In the gallery of “Mifune Kiln,” nestled in the mountains, two types of pottery crafted by twin brothers are on display: “yakishime,” in which clay and fire create a powerful texture, and “seiji,” which captures light within its layered glazes. The younger brother, Hitomu Tsugane, chose the path of seiji, considered the most difficult form of pottery.

My Father’s Kiln: The Era of Everyday Tableware

The Mifune Kiln is located in a forest nestled in the mountains, a short distance from the city center. About 40 years ago, my father left his corporate job to study the techniques of Takada-yaki—a ceramic tradition with a history of some 400 years in Yatsushiro City, Kumamoto Prefecture—and eventually struck out on his own. That was the beginning of his journey, when he built his kiln here. While Takada-yaki is known for its celadon, my father did not pursue celadon. Instead, he focused on creating everyday tableware, such as ash-glazed pottery—using glazes made from plant ash derived from straw and wood—and powder-coated ware. It was an era when pottery studios were springing up everywhere amid a pottery boom, but my father’s pieces gained popularity, and on weekends, so many people visited the kiln that the parking lot could not accommodate them all.

From Pottery Studio to Artist: The Gamble of Celadon 

Raised in such an environment, Mr. Tsugane studied the fundamentals of ceramics at the nation’s only vocational school specializing in ceramics, located in Arita, Saga Prefecture, and returned to his hometown after graduation. Following graduation, he worked as his father’s right-hand man, producing dozens of tea bowls for daily use and receiving a lump-sum payment once the exhibition was over. It was a “craftsman”-like way of working, producing the required quantities in a predetermined form. However, the times had changed, and it had become difficult to sustain the kiln by simply making everyday tableware in a kiln nestled in the mountains and waiting for customers, as had been done before.

“We can’t go on like this.”

Realizing this, Tsugane began to consider a path focused not on quantity, but on engaging with the works themselves.

“If so, what should I do as an artist?”
When he asked himself this question, he arrived at celadon. It is considered one of the most difficult genres in the world of ceramics, and few potters attempt it. That is precisely why he wanted to master it. The origins of celadon date back to ancient China. When a transparent glaze is applied to the clay body and fired in an oxygen-deprived kiln, the iron in the glaze reacts to produce a blue hue. However, since glazes made from natural raw materials have unstable iron content, the final color varies depending on the clay body and the conditions of the fire. Producing the exact shade of blue one envisions is no easy task. Due to this difficulty, celadon was once said to be a craft that “ruins your livelihood if you try it.” With virtually no formal training available, Tsugane collected books and, supplementing his understanding of difficult concepts with other texts, pursued his research into celadon entirely on his own.
“I started working with celadon because I felt I couldn’t go on as I was, but once I began, I found myself becoming more and more engrossed in it.”

Thick Glaze, Thin Clay—The Art of Crafting Celadon 

At first, things went surprisingly smoothly. I even won an award at a regional exhibition. But when I entered the world of the Japan Craft Association, I was told, “That’s not celadon. Have you ever seen the real thing?”

In the world of the Japan Crafts Association, the evaluation criteria are completely different from those of regional exhibitions. It is a world where “whether it is authentic craftsmanship” is rigorously scrutinized, taking into account not only the quality of the work but also the materials, techniques, and historical context. Tsugane’s understanding was completely overturned. Celadon is not simply about appearing blue or green. Its defining characteristic is the application of an astonishingly thick layer of glaze. While the glaze on ordinary pottery is less than 1 millimeter thick, on celadon it is 2 millimeters or more, and in some cases exceeds 4 millimeters. Within this thick layer of glaze, light reacts with the iron content to produce that deep hue.

Because the glaze is so thick, the underlying vessel must be made extremely thin to achieve the desired elegance. However, the thinner the vessel, the more likely the clay is to collapse or warp during firing.
This is where the process of creating the clay itself becomes essential. Mr. Tsugane tested clays from all over Japan, gradually adjusting factors such as strength to withstand firing, ease of shaping, and stability in the finished piece to develop his own unique blend. Even when he thinks, “This is good,” he feels compelled to make further adjustments. It is a constant cycle.

The lines drawn by time. An expression called “crazing” 

Applying the glaze is just as labor-intensive. Three coats on the inside—drying and building up each layer—and three on the outside. Before firing, the piece looks so far from the finished product that one might doubt it will ever truly become celadon. Moreover, even the slightest change in conditions inside the kiln can easily throw off the color. “Depending on the oxygen levels alone, celadon can even take on a yellowish hue. It’s not about creating the color; rather, it’s about drawing out the coloration of the iron within the thickly applied glaze. That, I believe, is what celadon pottery is all about,” says Mr. Tsugane.

Among Tsugane’s works, the most distinctive are those known as “crazed celadon.” Crazing refers to the fine cracks that form on the surface of a piece as it cools after being removed from the kiln. In celadon, slight differences in the shrinkage rates of the clay and the glaze cause fine cracks to appear in the glaze. Some pieces look as if a thin layer of ice has formed, while others feature red lines created by rubbing vermilion into the cracks. Generally, these cracks are considered to occur by chance. However, Tsugane meticulously adjusts the thickness of the glaze, as well as the firing and cooling conditions, to deliberately shape the pattern of the cracks themselves into an integral part of the work’s expression.
Crackling does not necessarily occur the moment the piece is removed from the kiln. Sometimes, several days or even a month later, it may appear with a sudden “crack.” The red lines that emerge and the transparent lines that appear later—their interplay transforms the vessel’s appearance the more it is used.

What Defines the Quality of Celadon

Since being selected for the first time for the “Japan Traditional Crafts Exhibition”—Japan’s premier open-call exhibition organized by the Japan Crafts Association—Tsugane has gained increasing recognition, with his works even being purchased by the Imperial Household Agency. Furthermore, through achievements such as winning the “Japan Crafts Association Award,” he has established a solid reputation in the field of celadon. At the same time, however, he notes that attitudes toward awards have changed significantly over the past decade or so. In the past, winning an award would attract department store events, and customers would visit specifically to see the winning pieces. Now, however, more people choose tableware based on their personal taste, and Tsugane notes, “We are no longer in an era where awards decide everything.”
Nevertheless, what remains unwavering for him is the “dignity” expected of celadon. His goal is to achieve a water-like, clear blue known as “Uka-tensei” (the blue of the sky after rain). To approach this ideal, he studies the lineage of Chinese celadon and travels to China. He believes that understanding the roots provides a solid foundation for new forms of expression.

He uses a gas kiln. His philosophy is not to be particular about the type of kiln, but to choose the flame that best suits the work. For celadon, a strong, stable flame with few impurities is essential.

Furthermore, in recent years, the raw materials themselves are becoming scarce. Fewer people are digging for clay, and he has even been told that the clay he has used for many years “can no longer be obtained.”
Tsugane secures whatever clay he can while searching for new sources, and he meets with suppliers on-site to build relationships. “If there are no longer people digging for clay, we won’t be able to make our work either.”

It is perfected through use

My goal is to become a potter who makes people think, “Tsugane celadon is beautiful. I’d love to own one.” I don’t want to make pieces that are simply displayed in a box; I want to create tableware that is actually used at the dinner table—the kind that makes someone ask, “Whose is that?”

Celadon is understated, and the apprenticeship is long. The yield rate is by no means high. Yet, drawn to the dignity that lies beyond the difficulty, I never gave up. “Even master craftsmen over 70 have mountains of failed pieces in their scrap piles.” When I heard that, I felt the tension melt away.

“I’ll do this for the rest of my life.” I quietly savor those words.

A piece of pottery isn’t finished once it comes out of the kiln; it is gradually completed through use. Tsugane’s work, too, is being built up slowly in that same way.

The post “Mifune Kiln”: Where Light Shines Through in a Mountain Kiln / Mifune Town, Kamimashiki District, Kumamoto Prefecture first appeared on NIHONMONO.

Mashiko Town in Haga District, Tochigi Prefecture, is famous as the home of Mashiko ware. In a workshop nestled in the forest, potter Yuto Miyazawa devotes himself to his craft. Using his unique technique called “konjoute,” which deliberately leaves traces of the hands in the production process, he creates vessels that each have their own depth and rich expression.

Grew up watching his father, a potter, work from an early age.

Born and raised in Mashiko Town, Miyazawa-san is the son of potter Miyazawa Akira. Over 20 years ago, he began working in the studio his father built, dedicating himself to pottery.

From a young age, Miyazawa-san watched his father at work and developed an admiration for those who create things with their hands. Working with clay became a part of his daily life.

After graduating from high school in his hometown, he joined the art club and tried his hand at casting, which involves melting metal and pouring it into molds to create vessels and artworks. This experience sparked his desire to learn more about the joys of art. At the same time, he became more aware of his father’s presence as someone who was constantly engaged in the act of creating things. It was during this time that he also learned the processes and techniques of pottery from his father.

From metal casting to pottery

He attended Iwate University, where he found interest in the process of melting hard materials into shapes and the changes they undergo over time. During his first two years, he primarily focused on metal casting.

However, when it came time to choose a research laboratory to specialize in during his third year, Miyazawa opted for pottery.“The main reason was that I felt it would be difficult to make a living from metal casting.”

“Metal casting takes a lot of time, and I had the opportunity to hear about the world of southern ironware in Iwate, but it seemed very difficult… However, perhaps because I had seen my father up close, I imagined that I could make a living from pottery,” says Miyazawa.

From a young age, he had been exposed to pottery through his father, who was a potter, and had learned the basics and techniques of pottery-making since high school. This made the transition to pottery and the improvement of his skills relatively smooth.

During his studies, he won several pottery awards, giving him confidence that he could succeed. It seemed like his career as a potter was off to a smooth start.

Was this the beginning of a smooth sailing career as a potter?

Before graduating from university, he visited galleries in Tokyo and immediately held his first solo exhibition after graduation. The result was the harsh reality that “it might not be enough to make a living.”

While visiting galleries, he was asked by the owner of a famous gallery, “I find it odd that you can create such works at your age. Do you have connections within the industry?” When he mentioned his father, the owner replied, “Come back with your works after experiencing more of the world.”At the time, Miyazawa believed that technique alone was enough. He couldn’t understand the owner’s true meaning then, but those words still resonate strongly with him today.

The anguish of being “privileged”

After his first solo exhibition, Miyazawa began to think about what kind of works he wanted to create and how he wanted to make a living. He decided to borrow his father’s workshop and start creating there. “I felt that I was privileged,” he says.

However, that was precisely what caused his anguish.“I felt that I was working within a prepared framework. I felt that there was no substance to my work, and I began to struggle.”

Then, in 2011, the Great East Japan Earthquake struck.

A feeling of powerlessness. The pottery-making hands stopped

The Great East Japan Earthquake caused tremendous damage, mainly in the Tohoku region. Miyazawa’s town of Mashiko also experienced a magnitude 5 earthquake, and many pottery shops in the town were filled with piles of broken pottery, and many kilns collapsed.

As the entire country struggled to overcome this unprecedented disaster, Miyazawa was plagued by a sense of helplessness, thinking, “I can’t do anything. I can’t even help those around me.”

As he pondered these questions with no answers, he found himself spending more time worrying than creating.

It was Mr. Shunji Muroi, the 16th president (now chairman) of the hot spring inn “Daikokuya” in Itabashi Onsen, Nasu Shiobara City, who approached Miyazawa, who had come to a standstill.

He offered her a position as a staff member at the inn.

Daikokuya is a historic inn founded in 1551 during the Muromachi period, but it has gained attention as a hot spring inn with the keywords “recreation and art.” It houses the Kanae Sugaki Warehouse Museum, a private museum of contemporary artist Kanae Sugaki, and the garden was also designed by Sugaki.The inn regularly hosts solo exhibitions by various artists, photographers, and other creators, offering a unique blend of rich nature, hot springs, and art—a hidden gem known only to those in the know.

Miyazawa’s father, Akira, is also a potter who has held solo exhibitions at Ooguroya, and it was through this connection that he was introduced to the inn.

Miyazawa, who was no longer able to work with pottery, gratefully accepted the offer and decided to take the job.

A turning point in his life. Instead of becoming a potter, he chose to work at a traditional hot spring inn.

At Daikokuya, Miyazawa worked as a staff member at a hot spring inn rather than as a potter, and during those four years, he did not create a single piece of pottery. Miyazawa says he did not even feel the urge to create pottery, but rather, keeping a distance from pottery allowed him to rediscover the “interesting nature of pottery.”

“Every month, various artists, photographers, sculptors, and other artists would come to hold solo exhibitions, and seeing their works was very inspiring.Interacting with people was always fresh and enjoyable.“

By coming into contact with things that were different from his own genre, he was able to reexamine where his sense of ”what he likes“ came from.

A new start and a new step forward

He had originally planned to work at Daikokuya for three years. The president at the time told him, ”After three years, do what you want to do.”Due to staffing issues, he extended his stay by one year, making it four years, but Miyazawa eventually reached his “graduation.”

There was no trace of the Miyazawa who had been consumed by a whirlpool of muddy worries. “I was excited to see what would come out of me from now on.”

Through new experiences and encounters with people, Miyazawa took a significant step forward.

What is it that I truly want to do?

The first thing Miyazawa did after leaving Daikokuya was to “erase his father.” Until then, Miyazawa’s style had been influenced by his father, Akira’s, techniques. Akira created pottery using a unique technique called “sekka zogan,” which involves hand-building clay, firing it, and then peeling off the surface to polish it.

“I used white clay to create plain, unadorned pieces. By making something devoid of flavor, I wanted to erase my father and discover what I couldn’t compromise on.” After continuing this process for about two years and spending time confronting himself, he naturally began to approach his father’s techniques.

Miyazawa uses a potter’s wheel, applies glaze made from clay ash, and fires the pieces at 1,270 degrees Celsius. After removing them from the kiln, he roughens the surface with a coarse file. This manual process gives each piece a unique texture, revealing the depth of the natural clay and creating a warm yet wild, one-of-a-kind finish.

The pieces he creates are primarily everyday utensils. “Utensils are like empty frames; once they’re made, you can use them however you like. You can even turn them upside down—that’s what I find so appealing,” he says, expressing his fascination with the wide range of expressions possible through utensils.

Ambiguity and imperfection are also intentionally incorporated into his works.

Miyazawa says that she is still exploring what kind of works she wants to create in the future. Behind this is her fascination with ambiguous and empty things, and her desire to always remain ambiguous and in flux.

However, she also feels a contradiction in setting this as something she “wants to do,” as it becomes too strong and loses its emptiness.

Therefore, she wants to keep changing and continue searching for her own unique style.

“At first, I thought pottery was just about technique, but I’ve come to realize that it reflects one’s way of life,” says Miyazawa. The words of a gallery owner in Tokyo, who told her, “See more of the world,” just before she graduated from university, may have held this meaning.

“When working alone, it becomes too closed off, so I want to create situations where I can engage with people and things, and I want to keep that flexibility and space to do so.”

Miyazawa speaks with a casual smile, showing no signs of clinging to anything. She is calm and flexible, yet possesses a strong core and composure. She is not indecisive. Her deep thoughts and feelings, which embrace ambiguity and fluctuation, seem to be reflected in the expressive forms of her vessels.

Where Miyazawa will end up in the future is still unknown. That is precisely why she is so captivating.

The post Yuto Miyazawa, a potter who loves ambiguity and projects his changing life onto his works / Mashiko Town, Haga District, Tochigi Prefecture first appeared on NIHONMONO.

Seto-yaki in Echigo

Echizen Seto-yaki refers to pottery produced in the Shin-Seto district of Tateyama Town, Toyama Prefecture.
It originated when Maeda Toshimasa, the lord of the Kaga domain, invited potters from Seto in Owari Province to this area in the late 1590s to produce pottery.
Later, it became the official kiln of the domain and the leading production area in Echizen. As a result, the surrounding area came to be called Seto Village, and the pottery produced here was named Echizen Seto-yaki.

Echizen Seto-yaki, centered on pottery

Echizen Seto-yaki is characterized by bold use of glazes, such as applying and flowing them in various ways to create patterns.
The vessels are simple yet delicate in design.
Incidentally, while the famous Seto-yaki of Owari, which gave rise to the term “Seto-mono,” is now primarily porcelain, Echizen Seto-yaki refers to pottery, despite sharing the same name

Continuing pottery production in this region

At its peak, there were said to be 120 kilns, but now only four remain. The Shōraku Kiln we visited is one of them. In the Meiji era, when many kilns were closing down, Shōryō Shōjirō launched a revival movement and opened this kiln. Today, Shōryō Yukio and his eldest daughter, Yō, continue to create pottery here.
“Why can this become a tea bowl? The Japanese sense of perception divides a tea bowl into two parts: one for rice and one for tea. We see things with various divisions in our minds. I think that is a cultural characteristic,” explains Shikinyo Yukio.
The tradition of ‘Echizen Seto-yaki,’ which has continued for over 400 years, is carried on with passion for the works, and the flames in the kiln continue to burn brightly even today.

The post Seto-yaki that is different from Seto-yaki “Echigo Seto-yaki” Shoraku Kiln / Tateyama Town, Toyama Prefecture first appeared on NIHONMONO.