Snapshot 12: Souvenir

Souvenir—At the risk of repeating myself, true lacquer is a remarkable material.  It is a finish, an adhesive and a decorative medium, too.  But that is not all.  In China many layers were built up so that it could be carved.  In Japan a more practical and less time consuming method was developed in order to create the same effect.  First a core of wood was carved and then finished with lacquer.

In fact, the better types of true lacquerware all have a wooden core.  But cloth can also be used in combination with a mould or former to obtain a desired shape.

That is how this cigarette case was made.  It was produced in an attempt to tap in to a niche market in occupied Japan after World War Two.  What U.S. GI could resist one of these fine souvenirs.

Smoking paraphernalia spawned a universal demand for all kinds of artefacts and gadgets the world over.  All that has now more or less gone and has never really been replaced.  Nevertheless, I would still like one of these, which could easily be put to another use.

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On the Way Home

This is Andaibara....

Excursion to the Unexpected

Back at the beginning of June when I was in Noto, I spent a glorious day visiting various people who had been recommended to me, relying on the SatNav in the car that I was using to get me to my destinations.  I had already become quite attached to the voice of the young lady giving directions and, for the most part, had found her instructions in very polite Japanese to be clear and easy to follow.

It helped to have looked at a number of maps beforehand and having a good sense of direction anyway, I nearly always had a pretty good idea of what direction I was supposed to be heading. Later during my stay, however, the inadequacies of the SatNav were exposed and were made worse by my false assumptions.  But that is another story, or two.

Newly built and old can hardly be distinguished.

There are not many main roads on the Noto Peninsula, so even without the prompts of Ms SatNav I was beginning to find my way around fairly comfortably.  In the circumstances there was, after all little chance of getting lost.  If I was unsure I could always knock on a door or ask someone, that is if I could find someone to ask.  Apart from the main tourist centres the Noto Peninsula as a whole is very sparsely populated.  In fact, the numbers of people moving away from the area is of great concern—depopulation with a vengeance.

It was late afternoon and I was now heading back to Wajima to my guesthouse; home for the duration of my month-long stay.  I was on Route 249 moving northward.  This major route follows the coast up from Kanazawa in the south west and then turns sharply eastward and runs through a wide valley, passing close to Shojiji temple and the town of Monzen.  It was a scene of much damage as a result of the earthquake which struck the area in 2007.  There is now little sign of what happen, except at Shojiji Temple, which is still undergoing restoration.  Many of the older buildings in Monzen were spared, others have been rebuilt but in a sympathetic style, so that it is sometimes difficult to say from when they date.

Although the SatNav was guiding me dutifully along Route 249, I was already so familiar with the route I decided to ignore my attentive guide and make a detour.  Taking a left turn at some traffic lights I began to follow a narrow lane between rice paddies and stands of conifers steadfastly arranged on the steep slopes of the flanking mountains, or were they hills.  By definition a mountain is steep and as far as the UK is concerned is over 600 metres high.  So here “mountain” is perhaps the right word—steep slopes and at least the required height.

As the way in front of me began to climb the SatNav fell silent and gave up trying to redirect me. The surroundings were almost completely silent too.  No bird song, no traffic noise—I was the traffic—and no people.  The only sounds were the occasional croak of a frog and the faint murmuring of water trickling into the stepped paddies that filled the ever narrowing and inclined valley.  It was a very fine day.  Not too humid and a blue sky decorated with a few puffy clouds.

The stepped paddies here were nothing to rival those in Thailand or indeed other parts of Japan.  Nevertheless, they were worth photographing.  Their regularity and tidiness alone made them memorable.

Although there were two or three houses near to were I was standing looking down the valley, there was no one to be seen.  All the houses could have been uninhabited for all I knew, except that the small gardens were well tended.  Surely there was someone around.  Indeed there was.

The peace and quite was broken by the sound of an engine starting and almost immediately a light truck driven by an elderly man appeared out of a side road and came to a stop by where I was standing.  Konichi wa. Ii tenki desu ne.  We exchanged greetings and even commented on the weather, before discussing the location.  This was Andaibara, a small community of twelve households of mostly elderly people who were doing their best to tend the land.

Fortunately this local did not have a strong accent, or he was being kind enough to speak his mother tongue in its more standard form.  I therefore had no trouble understanding him.

It seems that just as in other parts of the Noto Peninsula, depopulation in Andaibara has meant that fewer and fewer people are farming the land and there seems to be no end to the problem.

“Of course, there were plenty of people living here in the past—farmers, foresters and their families.  Now all the young people have moved away to Tokyo or other big cities to find work and mostly only come back at the New Year”.  This I had heard before but his next statement was something of a surprise.

“When there were more people living here, some of the men went off to fight in the Russo-Japanese War”.  Pointing to a mound by the road a little way back down the valley he said, “That’s a memorial to them”. Of course, such memorials can be found in small villages all over rural Britain, especially honouring those that fell in the First World War. 

The realities of the Russo-Japanese conflict, which started in 1904, could not have been further from my thoughts.  I was standing in a little haven of peace and tranquility where nature predominated and even people were so scarce as to have no real presence.  It was nature’s domain.

I suddenly felt very privileged to be were I was and to be completely absorbed in what I was doing.  I was a spectator of other people’s lives in an idyllic location with not even the slightest sense of responsibility.  Or would it be more true to say that I was an observer benefitting from a sense of happy detachment.

As our conversation began to dry up, I asked if I might take a photograph of my new acquaintance and, out of courtesy, I asked too if I might have his name.

“My name? I’m not someone who is worthy of a name.”  There was no sense of any spitefulness or anger in his voice.  He was, however, clearly surprised but perhaps no more surprised than I was by his answer.  It might seem to some people that anonymity for the Japanese is something to hide behind.  Being publicly recognised with a name, however, does for some Japanese seem to be something they feel they must have earned rather than a given right—there is a sense of honest modesty.

My short detour into the mountains had been uplifting and interesting.  I resolved to take more excursions of the beaten track.

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Kyomi and Kazuyuki Toumi—Noto Nigyo Handmade Paper

Mother and son team—the makers of Noto Nigyo Handmade Papers

Paper in Paradise

Forty or so years ago “real ale” made its appearance in British pubs.  It was the result of a reaction against the kind of rather bland beer that was being produced at the time by big breweries up and down the country.  Their beers were just simply uninteresting.  British beer has always been described by critics as “warm and flat”.  What this really means is that it is only slightly chilled and not carbonated.  Traditionally brewed real ale or what is sometimes called cask beer was kept in a pub cellar and in wooden barrels, just as it had been for hundreds of years.  Yes, it was slightly chilled and also flat but it was full of flavour.  In fact it had a deep rounded complex flavour.  It really tasted good and this is what sealed its success.  Nowadays, real ale is still holding its own and is available along side a staggering number of different beers, produced either in the UK or overseas.

Is it too fanciful to suggest that some comparisons can be drawn between real ale and handmade paper?  I don’t think so.  Reputably beer dates back more than three-thousand years, and paper making began some two-thousand years ago.  So both beer and paper have been made by hand much, much longer than they have been manufactured by a continuous automated process.  Handmade papers were the norm just as cask ales were before mass production took over and, let’s face it, in both cases something was lost when both became an industrially manufactured product.  Just as there was a resurgence in interest in more flavoursome beers in the UK all those years ago, so too has there been a upsurge of interest in handmade papers all over the world.

Not tracing paper but drawn on a fine handmade Japanese paper.  A detail of a scheme for a tea ceremony area in an apartment block.

Before I went to live in Japan I had never seen paper made and I had certainly never used any either.  My first real encounter with a handmade Japanese paper was when I was doing a design for a Japanese tea ceremony facility to be housed in an apartment block scheduled to be built in Kanazawa, south-west of Wajima.  I had been given some very thin handmade Japanese paper, on which I decided to draw up my plan, simply because it seemed to have a quality and finish completely in keeping with the project—a modern take on a traditional pursuit.

Charging a mould for pulp.  The culms of bamboo above provide a little spring
to make lifting the mould a little easier.

Despite being very thin and translucent, the paper I used was strong and had a fine texture.  Strength is one of Japanese handmade papers, well eh….strengths, which is acquired during its making.  Simply speaking, the fibres in the pulp used to make a piece of British handmade paper settle in a more of less random fashion.  Japanese handmade paper, on the other hand, is actively formed—the mould is charged with pulp and mostly rocked back and forth and only occasionally from side to side, so that the fibres line up and interlock giving the paper a grain and hence strength.

When I arrived at Kyomi Toumi’s workshop, that is exactly what her son, Kazuyuki, was doing—charging a mould with a pulp containing some adzuki bean husks.  Imbedding other natural fibres, dried flowers or leaves to add a decorative quality to the already fine papers is one of their specialities, although this mother and son team also produce a lot of plain papers for calligraphy.

The rhythmical charging of the mould help the fibres to interlock.

In a sense, these decorative papers are a memorial to Kyomi’s father-in-law, Shusaku Toumi, from whom she learned the craft after she married into the family while still a teenager.  There was no tradition of paper making in the district of Mii where Kyomi is based and where Shusaku began work back in 1949, initially using wild kozo—paper mulberry.  But that was only the beginning.  Shusaku later started imbedding his papers with such things as seaweed as well as other plant fibres to produce some unique and highly appealing papers.  One of these was a paper incorporating strips of cedar bark, a tradition inherited by Kyomi and Kazuyuki, who now also makes lampshades using some of the engaging papers they produce together.

The adzuki bean husks add to the character of the paper.

They even utilise waste material—those parts of harvested local Japanese cedar which the sawmills usually discard.  The Toumis, however, turn it into a robust handmade paper full of character with a resplendently warm tinge.  They also make use of waste timber from old houses, which have been demolished, by using it as a source of heat for a paper dryer.

The fibrous nature of the cedar bark here is obvious.

After a sheet of paper has been formed, it is allowed to stand in a post—a pile of sheets which are allowed to drip over night.  The next day they are pressed to squeeze out more moisture before each sheet is thoroughly dried.  In many places where handmade Japanese papers are produced sheets are brushed out onto a wooden board and stood outside to dry.

Where Kyomi has her workshop, however, that method is impossible because, in the narrow mountain valley where she works, wind blowing down the valley would soon release the finished paper from its board and ruin it.  Instead Kyomi uses a stainless steel dryer, which is warmed by burning waste timber.  The smoke rising from the small chimney at the end of the building only serves to add to the atmosphere of the location beside a river and surrounded by idyllic tree covered mountain scenery.  There is a sense that the paper is a product of its surroundings, made by dedicated people with care, skill and love.  Everything is just perfect.

When I returned to Wajima that evening and began to recall all that I had seen that day, I smiled with deep contentment as I remembered the welcoming warm-hearted reception Kyomi and Kazuyuki had given me, the beautiful paper, the unspoilt rural setting and the balmy early June weather that day.  “Where have you been today?”  I was asked.  “I’ve been to paradise”.

Just part of the process of forming sheets and drying follow below.

The bamboo screen on which a sheet is formed is lifted from the mould and....

....the wet sheet of newly formed paper is laid on a heap of sheets to drip before pressing to reduce the moisture.

A still very damp sheet is lifted on a flat strip of wood and....

....transfered to the warm face of the dryer.

The sheet is brushed out flat on the warm surface of the dryer.

When dry, the finished sheet is flung dramatically like a bed-sheet on to a pile of dry sheets.

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Snapshot 11: Quality, Style and Function

Quality, Style and Function

In Japan after a hot humid day, or even at the end of a bitterly cold day, most people will look forward to a bath.  The custom is to wash thoroughly from head to foot, to rinse off all the soap and then to get into the deep hot water of the bath.  After lowering yourself gently into the steaming water and sitting down, it is so relaxing to just sit and allow the water to soothe away the cares of the day.  With the water up to your chin, it is natural to let your head rest on the edge of the bath and to look up.  If you did so in this bathroom then you would see this wonderful ventilated ceiling.  Fitted in what was the guest bathroom, it is in a building dating from the beginning of the 20th century.  It is made of a wood callled Hiba Arbor-vitae (Thujopsis dolabrata), and finished with several layers of true lacquer.  To my mind, seeing it would be reason enough to take a bath!

The width of the bathroom is only a little over a metre and the “wall” along one long side of the space is actually a series of frosted glass screens with wood panelling from below waist height.  Despite the high degree of respect which the Japanese tend to afford each other, I can’t help but think that the shadowy form of a naked bather seen through the frosted glass might well have caused some merriment.  Or have the screens replaced a real wall?

This wonderful piece of carpentry also prompts me to think, why are we so obsessed with white or light colours for a bathroom and toilet facilities?  Is it simply because white will show any dirt and then it can be sanitised?

When I worked in an interior design studio in London many years ago, we fitted out a bathroom-cum-dressing room.  it had replaceable fabric covered floor panels and the same dark brown fabric on the walls.  There were also bright red panels with widely spaced stainless steel embossed tiles on them hanging on the walls, and the bath stood on a dais at one end of the room.  It was not a wet bathroom and with the addition of a comfortable chair and dramatic lighting it had an air of luxury that few of us could justify.

Nevertheless, even a small bathroom could be fitted with something as grand and as inspiring as a pyramidal, ventilated wooden ceiling like the one pictured.  Time to get out the drawing board!

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Masao Matsumoto—Something Different

Masao Matsumoto—workshop owner and promoter

of true lacquerware.

Something Different

When explaining the method of making a piece of true lacquerware in England it nearly always raises a murmur of some disappointment.  “It’s a pity we can’t see the wood”.  This comment arises because in many cases the wooden core of a bowl or other item is completely hidden by the many layers of true lacquer, which actually makes the product so much more durable.  This fact, however, does little to assuage the feeling of disenchantment verging on frustration that many professionals and lay-people quite often share.

Twenty small dishes to show what happens as applications 

of true lacquer are over-laid, one on the other and 

the woodgrain is finally hidden.

Nevertheless, many people do grasp the importance and functional sense of the true lacquer coating and do in fact praise the wonderful finish, applauding its warmth to the touch and unrivalled sense of palpable quality.  There is, however, a much more universal appreciation of the decoration of true lacquerware, mainly focused on what is called maki-e.  This often involves the use of gold and silver powders mixed with true lacquer to render a design that may be flat or raised to a shallow relief as layers of lacquer and precious metal powder are painstakingly built up.  The hard surface of true lacquer can also be chased and then filled with fine gold powder to express a design.  Or, mother-of-pearl can be added to a design to produce a sparkle of a different kind.  There are many decorative techniques, which, along with the plain colour finishes—commonly deep red, vermilion or glossy black—make up what are regular or standard ways of finishing true lacquerware products.  There are, however, alternatives, several hundred alternative application techniques in fact, many of which were originally used to finish the scabbards of the samurai swords and sometimes simply involved mimicking other materials such as tree bark.

At Masao Matsumoto’s workshop the conversation turned to some of these techniques.  Masao has a fine display of all kinds of products that have at one time or another been produced in the workshop.  He also has a display of small dishes to explain the process of true lacquer applications peculiar to Wajima.

We might mimic marble with paint but here woodgrain is simulated with true lacquer for a lunchbox.

I found one piece with what looked like a wood grain finish.  It seems that some years ago this was a popular finish and certainly fell under the heading of an “alternative” finish or kawari-nuri.  It was then that another unusual piece caught my eye.  It was a small tray with a rough finish to its outside edge, loosely resembling the bark of a tree, although not following the appearance of any particular species.

A small serving tray with glossy interior and rough rustic outside edge…..

…..the edge up close.

The contrast between the smooth and plainly finished interior of the tray was set off by the rustic, hard and rugged exterior.  How was it made?  A puttylike mixture of true lacquer, finely ground whetstone and some water was probably applied, not with a brush but with a spatular, to create the almost stone-like impasto effect that was finished off with a top-coat of true lacquer.

This square platter has a fine cracked or crazed finish….

….to which some delicate leaf motifs have been added.

Realising how interested I was in these alternative finishes, Masao showed me two more examples.  What they both had in common was the use of some protein.  It could be the white of an egg or even some tofu—soya bean curd.  If egg white is mixed with a little water and the mixture is then applied to a drying top coat of true lacquer, it causes the surface to shrink unevenly and produces a fine pattern of random cracks—that is if the mixture is only brushed on up and down and from side to side.

This unusual tray has a crazed finish, which in detail….

….seems to resemble an aerial photograph of a river delta or some other natural feature.

Alternatively, if an egg white and water mixture is sprayed on the surface of drying lacquer and then brushed randomly over the surface, it results in a totally different crazed effect.  This slightly rough surface is ideal for trays as it is a slightly more robust finish, meaning that cups or dishes do not slip so easily.  It is also, of course, pleasing to the eye.

Both of these alternative effects are called hibi-nuri—crazed or cracked finishes, and serve to once again highlight the interesting makeup of true lacquer.  It is a natural material with strange properties and something of a mysterious chemistry.  I left Masao’s workshop very satisfied.  I had learnt something new and intriguing.  I wonder what other mysteries true lacquer is keeping secret?

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Takashi Shinohara—Suzu Ware

Takashi Shinohara and some of the copious amounts of Japanese red pine (Pinus densiflora) needed to fire the kiln for five to six days.

Of Earth and Fire

Honestly speaking, pottery is something of a mystery to me.  I see it as a kind of alchemy, of which I know very little.  That, however, does not interfere with my appreciation of the craft and art of earth and fire.  In a sense, it is similar to looking at a starlit sky—I stand in awe and wonderment but have very little real understanding of what I am looking at and would almost prefer it that way.

Despite my lack of knowledge, I have a particularly great admiration for Japanese pottery.  It always seems to be so perfect, in the sense that it appears to be a consummate marriage of materials, the laws of physics and the creative ability of the potter, who not only can imagine how things will turn out, but is also ready to accept “happy accidents” which occur in the kiln.

Takashi Shinohara, however, really knows pottery and for him the making and firing of pots became a discipline that gave him a deep satisfaction and a way of “finding himself”.  Now he even says that his kiln and workshop are his “temple”, although things could have been very different.

Takashi usually firs his kiln twice a year.  Situated deep in the woods the smoke does not

cause any annoyance.

He was born and raised in Suzu located on the eastern shore of the Noto peninsula.  Being the elder sibling, he was destined to take over the running of the Buddhist temple, of which his father was Chief Priest.  Regardless of the fact that he was a self-confessed “naughty boy” as a child, when the time came Takashi resigned himself to the inevitable and went to Kyoto to learn the ways of the priesthood.  After graduating from university he took up a position at one of Kyoto’s prestigious temples.  He remained there for six years before returning home to Suzu and devoting himself to the day to day running of the family temple.  All was well for a time but then he found himself remembering the happy days of this childhood.  As a young boy he had often played outdoors and had been happiest when he came home hot and muddy and beaming with satisfaction.

I imagine there were some difficult times before he finally decided to leave the priesthood and to hand over his responsibilities to his younger brother.  For Takashi it was a pivotal moment in his life allowing him to re-connect with the happy days of his childhood and to begin doing something he really wanted to do.

The characteristic colouring and finish of Suzu ware as a 

result of reduction firing…..

Pottery peculiar to Suzu dates back to the mid-12th century and thrived for some 400 years.  As a utilitarian ware it found its way to coastal areas along the Japan Sea as well as north to Hokkaido.

It was storage jars and crocks that were mostly made, so Suzu ware needed to be a robust and thoroughly fired earthenware.  To 

…..and the brick red colouring generated from

a oxidation firing

achieve this required a large amount of wood to raise the kiln temperature to more than 1,200C˚.  The local clay has distinctive qualities, which are enhanced by the method of firing.  The amount of oxygen entering the kiln is limited and toward the end of the firing the kiln is starved of oxygen.  This form of reduction firing gives the ware its highly characteristic dark grey gritty finish as the iron in the clay blackens and the wood ash forms a natural glaze.  However, when more oxygen is allowed into a kiln during a firing of the same kind of clay, pieces take on a warm brick-red colour.

Just imagine how good food looks on one of Takashi’s platters.

Although Suzu ware was distributed widely and extensively used for many hundreds of years, it suddenly disappeared during the 16th century.  It was not until the early 1960s that interest in this ware was revived and then research over the next twenty years resulted in the first firing of a new Suzu kiln in 1979, to fire pots using the same local clay of old.

The simple flowing forms of Takashi’s work are a perfect 

foil to the firm, hard and gritty appearance of the surface finish.

Takashi became one of the second generation of potters to inherit the traditions of Suzu ware but he was almost entirely self-taught.  His informal training began simply by watching.  He attended kiln firings but was literally only allowed to watch.  He was not even allowed to handle the firewood and in his words “stole what I needed to know” about the techniques involved.  Finally he was ready to go it alone and in 1995 he built his own kiln named the Yuge kiln and went to work.

Since then he has managed to build up a fine reputation and exhibits all over Japan and even abroad.  He is never happier, however, than when he gets back to Suzu, his homeland and source of what he likes to do best—making pots.

Some of Takashi Shinohara’s work is on show at the Funa Asobi Gallery.  Details in Japanese at f-asobi.com.  For more details call +81 (0)768-82-3960.

Address:  41 Wakayama-machi Sutta, Suzu City, Ishikawa Prefecture 927-1233, Japan

Suzu Ware Museum

1-2-563 Takojimamachi

Suzu, Ishikawa Prefecture 927-1204

Japan

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Yuka Funami and Takashi Shinohara at the entrance to Funa Asobi Gallery in Suzu.

Funa Asobi Gallery

Yuka Funami at the entrance to the Funa Asobi Gallery

With Quality and Style

When I was living in Japan, I twice rented a gallery in central Tokyo to have exhibitions of my own artwork, photographs and examples of the furniture I had designed.  The gallery was close to Ginza, one of Tokyo’s main shopping districts, and was well visited as a consequence.  It was in a basement reached down a few steps and was, like so many other galleries, well lit, clean and had anonymous white walls and ceiling as well as an unobtrusive dark floor covering.

On both occasions I exhibited at this particular gallery, however, I made an effort to give the space as much personality as possible without repainting the walls or taking any other drastic measures to make the space ‘mine’.  This was something of a compromise, of course, and yet I felt it was necessary in order to give the gallery some real character to counter its rather unforgiving and soulless ambience.  My intention was to provide a conducive setting to enhance the work, especially as I had different kinds of work displayed together in what was a windowless, limited shoe-box-like space.

The main space of the gallery looks almost as if the original owner has just stepped out for a moment—the sights, sounds, smells and textures as well as a sense of history and time of the peninsula are here.  There is an air of intimacy about the way that the pottery is displayed on a low table made of salvaged boat planks, requiring the visitor to adopt a kneeling or squatting position to view the work in keeping with the Japanese environment.

For Yuka Funami, who runs the Funa Asobi Gallery, a compromise was not even considered.  If anything the opposite was true.  Accepting and indeed embracing what the building she had chosen for a gallery had to offer, she aimed to follow and enhance its attributes.  She allowed the personality of the building to speak and to contribute its own ambience giving her the opportunity to achieve something refreshingly different.  It was a matter of adopting a different approach and attitude in order to make the gallery ‘work’.

Fine cloth by Mikiko Fujita

Yuka had previously worked in a gallery in Kanazawa, the administrative seat of Ishikawa Prefecture, which encompasses the Noto Peninsula.  Having previously tried her hand at making things in a number of different media and also having studied the history of art at university, we could say she was ideally suited to becoming a gallery owner.  It was her partner, Takashi Shinohara, who gave her the chance of moving to Suzu and ultimately the opportunity of opening her own gallery.

The old farmhouse they found and renovated together now provides them with a really interesting gallery and home thoroughly infused with the sights, sounds, smells and textures making up the natural character of the peninsula as well as with a 

sense of history and time that it would be difficult to find 

Tear-drop glass vase by 

Michi Imai

anywhere else other than on the Noto Peninsula.  Yuka and Takashi's manner and attitude as well as the gallery and building as a whole manifest a sense of quality that is intoxicating and certainly made me feel I wanted to stay there forever!

The atmosphere is one of a benign, caring benefactor, who is always ready to be accommodating.  It could not be further from being like a modern corporation, which insists on tugging our sleeve at every opportunity via television or the printed page.  Funa Asobi Gallery is a world apart from what we have mostly given in too or now simply tolerate.  I guarantee that you too will find it difficult to leave.

Some of Takashi Shinohara’s Suzu-ware pottery in the gallery

Apart from a permanent exhibition of Takashi Shinohara’s work, the gallery also houses some work by other exhibitors and has special exhibitions for a limited period, too.  Details in Japanese at f-asobi.com.
For more details call +81 (0)768-82-3960.

Address:  41 Wakayama-machi Sutta, Suzu City, Ishikawa Prefecture 927-1233, Japan

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Snapshot 10: Unforgettable

Unforgettable

On a very wet day almost at the end of my stay in Noto, I took a mountain road across the peninsula.  The rain having eased left the newly planted rice glowing green.  The gently stepped paddies and the dark green trees here formed a background to a stage that I don’t think I will every forget.  There was a peace and tranquility that only Noto can offer.  All memories and mind’s-eye images of modern Japan were as distant as if on another planet.  Noto—will it, can it survive?

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Snapshot 9: Inspired

Inspired

When the internationally famed and highly revered British potter Bernard Leach visited Wajima more that forty years ago, he was introduced to Kunikatsu Seto, who was 27 years old at the time.  This meeting proved to be pivotal, although not immediately.  Kunikatsu at least made the decision to become involved in craft and worked in a small business selling craft in Wajima.  This venture did not go particularly well, but he did not give up.  He began making pieces of lacquerware himself.  His desire to create things flourished and even now at the age of seventy he is still inspired to try something new, something challenging.  Seen here in his gallery with some of his recent work, he also showed me a Leach lidded jug.  This, he said, was what started it all.

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