takashimaya was followed a week later by an exhibition at "Utsuwazaka" in Sakado in Saitama Prefecture. Once again the exhibition was quite long and I was unable to be there except for the last weekend. The gallery owner, Chiba san, was very understanding. Though this was my first exhibition with him he has been dealing in my work through a Mashiko gallery for a number of years. He also knows that I put my family first, and if they need me here, then here is where I choose to be.



The work in the two shows was different, Takashimaya focusing on western cuisine, Utsuwazaka on Japanese. The common thread was vessels designed to enhance and bring out the best in the food, pots to bring joy to the user. It is always important to realise that completion of the vessel is in the hands of the user, and I trust the user to bring out the best in the work, just as I have learnt to trust the forces of nature in my work process and surrender control to them.




When doing signature dinners I design the work in collaboration with professional chefs, but then surrender the work into their control. I trust the chef. In these exhibitions the gallery staff displayed the work for me, in ways I would not have done myself. They are professionals in their field.




The table coordination at Takashimaya, for example, incorporated crystal, silver and lacquer ware by other artists as an accent to my work. It put my ceramics in perspective, as it would be rare to serve a meal with only my vessels.



Even though I work alone in my studio, I am not making my pots for me. Yes, they are a personal expression of my perception of beauty and function, but I make them for the people I love. By giving up control to nature, to the user, to other professionals, it allows the work to go beyond my abilities and become part of a greater work.

Back in the Kitchen

The heart of any home is the kitchen. The source of warmth and life and nourishment. The other day we found a cast iron slow combustion stove at a rock bottom price. It has always been my dream to bake bread, scones, cakes, casseroles, roasts, pies and pastries by the heat of a wood fire in my own home. When I was a child I would help mum or Aunty Thora to stoke the stove, bake the scones, even clean the chimney when necessary. Sitting in the warmth of the hearth with the fragrance of wood fire and baking bread is one of my fondest memories.

Today I replaced the table top of our kitchen table. About fifteen year ago I made the table to fit into the kitchen of my home in Utsunomiya, but when we moved back to Mashiko it wouldn't fit into the kitchen and I had to cut it down to size. It was heart breaking, but even as tears welled in my eyes I took the saw to it. At last I have returned it to it's original size. I had to dowell several planks together to get the breadth.

Using iron oxide to stain the wood I finished it with mahogany oil to have the same feeling as traditional japanese furniture.

Yesterday, when I was bottling the lager, Sean, our youngest came and "helped", holding the syphon hose with me. When he grows to be a man, will he too look back and reminisce about bottling beer with dad, helping to bring wood in for the fire, sitting at the table that daddy made, sharing these simple joys with his family? I hope so.