Three Selections for October

“Keep it lying close at hand.”

There is something unmistakably connoisseurial, almost literati-like, in that phrase.

To keep something pleasing nearby—to look at it, to run your hand over it (perhaps touching is one of the privileges of loving ceramics), and simply enjoy its presence.

To leave something useful out rather than putting it away in a cupboard, so that you can reach for it whenever you like.

Something you love enough to want beside you at all times.

Whether or not you possess something you would want to “keep lying close at hand” may be one measure of what it means to live with objects.

*

Things do not speak. They do not move. They do not rot.

In the natural world, they are closer to stones: inorganic matter, something quite distant from human beings.

And yet having a favorite piece of inorganic matter nearby can be a source of comfort in everyday life. Perhaps it is precisely this distance from human existence that allows an object to soothe the human mind.

It is not simply a matter of displaying something beautiful.

For reasons you cannot quite explain, you are drawn to it.

You feel somehow in sympathy with it. Objects do not have minds, of course, so this is a strange way to put it—but when you care for something over a long time, there are moments when it seems almost as though the object has opened itself to you.

Whenever you see it, you think: yes, this is good.

And it only needs to make sense to you.

Regardless of how the world values it, you feel that you are the one who truly understands what this object is worth.

If you encounter something like that, it is a very fortunate—and very pleasurable—thing.

*

It might be an object for display, a writing implement, or a yunomi. As you gather things that strike a chord in you, you sometimes begin to see the shape of your own mind.

Why do I keep collecting things that are somehow alike? Or rather, why, when I look around, have things with a similar atmosphere somehow gathered around me?

Is it their shape? Their color? Their material? The artist who made them?

We may think that we are the ones choosing objects, but when we look at everything we have gathered, it can sometimes feel as though they are looking back at us.

Perhaps collecting is a way of using objects to trace the outline of a self we did not yet know.

And in coming to know ourselves in this way, the axis by which we make choices gradually becomes visible.

Not only what to buy, but what to look at, whom to spend time with, what kinds of places make us comfortable, what kind of work we want to do. Beneath all these different choices, surprisingly often, the same sensibility seems to run.

Books, clothes, music—anything made up of the things we love can reflect us more richly than a mirror. They can show us what we actually value.

Objects can teach us about ourselves in this way.

*

A small ceramic zushi sits quietly on a shelf. A zushi is traditionally a small shrine or cabinet used to enshrine a sacred image or object, though perhaps this piece is better described simply as something zushi-like.

It has no doors, and its slender body is shorter than an iPhone. One could technically place something inside it, but in practice it is probably meant simply to stand as it is.

It is a geometric, slab-built form, yet the lines waver slightly, keeping it from becoming too rigid.

If anything, it has the feeling of a forgotten roadside shrine, and that suits it very well.

The reddish-brown clay is fired unglazed, and there is a quiet strength in it—perhaps because it is a work by Wataru Myoga.

When held in the hand, it has a satisfying weight. As I run my fingers over its rough surface, I find myself developing a curious affection for this rather unsociable little object. Even with ceramics that function primarily as objects, there is undoubtedly information that can only be received through touch, and this zushi is no exception.

Its roof is simply a square slab sloping toward the front. Yet it is precisely this roof—or eave—that makes the object recognizably a zushi. The shadow created beneath it gives the interior depth.

Whether placed casually or with great care, its form is almost too simple to be called a shrine. And yet precisely because of that simplicity, it seems to lend depth to an ordinary living space.

It suggests a flow of time different from the time of society, and through its presence, a little more room seems to open up within the room itself.

*

I own several yunomi, but I cannot say that I systematically use them for different purposes. I simply find myself reaching for whichever one happens to be my favorite at the time.

A yunomi is the kind of object that often remains somewhere in sight, so when you have one you particularly like, the landscape of everyday life becomes somehow more enjoyable.

This yunomi by Tori Yoshino of Hagi is made entirely from Daido clay, and the character of the clay is exceptionally appealing. It gives a sense of the potential of Daido clay itself. Apparently, the clay is difficult to throw when used on its own, and many potters therefore do not make works from pure Daido clay.

Even a single small yunomi can change the atmosphere of the place in which it sits.

It can also become a kind of double or likeness of its owner, reflecting one’s aesthetic inclinations and tastes. A favorite yunomi is not only something to use oneself. By serving tea to a guest in it, the host can silently offer something of himself as well.

*

Calligraphy, too, is one of the pleasures of everyday life.

I began teaching myself calligraphy in recent years. I do not particularly like my own handwriting, though I would like to, and so I practice by studying forms of writing that I find beautiful.

Writing calligraphy can certainly be calming. But just as often, my poor handwriting—and my inability to make it come out the way I want—sets my nerves on edge.

I clear the desk as neatly as I can, then prepare the paper, ink, and brush.

For ordinary practice I use bottled ink, so a water dropper is really something I need only when grinding ink for more serious work. Still, I keep one on the desk even when I am not using it.

It is a white porcelain water dropper shaped somewhat like a hōju, the wish-fulfilling jewel of Buddhist imagery. Delicate, clean, and unmistakably reminiscent of Joseon white porcelain, it nevertheless has the approachable warmth characteristic of Akemi Ito’s work.

Having it there gives me the sense that, through the implements of the scholar’s desk, I am connected to a much larger history.

My daily calligraphy practice is not something intended for anyone else to see. Yet the act itself rests upon thousands of years of accumulated human culture. When I practice calligraphy today, I am connected—however faintly—to Wang Xizhi, revered as the Sage of Calligraphy, and to figures such as Tachibana no Hayanari, Yu Shinan, and Ryōkan.

The tools on the desk make that connection visible.

A beautiful, endearing water dropper will not improve my handwriting. But it can become a kind of magic item through which my awareness connects with the great calligraphers of the past. Like the stones that sometimes appear in Haruki Murakami’s novels, an inorganic object can become a “gate,” connecting here with somewhere else.

Perhaps the same is true of a yunomi or a zushi.

To keep an object close at hand is to create a small gate nearby—one that connects “now, in this place” with “the past, somewhere else.”

Artists who stand upon tradition while struggling to make work in the present know this.

A contemporary work made with an awareness of tradition is not simply a repetition of the past. It is a conversation with the past—and a gate leading toward it.

It might even be called a device that makes possible a rich conversation across time and place.

And, as someone once said, perhaps a richer future begins with a richer conversation with the past.

 

*

Three Selections for October

Wataru Myoga — Zushi  
Tori Yoshino — Daido Clay Yunomi  
Akemi Ito — White Porcelain Water Dropper