This little sugar bowl is a piece of Chinese glazed and hand painted porcelain, made for the western market, in China - I would guess in the 1940's - and sold through a Macau exporter. It was bought as part of a set long ago broken and disposed of, and regarded as a functional item, until it was passed to me; since then, it has become part of a collection of ceramic objects I love and cherish. Pottery, however fine or rough, is breakable. You buy or inherit or receive a piece of ceramic, you use it, and eventually it breaks. While you handle it, if it is special, it evokes an emotional response; it is a presence, it was meant to be what it is by a person unknown - a potter who handed on his or her vision executed in a magical material. Pottery, the more you know it the more you notice what an essential life-company it is. Even mass-produced pieces from Wedgwood or Limoges are special and chipped or cracked pieces, are often kept on for generations as proof of existence. My sugar bowl does not contain sugar. It contains a green jade necklace and earrings. Every time I open it, it yields the extra excitement of the green dull jade beauty within its surprisingly pure white interior. One day it will shatter and I will have to throw away the pieces and turn to another container for my jewel. This is not a two-way relationship: the sugar bowl does not love me as I love it; it does not reciprocate my admiration and the person who made and painted it does not know about me. The green dragon sugar bowl was mass produced. It was painted quite quickly by someone who had to earn a meagre existence out of painting porcelain sets as uniformly as possible, in a particular tradition. The story that makes this item special is mine alone. I can chose to end it. A piece of ceramic that has been individually made, such as this may be more difficult to break and let go.
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Harada Shuroku (c) Western Pennsylvania Potters Community blog
Harada Shuroku is a respected Japanese potter working in the Bizen tradition. His endeavour is to 'find the true flavour of the clay' This is the translation of a 6th century poem in the spirit of Zen and the 'yakishime': the woodfired pot: Pots are made out of clay But the hollow space in them makes the essence of the pot And the essence comes from an intangible something In the spirit of the potter Which he is able to blend into all his knowledge of the throwing, The glazing, and the firing So that every piece from his hand is as much his own signature and his heartbeat Only then will the pot be good, that is, alive And the more highly developed a potter is as a human being, the better his pot For there is no real beauty without character. In Nijiri.wordpress.com, the following photos appear, relating to the work of Shuroku: Nijiri means, apparently, 'towards nothingness'. tokkuri by Kumano Kurouemon I have been working on a wall piece about the flight of the crane and the great problem with it - I see that now - is that I mixed abstraction with figurative elements: Is that about not having any faith in the viewer? The anxiety of wanting my story to get across? Why does that matter? kurô-oribe glaze tokkuri by japanese ceramic artist KUMANO kurouemon (1955-), aka The Bear of Echizen. this particular tokkuri is named sango, meaning ‘coral’. size: height 22,8 cm, width 12,4 cm. This is one of the most mysterious surfaces I have ever seen on a pot. Piccadilly is what I think of as a busy place, a cosmopolitan place, a much visited, envied, bragged about place. As a foreigner, that is: very braggable indeed! Clapham Junction is the place every train goes to - or so it seems, and busy also, but more business-like, more serious. Grungy, a little worn, uninspiring some would say. So, that's settled.
But why am I talking about the south? Because in the north there is no such thing as those two places. Up north, it is even no longer grim, but rather pleasant, rather restful and very beautiful. And yet we can bring the world to our door without any problem. Well, I have heard friends being self-righteous about not going anywhere near facebook, or webpages, or blogs, or anything that might endanger their privacy, or indeed lead them to giving anything away. I feel otherwise. I feel smug about my blog, my webpage, my facebook, my twitter...I think it is interesting knowing what others are up to, what they are passionate about, whether their children smear marmite on their faces...well, perhaps not that. I differentiate between the intimate secret things, like how badly I cooked that fish last night and the really quite irrelevantly funny and quirky, stuff you can tell everyone, such as that someone has been intimidating, humiliating or otherwise terrorising me... So, yes, this is about the confusion in my head and it comes from my usual joke, that my blog is the most private place on earth because no one visits it - surely?! It is laughable that it was only yesterday evening, in a moment of quiet mindlessness that I started to navigate my website's buttons and discovered one, enticingly named site stats. Right: how many hours have I spent on this? How many months and years have I had a blog? How many more bites have I got left before I have to fork out some money? Not at all: I was stunned to realise that it shows how many people visit and even more stunned to realise that quite a few do, actually! And there I was, thinking I was standing in a busy place - Piccadilly, say - and no one knew I was even there, only to discover that I have been visited quietly and softly by so many complete strangers. Because remember? My friends don't do this, or so they say! Standing in Trafalgar Square some months ago with a friend, I realised that all the people there were intent on their own purposes. We were talking to each other and planning the next move; They were getting to the museums or restaurants, or looking around for friends. Some were resting. Very few were looking at the facades, the fountains, the statues or even the 4th plinth. So a blog is not at all like that, not a passing through or resting place. It is a destination. What a thing to learn! Which makes me nervous because it seems I may have to change my ways and actually write something that has meaning and point, as well as being correctly spelt. I am scaring myself now. But I needn't be, because at heart I believe in a benign world and so I will probably continue to pour out my musings in the knowledge that all are invited but none forced to come. Come sit here a while and enjoy the quiet, scented morning; We are not expecting crowds, but we like the company. And yes, it is turning a little chillier... and soon we can go ice-fishing. The summer house, at the end of summer, still without its access apron or embellishments - can you just see, through the windows? - stacked to the gunnels with pottery supplies. The upper garden is full of junk for the skip; the shed is stripped of all electrical connections and cables... soon it will be called "The Studio"! It will be warm, painted, clean and full of all that material now in the summer house. The skip will have gone, followed by the workers and I can move in and perhaps never be heard of again. There is even wifi signal in there and two powerful gas heaters, two kilns, lots of shelves, a large work table, hot and cold running water, a sink. There shall have to be a champagne launch, for sure. Most potters take themselves very seriously. But surely none more so than me. My pots start with a story: heard somewhere or discovered by chance, something that speaks to me personally and directly. Some time ago I made a coiled pot in the shape of a persimmon, a favourite fruit. I used to eat persimmons in Mozambique, but it was in Brazil that I found out how many varieties and flavours persimmons come in. You can have bright red ones, much like tomatoes, but also gold, orange and even brown. Some have to be eaten when sloppy and almost liquid, or they will make your mouth thick and unpleasant; others, are crunchy like apples or smooth like peaches. Persimmons have a wonderful shape that nestles beautifully in the palm of your hand. The plant is found in a vast subtropical swathe, from Madagascar to China. The fruit of some plants in the genus is the black dense ebony. Anyway, the pot: made of white stoneware, carved with water ripples and a Japanese crane. Cranes are birds to which numerous symbolic meanings attach, especially in Japan and China. They are in danger of extinction because their habitats are being invaded and changed by farming and overpopulation. The crane is the symbol of fidelity, because the birds mate for life. They are the companions of wise men in traditional Chinese portraiture. Shortly after the end of World War II, the folded origami cranes came to symbolize a hope for peace through Sadako Sasaki and her unforgettable story of perseverance. Diagnosed with leukemia after being exposed to radiation after the bombing of Hiroshima, Sadako became determined to reach a goal of folding 1,000 cranes in hopes of being rewarded with health, happiness, and a world of eternal peace. Although she died before reaching her goal, the tradition of sending origami cranes to the Hiroshima memorial has endured as a symbol of the Japan’s ongoing wish for nuclear disarmament and world peace. Today this tradition of folding 1,000 cranes represents a form of healing and hope during challenging times. I find this story compelling. I find the wish for peace, a forlorn hope in our times, a compelling one. I am touched by the idea that there are out there many people who feel this way. And I made a pot to celebrate that. This pot was made in 2010, but it lacked colour and depth, and so it languished on my wait-and-see shelf for a long time until recently I found a glaze that would do what I wanted to that pot. The pot was taken to a show and it was sold to a visitor who purported to 'love it'. Well and good, I am pleased 'Tsuru at the waterfall' has gone to a good home. But I fear the story here takes a dark turn. A fellow potter became very uncomfortable with my approach. Most other potters just show their pieces and let people like or not like them. And that is fine. For them. For me, the story is the reason why the pot is made. I will not sell a pot or show a pot unless I am able to clarify the story it carries. As the new owner of the pot you can discard that: no problem there. But until it passes from my hands, my pot will tell its tale. I felt amused by the woman's problem. I have no idea what her feelings really are, though clearly she has some, strong enough to lead her to be quite rude and dismissive towards me. I do not recognise this person's right to shut me up. And yes, I am a bit indignant that she should have an opinion as to whether I have or have not the right of free speech. So, this is a warning to the world: I am about to embark on a series of pieces, i.e. books, pots, wall pieces, boxes, all celebrating tsuru. And each and everyone of them will have a written statement to the effect that this is what they are: Votive World Peace artefacts. I do take all this seriously, if I didn't, I wouldn't bother. I am not in the business of selling custard tarts. |
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