Miyama (海山), aptly named sea (海) and mountain (山), provides little urban comforts if any. A three-hour train ride from any large city by train or bus and no direct lines to anything, this town is sequestered away in the mountains of southern Mie. A hazy rain drizzles across this small town nestled between mountains and sea away from any colossal idols to modern man. Cloud and fog play peek-a-boo amongst the mountain faces – aggrandizing the majestic size and greenery of the mountains.
A group of potters from the Owase Ceramics Club bubbles with excitement around the makigama kiln. The makigama kiln has one partition, a stoking hole, and a chimney. Because of the partition’s brick-sized holes, a minimal amount of ash is allowed through to the upper chamber, saturating the bottom half with vaporized wood ash. In this environment, even a master can only forecast the outcomes on the pieces with partial accuracy. Thus with excitement and anxiety, we unpack our pieces in front of the kiln. Then pottery, chaotically sprawled across four large tables, is gathered and separated into groups by clay type. Every major ceramic tradition of Mie Prefecture is represented: Iga, Shiga – the quintessential clays of “wabi sabi”, and Geppaku – a semi-porcelain ware beloved by Sencha tea masters for its natural smooth red sheen.
Six months of planning, building, creating, and designing all of our work, the final days have finally begun. Anxiety and excitement fill every silence between the laughter, orders and conversations. Everyone is buzzing with nervous energy while attending to their set task. No hand is free. Everyone is collecting, organizing, building, or supporting. A group makes pancake-like clay circles, and another makes cords to place between the kiln shelves to prevent vaporized ash from gluing them together.
Others wait on the beck and call of the master potter, Terada Yasuo, who, cramped inside of the kiln, builds shelf upon shelf of pots, teapots, plates, bowls, cups, mugs and bottles, like some extreme game of Tetris. Terada-sensei, the son of a famous potter himself, has exhibited ceramic work, both classically Japanese as well as modern, around the globe. Recently he has exhumed, rebuilt, and used one of the ancient “dragon” kilns (a 50-meter-long 14-room kiln) deserted for over 100 years. Never hurrying any decision or any placement, Terada-sensei weighs each option, like each piece whether heavy or light, with equal sincerity.
The kiln will be slowly stoked up to 1,400 C throughout one day, then sustained for 2 days. The utmost caution must be taken. The extreme heat breaks down everything to a sensitive amorphous state. If one shelf is not level or a piece not properly secured, a chain reaction where multiple shelves collapse could destroy everything.
Thus, Terada calls upon his apprentice for just the right kind of piece to place next. I am jealous of this apprentice’s position. I hope I am him one day. Between working on the clay “senbei,” I steal glances of their work progress.
“He’s getting closer to the kiln opening. We will be done by dinner probably,” says the kiln’s matron to me as she begins setting the table for dinner. They say it took entire villages to support each of the Seven Famous Kilns of Japan. Seeing this, I believe it. Everyone’s task is clearly delineated and everyone follows it with equal zeal.
As the sun ducks behind the now cloudy pink orange sky and black mountains, the kiln matron and her friend prepare a fantastic feast – aji sashimi, caught this morning, paired with tempura udon and daikon pickles. Exhausted but happy, everyone sits to enjoy a wonderfully prepared meal.
