Moving Always In A Living Way
by Dick Lehman
Over the past several years I have enjoyed ongoing e-mail conversations
with my friend and potter, Shiho Kanzaki. Kanzaki lives in Shigaraki,
Japan. He produces pottery within the Shigaraki tradition, employing
the long-established methods of that tradition to create and fire his
works. As time has passed, our correspondence has steadily drifted toward
the themes which we hold most important to our lives and art. With his
permission, I share some excerpts from Kanzaki's contributions to our
conversations which I have found most stimulating.
Shiho Kanzaki describes his philosophy of life, living
and pottery making:
Before everything, I would like to review for you my basic thoughts
concerning the making of ceramic works and how it is that we can live
fully in this world. I believe that our spirits and thoughts are what
make our ceramics. The making of ceramics and our attitude towards
living are closely related. The two may seem to be unrelated at a
glance but I think that the relationship between the two is important.
An attitude of disarray towards living can cause us to make works
which have a 'wrong spirit' or which are without soul. However, the
reverse is also true: sometimes when we see certain ceramic works,
we get a feeling of emotion and they touch our hearts. Now I believe
that our response to this work is not simply because of the shape,
or due to excellent technique, or the beauty of the surface. These
ceramic works possess the spirit, soul and personal history of the
potter. This is why we might be so impressed with these particular
ceramic works. For if the beauty of a ceramic work exists only in
its good shape, design and colour, I suspect that its effect upon
us may fade over the years. But if the spirit, the heart and the soul
of the potter are in the pieces, these ceramic works can touch our
heart and soul for many years.
The art of ceramics isn't to be found in technique and skill alone.
We must extend beyond technique. And it is those who are extending
beyond technique who are becoming real potters: living within their
spirits, thoughts and religion. Because they have already discarded
their sense of self-will, they live in freedom. They move in a living
way. As a result their works have a feeling of strength, and are full
of life. It is important that we live our lives purposefully. Our
spirits, thoughts and hearts all parts of us are constantly
changing when we live with this sense of purpose. As we each strive
to live up to the best that we know as a way of life, then that is
when the ceramic work is the potter... the potter becomes embodied
in the ceramic work itself. Out of our moments of true being come
the ceramic work. I asked Shiho Kanzaki to explain what he looks for
in good work. What does he think are the characteristics of the best
Ceramic works which have a tender heart, which reveal emotion and
life, which show a feeling of strength these are the real ceramic
works. Such feelings come from the potter's heart. It is quite natural
that these pieces are not overworked for effect.
If one tries to make wonderful and marvellous works in order to gain
the applause and approving words of others, it will be obvious. Greedy
and desirous potters tend to express their motivations by putting
excess decoration on the pot. This excess obscures the real heart
of the pot... revealing only the desires of the potter.
In order to make good work, I find that I must make an effort to
release myself from greed and desires. I believe that if someone abandons
their greed, their true spirit will come through and the pots themselves
will reveal a heart. For me, it is at this point that the pots become
real ceramic works.
To summarise, these are the characteristics of good ceramic works:
they are made by potters who have moved beyond single-minded reliance
upon skilful technique. The work is simple and natural. The maker
has given up any greedy motivation. The works show us a 'look of delight',
a feeling of strength, and a full-of-life stance. And these works
we experience as beautiful. In fact, as I think of it, I suppose that
the beauty in these works is 'continuing forever'.
What sorts of ceramic works move you? Which ones touch
your spirit? And why do you think that some pots move you more than
I like the natural-ash-deposit works, like those which come from
the Shigaraki, Iga, Bizen, Tamba and Tokoname traditions. The ancient
pieces from these traditions especially touch my heart. You see, our
ancestors were mainly farmers who, in their free time, made pottery
utensils for their daily needs. Their purposes were to make durable
and useful pots, and to make as many as possible in the limited time
that they had. I suppose that they didn't give a great deal of thought
to the colour and shape of the pieces... to the beauty of the works.
But despite the likelihood that they were not concerned about beauty,
I find them to be beautiful with their rich natural ash deposits.
Their pots came from anagama firings. Of course, in an anagama, nobody
can foresee the results of the pots. The atmosphere surrounding the
pots determines the results. And the ash deposits grow naturally from
the effects of the flames. One can say that the resulting pots were
created by nature. And these natural-ash-deposit pots move me more
I asked Kanzaki how he measures success in the works he
There is an easy way to judge the works...whether they are successful
or not. The work, just after having been made, is wet and glitters
in much the same way that it does when it has much natural ash glaze.
I think that this sheen affects our response to the work... making
it seem bigger and better than it really is. We tend to become infatuated
with the 'make-up' on the pots...heir costumes of colour, glaze, shape
and decorations. However to judge the work, I look at it when it is
dry greenware. The real beauty is to be found here in the greenware.
I look at the work and see it with no 'make-up'...this is the time
when I measure the success of the piece.
How does your ceramic work change and grow over the years?
Do you intentionally try to make it grow, or are you responding to what
happens in the firing?
I have already told you how I believe our thoughts and spirits change
and grow as we go through life...nd how our ceramic works reflect
those changes. However, I would like to tell you about how the firing
affects the work, as well.
As you know, each firing is different because of differences in weather,
season, air pressure and other circumstances. I have never used a
pyrometer or pyrometric cones. I decided against cones and pyrometer
because I think that if I used them, I would tend to rely upon them
to make my decisions during the firings. At that point my concentration
would move from the firing to the tools of firing. When one chooses
not to use the tools, one must concentrate only on the fire, the smoke
colour, the sound of the kiln, and the shape of the flame and smoke.
When you accumulate these experiences during the firings, you tend
not to forget them. You develop an understanding of a whole variety
of phenomena, and then each firing tells you what you need to do,
and how you need to do it. Clearly, gaining experience is most important
for this kind of firing.
Each firing condition is, of course, different. While I may begin
each firing with work which is similar to the work I have previously
made, what happens in the firing changes and adds to the intentions
and decisions I made while creating the pots. This means that all
of my works change and grow over the years in response to the changing
conditions of firing.
How important is it to add to the tradition as opposed
to simply continuing to make work which is in line with the Shigaraki
I believe that the changes and maturity that occurs in our lives
have a direct impact on our works. In other words, our works are changing
day by day...as a direct result of, and as we make an effort to advance
our lives: to change our spirits and our souls. But there is also
a relationship between the long tradition of Shigaraki ceramics and
our daily lives. For those of us who work in the Shigaraki tradition,
it is one of the most important things in our lives, as potters, and
as human beings. You see, our ancestors were continuing to build upon
the traditions which they had inherited. They contributed to a tradition
which was long and continuous. The reason we have inherited this tradition
is tied to their commitment and contribution to this tradition. One
might ask, "Is there something new in the Shigaraki tradition?" I
don't think so.
I suspect that there are the changes which come from the changes
in our daily lives. And while parts of those changes are genuinely
new, they are at the same time connected to the existing tradition.
I do think that I live in line with the Shigaraki tradition: I live
in the traditional way, and am devoted to Buddha. I pray and always
Namu Ami Da Butsu (I depend upon the mind of Buddha).
In so doing I try to give up my desires, make my heart vacant and
make room for Buddha to live in me. I try to do this day by day. And
this commitment is important for making my work and for extending
the Shigaraki tradition. Another way of thinking about this is: Who
I am, is myself... changing in spirit and soul, day by day.
I have ancestors and many good friends. I was born in Shigaraki.
I have my own history which, fortunately, included being a mendicant
and being swindled while in poverty. Who I am is this: I am now, in
this moment, a result of my unique past: a result of how I have received
and thought about the many opportunities and circumstances given to
me in life. My works are the only things (like them) in the world
at the moment that I made them.
Yet I always make works which are in line with the Shigaraki tradition
and, because of my individuality, they also extend the Shigaraki tradition.
But what is most important is what is inside our minds: the thoughts
coming from our philosophy and religion make our work (jobs/tasks)
and our works (pottery/sculpture). We are able to express our 'fullof-life'
attitude in our pots, no more than at this moment. So I can say to
you that one can make one's works according to one's abilities at
the moment. Our ability, therefore, is not only in technique, but
our thoughts, our way of living, and so on.
I asked Shiho Kanzaki who are the contemporary potters
whose work he admires, what it is he likes about their work and why
it is that their work appeals to him more than the work of other contemporary
I greatly respect two potters: the master potters, Suketoshi Matsuyama
and Hakuou Kanou. Before I built my anagama kiln, I visited many potters
living in the pottery centres throughout Japan. I saw many of their
works. There were only two potters whose works touched my heart:
Suketoshi Matsuyama and Hakuou Kanou.
I first visited Suketoshi Matsuyama in 1972, before I built my anagama
kiln in Shigaraki. He invited me to his thatched studio to show me
his works. He brought out his works from his store room and placed
them, piece by piece, on the tatami mats. At that moment, I patted
myself on my knees, in spite of myself. I was amazed, and the works
impressed themselves on my spirit: "Here it is. The work for which
I have been searching, for long years." The works... many works, were
now in front of me.
The shapes of all his works were simple, and were reflective of his
daily life. But some of the pieces had sharp cut marks (which had
been made with a wooden or metal tool) which ran from the bottom to
the top or from the top to the bottom. I trembled at seeing the cut
marks. Matsuyama said that at the moment when he cut the surface of
his works, he had made himself a 'samurai' - a Japanese warrior. All
his works had a rich natural ash deposit. At this time, I had not
been able to find any other potters who were currently making this
kind of natural ash deposit works. I felt his tenderness and life
coming through his simply-shaped works. Yet his cut works were full
of strength. I could see the beauty of creation in non-intention in
his works. I was so impressed with his works that I found myself wondering
whether what I was seeing was real, or a dream. In the following years,
I visited his studio many times. He generously offered to teach me
all that he knew. And in 1974, he permitted me to call myself his
apprentice. Hakuou Kanou is a priest of the Zen (Buddhist) sect, a
black-and-white painter (Chinese ink painting and calligraphy) and
a potter. He taught me his way of making tea bowls. And he shared
his basic thoughts about tea ceremony. At the tea ceremony, the host
puts his thoughts in his guest's position, and the guest also puts
his own thoughts in the host's place - they always try to think of
each others' point of view, according to a precept from (Zen) Buddhism.
He invited me into his tea room. He entered the room with a towel
over the edge of a metal washbowl in his left hand, and a vacuum thermos
bottle in his right hand (not the normal utensils for tea ceremony).
This way of entering the room seemed strange to me. But after I had
drunk much tea, I could understand why he had arrived in this manner:
in this circumstance, the washbowl, the towel, and the thermos bottle
were the right tools, because he served me 13 bowls of tea. The utensils
for tea ceremony are controlled by many requirements and regulations,
according to each tradition (school) of tea. The first, second and
third time that he served me tea, the bowls were beautiful, and well
within the requirements of tea ceremony. However, as he continued
to serve me tea, one after the other, using different tea bowls each
time, my feelings began to change little by little. One bowl had no
foot; another had such a small foot that the pot did not sit stably
and almost spilled; the rim of yet another was sharp like the teeth
of a saw; and finally, one bowl appeared to have been made to be used
as an ash tray. Each time he served me tea, he said only, "This tea
bowl is good." And then when I began feeling a little strange about
his choice of tea bowls, he said, "This tea bowl is better than all
the others before, isn't it?" And when he served tea from the bowl
with the saw teeth and from the ash tray, he said "These are the best
tea bowls, don't you think?"
Beyond this, he never said another word. I was thinking and thinking...
pondering what he wanted to tell me by all this. He sat there in front
of me during all the time of my thinking, and he offered no words.
I looked at the tea bowls for long hours. I began to feel a sense
of freedom from the tea bowls: all of the bowls exhibited a tender
heart, revealed his strength of spirit and his feelings of delicate
sensibilities. Finally I decided to tell him my feelings. I said to
him, "I gain a feeling of freedom from your tea bowls. Your tea bowls
are telling me that one has to be free always, and to make tea bowls
with the feeling of freedom. One need not think about the regulations
of tea bowls. After all, as we know, the founder of tea ceremony selected
as the best bowls, pots which were being used by farmers as common
utensils of their daily lives." He only gave me an affirmative nod.
Both of these two potters' works reveal life, spirit and thoughtfulness.
And their magnificent technique is indeed superior to others' techniques.
But these technical skills are behind their works. I don't think that
I need to make my works new through some technique. Their works have
taught me this. And you may think that only new things are able to
extend the tradition. But I can say this: our own spirits and our
lives are what make our own works... and they are what extend the
Dick Lehman is a potter and writer who lives, works and
maintains a full-time studio in Goshen, Indiana, USA.
This article is reprinted from Ceramics: Art and Perception.
Pty Ltd, 35 William Street, Paddington, NSW 2120 Australia, www.ceramicart.com.au
© Dick Lehman 1998. All Rights Reserved.