Ido teabowls
The first type of teabowl I have become interested in making is the Ido type. Based on a conical shape, they are probably not the form that springs to mind for most Westerners when thinking of the teabowl (that is likely the sombre, rustic form of Raku teabowls, or perhaps the drastically irregular clog-shape forms of Oribe ware). As Bonnie Kemske writes:
Trade, travel and then abduction of Korean potters by Japanese warlords ensured that those involved in the tea ceremony knew Korean ceramics well, both fine and everyday ware and porcelain. During the sixteenth century, wabi-cha Tea masters and connoisseurs began to use roughly made bowls, which came to be called Ido bowls, rather than the fine Chinese or Korean bowls previously used. Originally produced as rice bowls, they were shipped to Japan in large numbers. The Tea elite’s selection of some of them is what created the classification of the Ido chawan. The most famous…is Kizaemon, one of Japan’s kokuho, or National Treasures.
The Teabowl: East and West, p.66
The Kizaemon is the only chawan out of the eight designated National Treasures to be of the Ido type. Originally a functional rice bowl, it was prized by Tea practitioners for its unique imperfections, often felt to embody the spirit of wabi. In contrast to the fine imported ware which was preferred prior to the emergence of wabi-cha, the Kizaemon has a raw, unfinished quality; the neater aspects of the form, such as the profile of the bowl and foot, set off by its irregular rim, the rough texture of the visible fired body, and the whorls created near the foot by unevenly-applied glaze. The hairline cracks and slight chips to the rim, a result of time and frequent use, are considered to enhance its beauty, as they speak of its life as a cherished object, fulfilling its purpose for who-knows how many hosts and guests, revered and attentively cared for.
Height height: 9.4 cm; diameter: 15.5 cm. ( image available here )
My rationale for focusing on Ido teabowls
It is important to acknowledge at this point that it is arguably not Ido-type but rather Raku teabowls which are most intimately associated with the wabi aesthetic, at least for Westerners who, like me, are learning about it from first principles, rather than growing up with it as a deeply-embedded cultural touchstone; this difference in cultural proximity is well-illustrated by Leonard Koren’s excellent observation that wabi-sabi ‘occupies roughly the same position in the Japanese pantheon of aesthetic values as do the Greek ideals of beauty and perfection in the West’ (Wabi-Sabi for Artists, Designers, Poets & Philosophers, 1994, p21).
For my practice, focusing at this stage on making on Ido type forms makes perfect sense for me. In my reasoning, practical considerations dovetail with aesthetic and conceptual ones:
They are perfect for practising throwing ‘on the hump’, as I now wish to do.
The clean, understated elegance which is so often a feature of “finer” Korean ware has been something I have really begun to admire in the last year or so, as my own making progress has taught me what a high level of skill it takes to realise such deceptively simple forms - when a shape is as minimal and ‘clean’ as that, the tiniest variation can destroy its harmony. The maker therefore needs to have a complete and intimate understanding of their form and control over the clay. Whilst, of course, by definition Ido teabowls are not this fine, polished ware, I would suggest that this aesthetic context is crucial to their profoundly expressive quality.
Practicing these forms will also be a good basis for looking more closely at Hagi ware as a source of inspiration. I find the understated thrown forms and muted natural glazes of Hagi ware deeply appealing in their subtle, intimate beauty.
Ido-type teabowl forms would also look very striking if exhibited together with what are probably, to most Western eyes anyway, more recognisably “archetypal” teabowl forms. Raku teabowls in the tradition of Chojihiro and Rikyu were the form of chawan I first fell in love with, and though practical limitations mean I can’t carry out raku firings, I would still really like to explore the form. I think creating a range of ‘lighter’ teabowls inspired by the Ido type and by Hagi ware, and then a range of dark, or ‘winter’ teabowls inspired by raku chawan, could be really dramatic and powerful in its contrast. It would demonstrate two very different ways of expressing the spirit of wabi.
Additionally - while it was not part of my reasoning for choosing it - focusing on this form affords me the opportunity to discuss the influence of Yanagi Soetsu, as he and those who were influenced by his writings and thought (notably, of course, Leach and Hamada) were instrumental in originally introducing this form to the West and in first setting out how it should be understood as an object.
Ido chawan and Yanagi Soetsu
Yanagi Soetsu’s influence in providing a conceptual framework which informed Leach and Hamada’s approach to ceramics cannot be overstated. In her account of Yanagi’s role in familiarising a Western audience with the Ido type teabowl, and Kizaemon in particular, Kemske acknowledges the tension between his undeniable influence and the problems with his writing:
Kizaemon…gained much popularity outside Japan because Yanagi Soetsu wrote about it extensively in his much-acclaimed book The Unknown Craftsman: A Japanese Insight into Beauty. Yanagi imagined a story of the bowl’s creation that stressed its ‘low’ origins in a way that may make present readers uncomfortable: ‘In Korea such work was left to the lowest. What they made was broken in kitchens, almost an expendable item. The people who did this were clumsy yokels, the rice they ate was not white, their dishes were not washed.’ He goes on to describe the bowl: ‘The plain and unagitated, the uncalculated, the harmless, the straightforward, the innocent, the humble, the modest: where does beauty lie if not in these qualities?’ This refers to the lack of self-consciousness on the part of the potter about the status the teabowls would carry later. A delicious contradiction is that some of these bowls, as Yanagi would say, the lowest of the low, came to be some of the most valuable ceramics in the world.
Yet we should not allow Yanagi’s obvious romanticism and condescension to belittle the appeal that such a bowl might have. Kizaemon is indeed a beautiful bowl, and its irregular shape and kintsugi repairs make it particularly appealing today, abetted by the popular interest in a make-do approach to life. Ido bowls can evoke the ‘accident’ of their making; you sense that the Korean potters that who them either hadn’t the time to be careful or the perhaps clay itself demanded their gently asymmetrical, imperfect shapes. Their glazing seems haphazard and has many flaws, the fire in the kiln seeming to have exerted as much influence on the finished bowls as the potter.
Kemske, The Teabowl: East and West, pp.66-7
Though the scope of Kemke’s book probably prevented her from digging into this further, I would like to discuss this further, because Yanagi’s conception of mingei (folk art) and his figure of the ‘unknown craftsman’ often frame the discussion of wabi-sabi and associated aesthetics within ceramics.
Yanagi’s conception of the ‘unknown craftsman’ seems to me deeply informed by both class relations and Japanese imperialist attitudes towards Korea. We can see this even in the brief passages Kemske quotes. The Korean makers are described in intensely loaded terms - they are not only from a humble background but ‘the lowest’ - at the very bottom of society not just materially but also, Yanagi implies, somehow morally too. This kind of moral denigration of the labouring class recalls the Victorian concept of the ‘undeserving poor’, which demonised those in poverty for perceived vices and immorality and thus deemed them ‘undeserving’ of any material assistance. The tendency to dehumanise and “other” the poorest people in a highly stratified or hierarchical society acts to justify the hierarchy’s existence by suggesting that the people at the bottom of society are fundamentally inferior to others, which suggest their poor material conditions are warranted. Personally, I think it is extremely important to bear in mind that Yanagi’s vision of the ‘unknown craftsman’ who made Kizaemon is underpinned by his sense of his position “looking down” on those lower in the social hierarchy. If we are to tease out those elements of Yanagi’s conception of the creative process that have a more genuine resonance, we need to be honest about the extent to which his writings contain and reproduce harmful ideas.
Yanagi’s image of the rural Korean labouring class doesn’t seem to be based on any research into peoples’ actual material conditions, but rather on assumption and stereotype. Korean makers and the rural labouring class to which they belonged are imagined to be careless, slovenly, unable to take proper care of themselves, let alone the pieces they produce - ‘clumsy yokels’ whose pieces were ‘broken in kitchens’. With this framing, the Japanese obtainment of Ido ware by both trade and imperial force is transformed into a moral good - the implication is that the Japanese are rescuing these rough yet peculiarly beautiful pieces from the ‘clumsy’ hands of peasants who do not appreciate them.