Japan: June 10-19, 2018. Ceramics In Toki, and more.
Each town in the world, no matter where it is, has something that brings its residents pride. It may be the world's largest ball of twine (Cawker City, Kansas), the largest Czech egg in the world (Wilson, Kansas), a meal of "Salmon" -- also known as Wall-Eyed Pike (Powatan Restaurant in Pocahontas, Illinois), or the tallest water tower in Texas (Shamrock, Texas). As EmmaLia and I drive across country to take her to and from college, we look for the pride of the town.
Not knowing what that special something would be here in Toki, I arrived as a wide-eyed novice. I asked a kindly host, Mr. Maeda, at the Route Inn hotel desk if there was an opportunity for a calligraphy lesson or flower arranging lesson or... and I stopped. The faces on Mr. Maeda and his gentle colleagues were confused and showed distress. Shuffling papers, looking sharply at each other, speaking fast and quiet Japanese, they looked frantic in their efforts to serve me -- thus is the ethos of the Japanese who are so willing to provide everything -- and then some more -- to a visitor. I backed off, not wanting to be a nuisance. "Ceramics?" Mr. Maeda asked. Ok, so it's ceramics.
Toki is the birthplace of "Oribi ware" kiln pottery; the Mino Ceramic kilns were at the cutting edge of kiln technology in the 16th and 17th centuries. The original kiln structures remain and are protected by National Historical Monument status and more modern two-by-fours. After a short walk up the hill (Toki is in the mountains already) and for 200 yen and a smile and a bow, I earned entrance to the museum. No photographs were allowed of the pottery behind glass and in darkened rooms. Stylized cobalt-blue images of herons in swirling water with reeds graced the slim white immaculate rice bowls. Flowers danced on the plates with exquisite delicate symmetry; most of the ceramic pieces from the 16th century were in pieces, but the images and style remained. It seemed impressionistic, artistically long before its time. The exhibit took me through the 19th century of this pottery and included scrolls of instructions as to how to construct a perfect teapot (with a teapot made from these instructions), large woven maps of where what kinds of clay could be harvested in the region, and images of stern-looking potters in dark kimonos with their muscular hands spread on their knees.
My phone's GPS showed there were no roads here; I walked on six-foot wide paved pathways intended for two-way traffic and pedestrians. We simply looked out for each other. No street signs identified location. Weaving my way through marvelously manicured food and flower gardens, curved roofs, and a forest of bamboo trees with four-five inch diameter trunks, I found I was on a lookout over a large (three acre?) iris garden with a stream running through it, complete with kindergartners playing in the water with their teachers.
It was irresistible to walk among the irises in the sun and gentle breeze; I was alone, save two older women with umbrellas holding arms and chatting softly. Looking back up the hill, I could see the location of the kilns. Snaking up the hillside, they were many times larger than I had expected. The largest is covered by a wood protective covering but is 50 meters from top to bottom, stepped for places to place bowls, plates and cylindrical cups. A large pit at the bottom held the fire; "stoking entrances" every 5 yards or so up the hillside allowed the kiln to be loaded with pottery and provided smaller areas for burning and ventilation. Two other kilns were re-built pods, over 10 meters long, and next to flat areas where pottery was sorted and cooled. Beyond the kilns were workrooms with currently used wheels with drying vessels.
Not knowing what that special something would be here in Toki, I arrived as a wide-eyed novice. I asked a kindly host, Mr. Maeda, at the Route Inn hotel desk if there was an opportunity for a calligraphy lesson or flower arranging lesson or... and I stopped. The faces on Mr. Maeda and his gentle colleagues were confused and showed distress. Shuffling papers, looking sharply at each other, speaking fast and quiet Japanese, they looked frantic in their efforts to serve me -- thus is the ethos of the Japanese who are so willing to provide everything -- and then some more -- to a visitor. I backed off, not wanting to be a nuisance. "Ceramics?" Mr. Maeda asked. Ok, so it's ceramics.
Toki is the birthplace of "Oribi ware" kiln pottery; the Mino Ceramic kilns were at the cutting edge of kiln technology in the 16th and 17th centuries. The original kiln structures remain and are protected by National Historical Monument status and more modern two-by-fours. After a short walk up the hill (Toki is in the mountains already) and for 200 yen and a smile and a bow, I earned entrance to the museum. No photographs were allowed of the pottery behind glass and in darkened rooms. Stylized cobalt-blue images of herons in swirling water with reeds graced the slim white immaculate rice bowls. Flowers danced on the plates with exquisite delicate symmetry; most of the ceramic pieces from the 16th century were in pieces, but the images and style remained. It seemed impressionistic, artistically long before its time. The exhibit took me through the 19th century of this pottery and included scrolls of instructions as to how to construct a perfect teapot (with a teapot made from these instructions), large woven maps of where what kinds of clay could be harvested in the region, and images of stern-looking potters in dark kimonos with their muscular hands spread on their knees.
My phone's GPS showed there were no roads here; I walked on six-foot wide paved pathways intended for two-way traffic and pedestrians. We simply looked out for each other. No street signs identified location. Weaving my way through marvelously manicured food and flower gardens, curved roofs, and a forest of bamboo trees with four-five inch diameter trunks, I found I was on a lookout over a large (three acre?) iris garden with a stream running through it, complete with kindergartners playing in the water with their teachers.
It was irresistible to walk among the irises in the sun and gentle breeze; I was alone, save two older women with umbrellas holding arms and chatting softly. Looking back up the hill, I could see the location of the kilns. Snaking up the hillside, they were many times larger than I had expected. The largest is covered by a wood protective covering but is 50 meters from top to bottom, stepped for places to place bowls, plates and cylindrical cups. A large pit at the bottom held the fire; "stoking entrances" every 5 yards or so up the hillside allowed the kiln to be loaded with pottery and provided smaller areas for burning and ventilation. Two other kilns were re-built pods, over 10 meters long, and next to flat areas where pottery was sorted and cooled. Beyond the kilns were workrooms with currently used wheels with drying vessels.
Later that day, the hotel staff excitedly told me that Mr. Ogawa would be happy to show me how to make his pottery. The problem, Mr. Maeda said, was that he didn't speak English. I told him no matter. On a small piece of hotel paper, Mr. Maeda wrote an introduction to present me to Mr. Ogawa; I brought my hands to my chest, palms together, thrilled to hear I had an opportunity.
The clay was light colored, fine in texture, and smooth. My teacher, master Ogawa, wedged the clay by rolling it with muscular, smooth hands; it looked so easy. My turn. It wasn't so easy. Gentle, kind, smiling, he patiently tried a variety of strategies to help me make a nautilus swirl in the part of clay nearest my body. At some point, he gave up on my work, but surely the air bubbles were all out of the clay anyway. He centered the clay on the wheel, dipping our hands in a wooden bucket of water, making a pedestal from the clay in the center of the wheel. He raised the top portion, beckoning me to use my hands as he did. Pressing my left thumb in the center of the mound and pressing down, the hole in the center of what would be a vessel was formed. Palming a flat right hand an curling my index knuckle of my left on the outside of the vessel, we drew the sides of the vessel upwards. Slowly, he said. One breath. One breath he repeated, begging me for patience and to breathe a soul into my creation. Three times, we molded the clay; three times, he snipped off the top of the pedestal to reveal the thin-walled vessel we had created.
Timelessness in place and experience is a rare event. Seeped in centuries of this craft in this place nestled in the mountains of Toki, I was touched by the gentle kindness of strangers and the depth of life here in this beautiful city.
In my walk back to the Route Inn Hotel, I allowed myself to venture around the neighborhood. That will be the next post.
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