Yakishime: The Zen Aesthetic Pot: Japanese Ceramics: Kyoto Diary

Yakishime: The Zen Aesthetic Pot

By Robert Yellin

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 this 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

- Lao Tzu (Roshi), 6th century, B.C.

This poem is very much in the spirit of Zen, and a yakishime (ya-key-she-may) pot embodies that spirit more than any other type of Japanese pottery. Harsh at times yet gentle at others, unflinchingly natural and simply elegant: this could describe either a Zen monk or a yakishime pot.

Yakishime refers to high-fired unglazed stoneware. Most yakishime pieces are traditional shapes — flasks, vases, and tea utensils — that when picked up and admired are very sensual and warm. Most are thickly potted and come out of the inferno with natural ash glazes in varied colors: emerald greens, miso browns, and, if really lucky, aquamarine blues. Some have rough, crusty bodies where ash has accumulated, while others show battle scars, like cracked bodies, pitted surfaces, and chips.

In the beginning, yakishime was used in utilitarian wares for farmers, particularly kame (large vats), tsubo (jars) and suribachi (grinding bowls). But in the Muromachi period, the great Zen-influenced tea masters, or chajin, Murata Juko (1422-1502) and Sen no Rikyu (1522-1591) established a new aesthetic when they took those sooty jars out of the kitchen and barn and into the refined world of the tea room. Thus they changed the landscape of Japanese pottery forever.

Soon, chajin were placing orders for these native wares, asking for seed jars to be fitted with lids so that they could be used as mizusashi (fresh-water jars) or overseeing the design and production of chawan (tea bowls). The chajin helped to fuel an industry, leaving the previously popular (and expensive) Chinese celadon imports on the shelves.

Famous styles of this millennium-old art include Bizen from Okayama, Shigaraki from Shiga, Echizen from Fukui, Iga from Mie, Tokoname from Aichi, and Tamba from Hyogo. Bizen is the most popular style these days — it has a 1,000 year tradition and now over 600 potters.

The yakishime aesthetic is sometimes hard to grasp for the visitor to Japan, or for that matter, for many Japanese. To recognize a "clay jewel" from a mediocre yakishime pot, it takes time living with and using them; the effort is well worth it.

But since most of us don't just keep yakishime pots around the house, one can also look at them in terms of the firing, clay and construction.

A potter can throw a great pot, like a baker can make a great dough, but if they're not baked properly then the effort is to no avail.

The romantic notion that a potter simply loads the pot into the kiln and leaves the rest to the kama no kami (kiln god) is far from the truth. In actuality, a potter controls about 85% of the process and has a good idea what type of surface effect will happen when a pot is placed in a certain part of the kiln. The late Living National Treasure Kaneshige Toyo called the loading of the pots into the kiln, or kamazume, the most important part of a firing.

The Kamazume dictates the flame's path and thus affects the firing and "landscapes." A yakishime pot will tell you much about the firing by the natural decorative badges it wears, although there are still some factors beyond control, including weather and the changing atmosphere inside the kiln.

Yakishime pots are fired for from 72 hours to two months straight — yes, that long. One Bizen potter, Mori Togaku, has a 53-meter long kiln that he fires for 60 days straight, albeit only once every four years. Of course, he doesn't do it alone but has teams working in shifts; all in all, about 600 folks take part.

Believe it or not, Mori is building an even larger kiln, 90 meters long and six meters wide, that he plans to fire only once, in 2010. His reasoning: it's the only way to get the classic Bizen look born out of the great kilns of the Muromachi and Momoyama periods. We shall see.

Most kilns are more standard affairs, however. Typically one of two types of kilns is used: an anagama (single chamber tunnel kiln) or a noborigama (multi-chambered climbing kiln). Both of these kilns have their roots in Korea, coming to Japan in the 5th and 15th centuries, respectively.

Some anagama have openings so small a potter must crawl down on all fours to load them — it is a sweat-drenching process. Once the kilns are fired, interior temperatures can reach 1,350 degrees Celsius. One Echizen potter pushes his kiln to 1,500 degrees. No wonder very few potters fire in the summer, preferring the spring and fall instead!

Like rice for sake, clay dictates the "flavor" of the pot. This is termed tsuchi-aji, literally "clay flavor," and it's crucial in a yakishime pot. Each location, such as Bizen or Shigaraki, has its own unique clay that produces a range of colors on the pots from dark, chocolate browns to red sunsets.

The best clays are so highly prized that the late Bizen potter Kaneshige Michiaki referred to his clay storeroom as his "vault." He was very meticulous in the processing of the clay, letting it age and mature for ten years. Not all potters have that luxury, though (Kaneshige came from an ancient potting family), and many must process their clay very quickly. To the trained eye, the outcome is obvious, as the tsuchi-aji just doesn't cut it; it's not as rich in color and looks 'watered down' and somewhat bland. The pots pictured here all have good tsuchi-aji.

Also as with sake rice, many of the impurities of the clay are removed by the potter or the slave — I mean, "apprentice!" — before throwing. Some potters, however, prefer rougher clay and leave in small stones that sometimes burst out on the surface from inside. Other stones begin the process stuck to the surface and explode during firing. This "landscape" is called ishihaze or "stone explosions."

Other distinguishing marks that arise during the firing include kamakizu (kiln cracks), tombo no me ("dragonfly eye", so called because of their glassy rounded resemblance to the real thing), and koge (scorch marks).

After forming a piece on a wheel or by a coil method, the potter will set the pieces to dry, often incising simple lines on the piece with a trimming tool.

A good pot should feel even in the hands, not too light, not too heavy, and balanced in its proportions, footring, and lip. The overall form of a yakishime pots should be as simple as possible, so as to not compete with the beauty of the natural ash glazes and kiln effects. This simplicity of form is what most likely attracted the attention of the chajin in the first place.

For chawan in particular, the shape must be simple. If there's too much wobble, it will interfere with the tranquility of the moment. A careful potter thinks out the shape carefully, adding a space for the fingers to rest while the lip is gently curved out in an inviting gesture.

These aspects are all appreciated more the more one looks at, holds, and better yet, uses the works. The Japanese call this "yo no bi," or beauty through usage. A plate, for example, needs food to balance it out, just as a vase asks for flowers.

Above all, a good yakishime pot should speak to the viewer. To paraphrase Lao Tsu, when we look at a pot we are also looking at its maker. Like a good friend, a yakishime pot may take time to get to know. It doesn't scream out to be admired like Imari porcelain, but subtly draws one closer in to listen.

To develop an eye, visit museums and look at the masterpieces in person, or view them on-line. Visit established dealers who have used the pieces. Most of all, after gaining some knowledge, forget it all and buy something that you like. It really all begins there.

The great Japanese film director Kurosawa Akira loved yakishime pots, in particular Shigaraki, and he described his passion this way:

"While I am completely ignorant about ceramics, old Shigaraki pots are fascinating. The light reddish jars, the ash-blue jars, the brownish black jars, there is something different about their form, their very look. The flow of natural ash glaze that wells forth like pure spring water, the elegance of its green, mossy ash covering, in these we see not the working of humans, but rather the shifting colors of the medieval sky, the sky and fields of the middle ages. Natural, robust, artless, strangely beautiful, Shigaraki jars have a pleasantly heavy, weight feeling in the hands. A weightiness, a heft, passed down to us from our ancestors all those centuries ago."

And no poem better expresses how I feel about yakishime pots than this:

The Clay Jug by Kabir (1398-1518)

Inside the clay jug are canyons and pine mountains,

And the maker of canyons and pine mountains!

All seven oceans are inside, and hundreds of millions of stars.

The acid that tests gold is there and the one who judges jewels.

And the music from the strings that no one touches, and the source of all water.

If you want the truth, I will tell you the truth;

Friend, listen: The God whom I love is inside.