Pathway to Japanese Literature

Chojiro (Azuchi-Momoyama period)... the only true artist in Japanese ceramic history.

Hon'ami Koetsu (Azuchi-Momoyama to early Edo period)... a dilettante of eclectic talents endowed with broad artistic discernment.

Nonkō, third-generation successor to Chojiro (early Edo period)... Nonkō lacked the vigor manifest in Chojiro.
He proved markedly inferior in depth as well.

Nonomura Ninsei (early Edo period)... A monumental innovator who discarded obsolete Chinese mannerisms, transposed pure Japanese beauty into ceramics, and sustained peerlessly elegant artistic expression unique to Japan; a creator who moved with unfettered grace while robed in Heian-style formal court attire.

Ogata Kenzan (early Edo period)... Kenzan was a ceramic painter, not a ceramic artist.
He possesses qualities that neither surpass nor fall short of Koetsu’s.

Okuda Eisei (mid-Edo period)... His failing lay in this unfortunate point: not knowing the elegance of Japanese beauty and pursuing Chinese tastes.

Aoki Mokubei (mid- to late Edo period)... Regrettably, Mokubei too failed to grasp the beauty of tea (Japanese beauty).
But he displayed a singular genius that far surpassed the level of his teacher Eisei.
(Ceramic Artist)

Ninnaami Dohachi (late Edo period)... From this point begins artisan craftsmanship.
("Master")

Eiraku Hozen (late Edo period)... ("Artisan Craftsmanship")

Makuzu Chozo (late Edo period)... ("Artisan Craftsmanship")

Certain present-day artists resembled those who bind themselves to gourd trellises seeking shade.

Having engaged in pottery research for many years, I knew a fair amount about ceramic production, yet found ceramic discourse frustratingly difficult to articulate verbally.
Among those who diligently explained ceramics were individuals like the recently deceased Mr. Okouchi Masatoshi and Takahashi Soan.
Though their explanations were thorough and well-intentioned, their lack of practical pottery-making experience meant their conjectures often produced vexingly inadequate results.
This very deficiency became our crucial advantage—through investigating various ceramic types within broader production studies, we discovered numerous insights valuable for appreciating ancient works.
Take glazes: while I greatly benefited from Mr. Tanaka's earlier discussion about ash application techniques, matters requiring hands-on experience like glaze composition inevitably exposed theoretical commentators' unreliability.

“There are many instances where they want to declare, ‘It must be like this!’”
Even individuals as enthusiastic as Viscount Okouchi and Takahashi Soan—who wrote numerous tea utensil appraisals and compiled works like *Taisho Meiki Kan*—sadly found themselves somewhat constrained in expressing truly thorough perspectives on ceramics or proper approaches to them, all due to their lack of pottery-making experience.
It was precisely this that strengthened my resolve—through over thirty years of pottery research experience, I found my perspective differed somewhat when I looked at Chojiro or examined Koetsu.

When it came to Chojiro, from the perspective of tea ceremony practitioners and their ilk, he had become something utterly revered. I came to think there might be no connoisseur capable of recognizing Chojiro at a glance were he presented there without his box. Thus their discussions tended to remain vague—whether Chojiro or Koetsu appeared, it was all just...

“Splendid, splendid.”

“It defies description.”

That’s how they went around speaking.

“Chojiro is something else.”
“There’s just no words.”

They settle matters with "splendid" or "indescribable," but there should be no such thing as being truly at a loss for words. I believe we must find a way to articulate this properly in the future. Otherwise there can be no advancement in perspective. In the case of ceramics, by their very nature they remain simply ceramics, but even if one asks what constitutes a famous ceramic, a satisfactory answer proves elusive. On this point, I spent many years fumbling in the dark through trial and error, but in the beginning, it was quite vexing. I couldn’t understand just by looking at books. At first, even when I looked at actual pieces, I couldn’t understand them, so there was simply nothing I could do. I believe there are still many people today similar to those of us in this era, but in the beginning, it was indeed like that.

Whether it was Chojiro or Koetsu made no difference—one couldn't truly comprehend without holding even a shard of their tea bowls. To place faith solely on others' opinions without this tactile experience amounted to folly. When examining Chojiro—not just marveling at ineffable qualities but scrutinizing what defined him and where exactly the excellence of his tea bowls lay through exhaustive investigation—the man himself would eventually emerge in sharp relief. There was no need for blind veneration. If we ceased enshrining this potter born a mere four centuries ago in Nobunaga or Hideyoshi's time as some gilded Buddha veiled in distant mists and instead engaged concretely with his work, dialogue with Chojiro became possible. Yet those who never sought conversation but plunged into unconditional devotion like credulous acolytes, fixated on mindless praise alone—to such viewers Chojiro would remain eternally aloof, refusing friendship or discourse.

The general public had traditionally perceived ceramics as constituting a separate art form, but their beauty was fundamentally the same as that found in painting.
Just as with sculpture possessing artistic value, in the case of tea bowls, it was only up to the point where such a form (shaping the tea bowl by hand) was created in clay.
Since it ultimately came down to the artistic spirit of expressing flowers, birds, or human figures through painting, if there were no aesthetic value, then even ceramics—and even paintings—would have no worth whatsoever.
However, Chojiro’s tea bowls possessed aesthetic value.
Compared to other individual artists, I considered them particularly outstanding in this regard.

“I don’t understand ceramics at all.”

There were those who said such things, but pottery and painting were essentially the same. If one did not understand pottery, one could not understand painting. If one did not understand painting, they would not comprehend ceramics even upon looking at them. Though both began from the same perspective of beauty, without firmly grasping what beauty truly was, one could not discern its meaningful distinctions. When Nanga works appeared, they marveled at Nanga; when Mokubei’s pieces surfaced, they marveled at Mokubei; even when Hozen or Eisei’s works came forth, they marveled indiscriminately at everything. When pressed to assess their relative merits—to determine how these beauties ranked—they found themselves at a loss to answer convincingly. They declared Taikan and Seiho equally skilled, yet could not distinguish which truly excelled above the rest. Contentment seemed to lie in equating highest price with highest quality—the most expensive must naturally be the finest. Yet this proved thorny to resolve definitively, for those still living carried too many personal entanglements and biases.

This complicated matters, but even regarding Chojiro—without overcomplicating things—if you stacked six or seven fifty-year lifespans, his era would come within reach. To stack seven such spans? Why, that remained quite recent indeed—a mere blink in time’s eye, nothing so distant after all. Yet by consigning him to some mist-shrouded horizon, by falling into blind devotion as if gazing through haze at gilded patterns, one’s own vision grew dimmed until the vital question—is this tea bowl good or bad?—drifted away into oblivion.

Though I speak of olden times—meaning when I was young—the head priest of Higashi Honganji in Kyoto during that period was a man prone to straying from propriety who habitually caroused in places like Gion and returned by carriage in the early morning.
When we speak of the head priest of Honganji, he was supposed to be a religious figure, but in truth he was neither a clergyman nor anything of the sort.
Monks in those days might chant sutras pointlessly and perform morning devotions before Buddha statues, but they were not scholars of religion.
They were not religious figures, but merely born into religious families—it was often seen that they unjustly made their living.
As one of those people, the head priest would give off a fishy odor and return solemnly by carriage from the Gion district every morning.
Unaware of this, dozens of devout men and women would prostrate themselves before Honganji Temple, not even attempting to look at the head priest’s face but instead throwing themselves down in reverent awe—a scene I knew to be factual—and those who viewed tea utensils exhibited this same tendency.
The sight of tea ceremony practitioners handling Koetsu and Nonkou’s works in the tea room was so ludicrously comical it made you go “Hah!”
As a result,

“Deeply grateful.”

“This foot ring defies description.”

“This rim construction defies description.”

They couldn’t describe it—they simply couldn’t describe it at all.
They should have been able to articulate it somehow.
However, they had convinced themselves that such things were inherently difficult to comprehend, and moreover, they had received their education in viewing objects precisely through this lens of tea.
Many tea ceremony-oriented connoisseurs learned the essentials through dealer’s education.
Dealers were those who crammed themselves only with the knowledge necessary to sell things.
Dealer’s jargon impressed people through set phrases—the same lines anyone could spout to the same effect.

“How about this rim construction?”

“Ninkou’s glaze is exceptional—you won’t find this in other tea bowls.”

Or when discussing Chojiro—whose works weren’t particularly numerous—they would still...

“This Chojiro piece is good.”

or “As for Koetsu—”

“This one is Koetsu through and through.”

—or

“How about this Fuji glaze quality—”

Dealers inevitably proclaim such trite observations with mock solemnity.
It’s true.
Gentlemen and ladies unconditionally memorize every phrase.
While art had become somewhat clarified in certain circles by then, tea practitioners who lacked definitive artistic research—even a figure like Takahashi Soan—remained absorbed in matters wholly divorced from artistry.
With vapid superficiality—whether explaining a tea bowl’s merits or recounting legends—they conveyed everything from start to finish in dealer’s jargon.
If these were personal belongings,

“How about the magnificence of this purple-marked gold?”

They focused on spouting such platitudes to dazzle uncultivated ears.
No matter how insistently they exclaimed “How about this?” or “How about that?”, their praise of purple-stamped gold decorations ultimately boiled down to gilded patterns on fabric and an item’s antiquity—reasons anyone might deem sufficient.
Amplifying this vacuity to absurd heights,
“Nothing else like this exists anywhere!”

“There’s nothing else like this in existence,” they would declare with affected solemnity.

“You rarely see this much gold used!”

They took childish delight in such pronouncements.
This legend-clouded way of seeing things struck us as utterly bankrupt.

People often mock what they call “dealer’s education,” but consider Masuda Don’ō—a man who acquired genuine masterpieces without peddling fakes—and you begin to wonder how even he remained blind to true artistry.
The fault lies in art education’s rotten foundations.
Show them Western paintings and they’ll shrug, “I don’t understand foreign art.”

“I don’t understand Western paintings.”

They declared without hesitation, but there should inherently be no such distinction. As long as something qualifies as art—being born from human spirit, aesthetic sensibility, and thought—we maintain that all works can be appreciated through the same fundamental principles.

Now, steering clear of digressions to refocus on tea bowls: as noted in my memorandum, we come to Chojiro. His greatness lies in embodying qualities essential to art—grace and warmth—utterly devoid of strain, with a commanding presence that speaks volumes. This holds true for all celebrated arts, whether painting, sculpture, or architecture.
Yet even Chojiro, being a figure of that early modern period spanning from Nobunaga’s era through Momoyama, remains ultimately circumscribed by his time despite our reverence. When one examines older artifacts like Yayoi pottery, their artless ingenuity and sublime linear beauty prove utterly overwhelming.
From this perspective of effortless grandeur, even Chojiro’s work carries traces of later-era artifice—though as tea bowls, this constitutes artifice of the highest order.
For any human-made object cannot exist without artifice.

If one showed this to a dilettante,

“There’s artifice here.”

—or

“The mountain path is strange—you shouldn’t do things like this; straight is better.”

They would say things like “It should curve right” or “It should bend left,” but straightness didn’t inherently make it good，nor did having bumps necessarily make it bad.
Since that was formed by a person’s artifice，it depended on the person.
The question lies in what that artifice signifies.
Now，there are two types of artifice—good and bad—so those possessing good artifice become masterpieces：this is what I believe.
In this sense，Chojiro’s tea bowls offered no grounds for criticism.
However，through the merits of eras like Muromachi and Momoyama，they possessed a rich aspect.
As for historical eras，they had been improving the further forward one went.
While this too had its limits，art produced many more fine works a thousand years hence than five hundred years later，and when you went two thousand years ahead rather than a thousand，there emerged numerous pieces with commanding presence and exquisitely beautiful creations.
In essence，beauty of a truly elevated order does not exist unless one traces back far into the past.
In that regard，as an individual artist，I believe Chojiro stands foremost.

Let me add another point: tea bowls, being mere craftworks of that nature, required neither the complex techniques nor the studied refinement demanded by other arts such as painting, dyeing, or maki-e. If one could create something this simple—shaping a tea bowl by hand—and manage to imbue it with spirit and refined taste, that sufficed. With painting, matters did not proceed so smoothly. One had to study quite a variety of things. It could not achieve the simplicity of a tea bowl. Thus when Chojiro was asked by tea drinkers to fashion a bowl for them, he created nothing more than an exceedingly simple vessel—yet it was precisely through concentrating his spiritual insight upon this mere object without distraction that his genius and greatness manifested.

It is written everywhere that Rikyu guided Chojiro, but I do not believe this Rikyu was nearly as great as people claim him to be. When examining Rikyu’s calligraphy, one discerns rather inflexible qualities in his brushwork—a certain obstinate rigidity that emerged from his technical mastery. Though undeniably skilled, it was writing of polished proficiency that revealed a man of unyielding disposition; one cannot help but sense he must have been an exceptionally strong-willed individual. Yet observe Chojiro, and you find no such steely resolve about him—he appears instead as a warm, genial soul radiating approachability while never lacking in dignified presence.

Consider the famed Ido tea bowls among Korean ceramics: their excellence lies precisely in possessing both refined grace and this substantial weight of bearing. While other works may achieve technical mastery, they often feel insubstantial by comparison—in such virtues of depth and gravity, I maintain it remains incontestable that Chojiro stands preeminent among individual artists.

When people speak of Rikyu’s guidance over Chojiro’s work, what likely occurred was nothing more than Rikyu—finding available tea bowls unsatisfactory—requesting of him: “Might you make one roughly this size and height?” For his own use… But that these works resulted from Rikyu’s instruction? Such a notion strikes me as impossible. Human capability does not transform so readily through tutelage.

Education resembles fertilizer in a vegetable patch—they say a gourd vine won’t yield eggplants no matter how enriched its soil becomes. Pour fertilizer upon gourds and they remain gourds; eggplants stay eggplants regardless of nurture. At best you might cultivate slightly finer-looking gourds.

“This eggplant has a fine gloss.”

Such superficial appraisals could indeed be cultivated through educational fertilizer.
Humans prove no different in this regard.
We might aptly call education humanity’s manure.
Thus while receiving instruction proves preferable to its lack,
no amount of cultivation transforms gourds into eggplants.
True genius manifests here—those transcendent works must stem from innate talent.
Though we equate genius with individuality,
each person’s distinctiveness varies in scale and nature.
Yet being born an eggplant permits no alternative but eggplanthood.
To become a superior eggplant constitutes genuine study.
This I deem authentic individuality’s expression.
The notion that Rikyu’s guidance birthed masterpieces like Chojiro’s bowls reveals artistic illiteracy demanding correction.
Not Rikyu’s influence but Chojiro’s congenital genius enabled this—when Rikyu murmured suggestions,
the raku bowls materialized precisely as envisioned.
Even examining Rikyu’s tea scoops or bamboo cuts reveals none of Chojiro’s poised dignity.
They exude vigor but want expansive richness.
This very disposition likely provoked Lord Taiko’s displeasure on occasion.

As for the second-generation Jokei, I cannot offer proper criticism since I’ve rarely seen actual pieces—only photographs in *Taisho Meiki Kan* and similar sources—but given the era’s influence, this work exhibited the plumpness characteristic of Momoyama, being delicately crafted yet powerful.
However, they lacked the noble dignity and weight characteristic of Chojiro’s works.
The Momoyama period was an era of abundance in all things, so tea bowls of such generously ample size naturally came into being.
Especially since there existed Chojiro as its predecessor, the subsequent work became easier.

Next came Nankō and Koetsu, but Koetsu stood unrivaled in his remarkably dexterous craftsmanship and breadth of refined sensibilities.
What seemed conspicuously absent yet undoubtedly present in him was his epicurean nature—I remained certain it must have existed.
Given his wide range of interests, he would have needed to be a gourmet to maintain any semblance of coherence—yet I had never encountered accounts confirming this.
One might therefore consider the view that he perhaps wasn’t an epicure after all—for all he ever produced were tea bowls, not a single piece of tableware.
If one were truly an epicure, they would naturally have wanted to create tableware.
To truly savor food, one could not feel satisfied unless it was placed in a fine vessel.
Only when tea was prepared and drunk from a renowned bowl—though wasted on those utterly lacking discernment—did it, for those who recognized merit, transcend into something extraordinary through its artistic vessel.
I believed the current popularity of the tea ceremony stemmed from people pursuing that very charm.
Yet there were people practicing or holding tea ceremonies with those craftsman-made inferior tea bowls sold at department stores—in which case there was nothing to learn from the bowls.
How much refined aesthetic sensibilities could one learn from a single renowned tea bowl?
It became something that made one feel its profound value.
If we considered Jokei as Jokei—perceiving the person, weighing his aesthetic sensibilities, deducing he had been a rare individual of great moral character—we found much to learn from this.
Tea drunk from nameless junk bowls—if you went to places like Nagoya—even greengrocers’ storefronts would serve it to you anywhere.
Drinking from such junk bowls left you with nothing but bitterness and loss.
And even if you drank matcha from a coffee cup, it became tea in name alone—utterly pointless.
Even if it wasn’t by Chojiro or Koetsu, a reasonably first-rate piece would have sufficed—but first, when you placed a tea bowl deemed a renowned masterpiece into such a setting, hung a scroll worthy of admiration, suspended a fine antique kettle, and arranged a hearth rim of considerable quality, then one might finally have come to grasp the true merits of the tea ceremony.

Otherwise, tea served in bowls favored by these back-alley tea practitioners of late ceases to be tea at all.
It amounts to nothing more than stirring powdered tea and drinking it—a practice offering no lessons.
Were it simply about drinking, that might suffice—but when they proclaim this to be the tea ceremony and delude themselves into believing they possess refined taste, I consider it a profound error.

Koetsu was born into a family of sword appraisers—undoubtedly an affluent household—and as a privileged young master skilled in painting, calligraphy, and diverse arts, he conceived the notion of crafting tea bowls.
By his era, exemplars like Chojiro, Jokei, and Nankō already abounded; thus for a man of his dexterity, achieving comparable results came naturally.
Yet this stemmed not from caprice—Koetsu approached endeavors with earnestness, making ceramics an ideal pursuit.
Viewed through the lens of Chojiro and Nankō’s standards, however, his works ranked considerably lower.
They somehow lacked gravitas.
Still, he could appraise blades, earned acclaim for his calligraphy, painted competently, and practiced lacquerwork.
Even his techniques—inlaying lead into mother-of-pearl designs or adorning writing boxes with abalone shell and gold powder—displayed artistic finesse.
Yet Koetsu’s works bore his distinctive affectation.
They achieved renown nonetheless.
Pursue technical mastery further still, and they cease being Koetsu’s creations altogether—
becoming mere specialized craftsmanship.
This very imperfection constitutes Koetsu’s merit.
Moreover, eras wield inexorable influence none can defy.
Descending to Makuzu Chozo and Eiraku Hozen in the late Tokugawa period reveals how epochal decline stifled brilliance—no masterpieces emerged even from the gifted.
Had Mokubei been born in Momoyama times, he might have produced far richer works—
and truly comprehended Japanese aesthetic sensibilities.

What I found admirable about Nonomura Ninsei was how he cast aside both Chinese and Korean influences during that era.
This was indeed a bold and daring feat.
And that single-minded concentration of his was truly remarkable.
When he applied delicate patterns and one scrutinized them closely—though this richness surely stemmed from it being the Momoyama period—they were truly abundant.
Skillfully drawing upon patterns reminiscent of textiles and dyed goods from the distant Keichō period, he applied these neatly composed designs—yet they relied neither on China nor Korea, differing entirely from Japan’s own Kutani or Imari ware.
He ended up incorporating elements reminiscent of Keichō-period art there.
Among the craftsmen’s work of that time, what stood out as particularly outstanding were pieces like Izukura dolls and Saga dolls—with the Saga dolls containing truly astonishing examples.
When comparing superior examples of Saga dolls with Ninsei’s works, Ninsei’s were far inferior.
In terms of depth, Saga dolls were far more skillfully executed and beautiful.

Pottery relied on fire’s power, allowing a role beyond human capability to enter the process.
Indeed, even paintings improved when burned by fire.
Through harnessing natural forces, pottery gained a tremendous advantage.
Since this effect couldn’t be achieved without firing—there being no alternative—it proved immensely beneficial.
Even today, visiting Kamakura’s coast in summer reveals people painting Raku ware here and there.
The pieces they painted themselves appeared remarkably fine.
Painters couldn’t directly harness such natural forces since their works remained raw.
When a thousand years pass and objects grow ancient with patina, they often surpass their original state.
This too stems from nature’s power.
All aged things gain refinement through natural forces at work.
What human effort renders unremarkable improves with time’s passage.
Consider pottery—created through nature’s power—which becomes unexpectedly splendid when aged, worn by handling, or stained.

While Ninsei too benefited from such qualities in this regard, I possessed paintings Ninsei drew on paper and had scrutinized them at length—though it may sound dismissive to call him a painter—and they exhibited a mastery that even someone like Kokei could scarcely achieve.
What particularly impressed me about those acclaimed as masters was this: while Koetsu’s status as a dilettante was acceptable, even someone like Ninsei—who commercially produced pottery and possessed such painting skill—did not become a true painter.
Kenzan was skilled enough to paint more powerful, masculine pictures than his brother Korin.
Yet he did not become a painter, choosing to work in ceramics simply because he liked pottery.
Mokubei too was remarkably skilled in Southern School painting.
Moreover, society knew full well about them—they were bought and sold for high prices—yet despite being so skilled at painting, he did not become a painter but remained a ceramic artist.
From a business perspective, this was unprofitable work.
Had they continued painting, it might have been more respectable and lucrative, yet they chose not to become painters and instead work in ceramics.
There was merit in becoming engrossed in playful experimentation, and I believed this was precisely why exceptional ceramics came into being.
It was both a refined pursuit and a passionate hobby—and moreover, born of noble lineage.
Korin’s parents died in what was likely a wealthy household—perhaps a kimono merchant family—and it was said that the brothers Korin and Kenzan divided the inheritance between them, so they were affluent.
They must have been richly endowed as human beings.
One could say they had an auspicious start.
Therefore, I believed they were able to produce such richly abundant work and give birth to a leisurely beauty.
Even Eisei, Mokubei’s teacher, was a Kyoto pawnshop owner who, though skilled at painting, pursued it merely as a pastime.
He worked in red overglaze enamel.
While red overglaze enamel pieces were rather uncommon, works like Kaibachi bowls demonstrated exquisitely skilled craftsmanship, and even metallic glazes—being products of a gentleman’s pastime—retained an unvulgar quality while maintaining robust character.
He was Mokubei’s teacher and seemed to have had many disciples.
Being such a person, he was by no means of a craftsman’s disposition, yet precisely because he was not a craftsman that he was able to produce ceramics enduring enough to remain for posterity.
However, in stark contrast to Ninsei’s bold rejection of Chinese influences to create Japanese pottery, Eisei’s single-minded obsession with Chinese styles—exemplified by works like the Kaibachi bowls—was lamentable even when accounting for his era’s trends; he fundamentally misunderstood Japan.

Aoki Mokubei too did not understand Japan.
In his works one found no trace of Japanese aesthetic sensibilities whatsoever.
Though being Japanese meant some native essence inevitably persisted in his work, someone like Mokubei neither comprehended the Japanese tea ceremony nor cultivated an appreciation for classical calligraphy and painting.
This stemmed from the pernicious influence of figures like Rai San'yo who mindlessly chanted "China! China!"
During the Bunka and Bunsei eras they had been China-obsessed—much like today’s infatuation with America.
Thus by that period the Japanese tea ceremony had already declined.
People came to believe writing only counted if done in proper Chinese-style characters.
Works like Rai San'yo’s calligraphy still clutter inn counters today; pitifully enough, there were those until recently who proudly framed such things.
San'yo himself was undoubtedly a vulgarian—yet knowing Chinese characters lent him an air of preposterous grandeur.
These days too, foreign language speakers get similarly overestimated through this same mechanism.
Such factors explain San'yo’s inflated reputation—and how he gained fame through works like *Nihon Gaishi*.
Eisei and others caught this fever too, suffering tremendous losses for their obsession.
Even Takeda—who possessed considerable painting skill—might have left masterpieces had he embraced Japanese aesthetics from the start; regrettably he fixated solely on Chinese styles.
China lacks Japan’s elegance and emotional resonance.
Though China remained our eternal model, whenever Japanese imitated Chinese forms they invariably surpassed them.
Consider Kamakura-bori carvings—much hyped lately yet misunderstood by sellers and buyers alike as mere local craft when in fact Song dynasty artisans perfected this technique of layering lacquer then carving to reveal stratified colors.
There exist peony carvings by Yang Cheng and others of exquisite craftsmanship that so impressed our ancestors they sought to replicate them.
Yet those early Japanese practitioners too were mere imitators.
Lacking lacquer-layering skills and finding the process too laborious they reasoned: why not carve peonies directly into wood then lacquer over them? Thus began their imitations.
Had Chinese hands made such copies they’d be worthless—but being Japanese birthed magnificent art instead.

When viewed today, the imitations have become superior to the originals.
There exists an ineffable quality that tea practitioners describe as "indescribable."
It was this very quality that elevated Kamakura-bori's reputation, yet nowadays there appear to be some who cling to the notion that Kamakura-bori bears its name simply because it's carved in Kamakura.

Now regarding the famous Kenzan—since people speak of “Kenzan’s pottery,” everyone assumed he was a ceramic artist.
However, through my own experience in pottery production, I can confirm Kenzan scarcely engaged in actual ceramic work.
Being skilled at painting, he adeptly decorated square plates and such—but these were Raku ware.
That was why people admired them.
The designs were somewhat fashionably modern, even extensively copying Dutch works, so even in his time Kenzan’s painting possessed a modern sensibility.
Some years prior, Picasso’s ceramics had been heavily advertised and displayed, yet his paintings and ceramics bore no relation whatsoever.
He merely painted overglaze designs on Western-style bisque-fired plates crafted by artisans.
From my observations, he hadn’t worked clay himself.
Thus while one might term them Picasso’s ceramic paintings, they couldn’t be called ceramics.
Kenzan was a ceramic painter; to call him a potter strains credibility.
If asked what Kenzan was—he was a ceramic painter.
Yet he seemed vaguely troubled by this process: for painted dishes like those in the Nezu Museum, he had artisans prepare plates before pressing them slightly with his thumb.
This made the clay unevenly textured, allowing a trace of Kenzan’s vitality to seep in.
Those painted dishes were quite skillful, befitting their fame.
By merely twisting others’ creations while the clay remained soft, Kenzan’s vitality entered them.
Yet having Kenzan paint designs on square plates produced works utterly divorced from his essence.
Turning them over reveals “Kenzan” characters inscribed there.
The poorly executed calligraphy remains visible in that museum.
Kenzan never formally studied calligraphy.
Ryokan had formally studied calligraphy, but he possessed none of such discipline.

The models were inadequate. Therefore, there was none of that irresistible quality found in Ryokan. However, while many plates bore skillful inscriptions, they were all lifeless. Yet regrettably, he seldom engaged in working with clay itself. Among bowls, there were good pieces—those depicting patrinia scabiosifolia or platycodon grandiflorus. The Kenzan work owned by Mr. Nagao Kinya featured pierced patterns following its design. Occasional bowls had triangular or square holes allowing interior visibility—though he might have pierced them himself, he certainly couldn’t finish the wheel-thrown bases independently. That’s why he left it to artisans. The upper surfaces showed jagged edges carved along patterns, but when flipped over, they lacked proper foot rings. Since artisans handled this work, Kenzan apparently had no recourse to fix it. If I had been present, I would have advised him... but he wasn’t so bound to the clay’s demands. It wasn’t that he abstained entirely from production—he simply avoided high-fired ceramics, mostly making Raku ware instead. Yet in painting skill, he rivaled Korin himself; Kenzan’s style was bold and masculine by contrast. The younger brother embodied masculinity while the elder Korin leaned toward femininity—one a historical painter of cohesive works, the other a historical ceramic artist.

Next is Okuda Eisei. As I mentioned earlier, while Ninsei abandoned China and embraced Japan, Eisei—despite being a pawnshop owner—casually discarded Japan and clung solely to China.
He even resorted to collecting cheap red overglaze pieces akin to inferior wares.
Looking back now, this reveals his fundamental misstep.
There may be those who use Eisei’s bowls, but place them in a tea setting and they feel rigidly out of place.
They command admiration for their technical mastery yet remain devoid of true essence.

Ninnami Dohachi was remarkably skilled at carving dolls, cats, Fukusuke figurines, and such as a hobby—one might even call him a doll maker.
At that time, there were many woodcarvers like Gorobē, but none could carve as skillfully as Ninnami.
Even though he was a potter, he was that skilled.
But when we come to Ninnami Dohachi, his work devolved into mere artisan craftsmanship, excluding him from the ranks of the artists I had discussed up to now.
Because he was merely a technician relying on manual skill, splendid pieces such as Dohachi’s Unkinde-style bowls have been left behind.
There were small pieces and large pieces, colored works and earthenware ones, but none were particularly worthy of serious consideration.
However, because they were easy to understand, they had relatively many adherents in society.
This was geared toward the masses and lacked refinement.
Even with Koetsu, what made him so renowned was that while his work maintained a high standard, it also possessed elements geared toward the masses that made it accessible.
It wasn’t pretentious.
When they came to resemble Chojiro’s work, they became rather inscrutable.
Moreover, since they had no painted designs and were simply pitch-black tea bowls, I believed it was exceedingly rare for them to be considered splendid when displayed without boxes or any accompaniments.
Because such pieces came with various box inscriptions bearing their era and history, there were people who would pay exorbitant sums without a second thought.
If shattered into powder, they became something not worth three pennies, but when intact, they commanded millions of yen.
Even if you made a tea bowl out of pure gold with today’s money, it would cost five hundred thousand or a million yen.
However, one tea bowl was merely a lump of clay—yet this one was far more expensive than a pure gold tea bowl.

If Chojiro had made tea bowls from pure gold, they would undoubtedly have been splendid as well. They would undoubtedly command even higher prices than clay ones by virtue of being rarities. They would possess inherent merit through their golden materiality and achieve excellence in both form and essence. Yet while pure gold could be melted into any form, clay reduced to powder becomes worthless—precisely because such intact works are scarce that they fetch millions of yen; this reveals the paradoxical logic at play.

In the end, the power of art is truly remarkable.
Even clay receives such valuation when shaped by artists.
However, since all these are made by humans, the humans themselves must be cultivated.
Humans must be cultivated as artists and must be persons of character.
Humans must be high-level connoisseurs.
If such conditions are not abundantly present in humans, there is no value.
Ultimately, it is fundamentally a matter of human cultivation.

Then there was another matter—that of the era.
Even Mokubei, Eisei, or Dohachi—had they been born in the Muromachi period when their surroundings were favorable—would undoubtedly have created something truly remarkable.
By the late Tokugawa period, the surrounding environment had deteriorated so severely that aside from ukiyo-e, there was nothing left.
As for painters of the Kano school and such, they were hardly worth considering.

Entering the late Tokugawa period, there was a man named Eiraku Hozen—another skilled individual who produced splendid pieces like Kinrande ware copiously adorned with gold. Splendid they may be, but their essence lies in mere artisan craftsmanship, which is precisely why we consider someone like Eiraku scarcely worth our regard.
However, because they are beautiful, even those made by his descendants remain popular and continue to be actively produced to this day.

As for someone like Makuzu Chozo, he ranked even below those artisans, and it seems he had come to Tokyo at some point—even making a brief visit to Yokohama. His work had descended even further, becoming utterly trivial. However, it was better than what the current Gojozaka artisans were producing—compared to them, it possessed more refined taste and purity. Yet he was far too lacking in innate talent.

I know it may seem uncharitable to criticize others, but these days there exists what's called the Mingei school—a faction that doggedly insists on restricting everything exclusively to *mingei*.
Yet rarely can one properly claim that anything should be confined strictly within set boundaries like this.
To make such pronouncements binds one's freedom through those very constraints.
While ideology may serve some purposes well enough, I believe true value lies in broadening one's vision and moving through the world with unfettered grace.
Declarations like “tea bowls must adhere solely to *nonkou* style” strike me as akin to someone lashing themselves beneath an evening glory trellis while seeking coolness—utterly missing the point!
True evening respite comes from lying bare-skinned upon straw mats where breezes freely play across your form!
Freedom brings coolness naturally—but shackle yourself beneath even lush vines through ideological bonds and no breeze will ever reach you!
Thus I maintain we must place ourselves within realms of liberty where such fetters cannot bind us!

“I apologize for rambling on about such disjointed matters here and there. If someone like a potter were to hear these remarks of mine, they might find some aspects worth considering—but for connoisseurs like yourselves, I fear this may have been of little use.” “It was most improper of me to indulge in these lengthy soliloquies.”

(1953, at the Tokyo National Museum Hall)