In stubborn pursuit
Or the Potter that Never Gives Up
Sokei Aoyama
"Many are stubborn in pursuit of the path they have chosen, few in pursuit of the goal."
Friedrich Nietzsche
There is a difference between pursuing a career and the pursuit of a goal. Of the former kind of people, I have met many, of the latter only a few. My friend and pottery Master Sokei Aoyama is one of those few.
I remember well the first time I met him. He stood at his stand at the Takata village pottery festival. He was small, with firm cheeks and a square face. He stood there, peering curiously at me from the other side of a table filled with his wares. The two of us must have been quite a contrast - me, in my bulky, Nordic bodily frame and the tiny, slender, grey-haired little Japanese man. Fortunately, he knew my wife well, and he immediately invited us to come and see his kiln.
A Shiro tenmoku reproduction by Sokei Aoyama in the Master's hand.
A year past and we finally got an opportunity to visit the potter in his workshop, not far from where we live. There he began to tell us his tale about ancient, legendary pieces of pottery from medieval times that he had tried throughout much of his life to reproduce. The Master was adamant about getting every detail right. After about thirty (yes, 30!) visits during that summer, I had finally finished two articles on the subject.
Master Aoyama began to suspect that this type of bowls was made exclusively in our humble little village, Onada. Traces of the famous Japanese pottery had been unearthed at the old kilns here. When the news broke, Aoyama-sensei set out on a life long project to re-engineer the production method by which they must have been made.
This is a crucial part of his life work - his goal in Nietzsche's words. I became convinced that the potter did not see the real value of these bowls not only in their beauty or rarity but also in their story. It's a story that begins in the white clay of Onada, continues through the heat and flames of its kilns, into the houses of warlords and monks, through the centuries into our time.
This is a crucial part of his life work - his goal in Nietzsche's words. I became convinced that the potter did not see the real value of these bowls not only in their beauty or rarity but also in their story. It's a story that begins in the white clay of Onada, continues through the heat and flames of its kilns, into the houses of warlords and monks, through the centuries into our time.
I imagined my fingers slipping and dropping the bowl on the floor.
At our first visit, the Master brought out his tea utensils and whisked matcha tea for us which he served in Shiro tenmoku. I imagined my fingers slipping and dropping the fragile, highly valuable object. The Master didn't make much fuss of them. They seemed to be like any bowl to him - tools for drinking tea. Perhaps this is a Zen-like attitude in some respects - never attach yourself to things. But I am probably making too much fuss about Zen. After all the whole idea of it is to stay clear of fuss making.
Still, there is a connection between the Aoyama family and this Eastern philosophy. The Master's father, Reizo, did a lot of work for the Eihoji Zen temple in Tajimi. Reizo was a painter, and many of his works have Buddhist motifs.
Still, there is a connection between the Aoyama family and this Eastern philosophy. The Master's father, Reizo, did a lot of work for the Eihoji Zen temple in Tajimi. Reizo was a painter, and many of his works have Buddhist motifs.
A ceramic lantern at the Eihoji Temple in Tajimi, ca 2 km from Onada village.
Apparently, he also painted a ceiling in the temple. Over time, the Master told me, his father got more and more involved in the philosophy of Zen, although he didn't speak much about it. "Reizo was not the wordy type," the potter says. "But he spent much time studying the subject." Reizo was a renowned artist, officially recognized by the local government. I wonder if it was hard to work under his guidance.
Plate painted by Reizo Aoyama
"No, not at all. I wasn't forced in any way to pursue this path. Reizo started out himself as an earthenware base material maker as a side business. I went to his workshop every day - I must have started going there when I was five, six years old. Many kids around here were of potter families and knew me well for that reason. 'Hey, that's Reizo's son over there!' they would say. When I saw their father's firing their kilns, I began to feel a desire to become a potter myself. I was going to elementary school at that time. My father saw this and quietly began to nurture the potter in me. I went to school every day, of course, but had very little interest in what the teacher's said. I looked out of the window and counted the crows: ‘today there are one, two, three, four...,’” the Master laughs. “After school, I went to my father's workshop and saw him working the clay on the potter's wheel. I didn't spend much time playing with my classmates. Instead, my attention was drawn more and more to that clay."
"Well," he smiles, "as you might understand, I didn't have much of an academic future. When it was time to graduate, my teacher told me that he couldn't think of a single high-school that would accept me. But there was one place I could go to. There was a vocational ceramic school, run by Gifu Prefecture. I entered and was lucky to have a teacher from Kyoto. I tried the potter's wheel there, and somehow I was able to shape a form instantly", and he pulls up invisible clay in an upwards movement with both hands. "I did this," he continues, "and caught his attention. 'You have the gift, lad,' he said. 'I am going to teach you this stuff.' Thanks to this, I could study for three years there. I learned everything, from making the base earth and glaze, to firing the kiln."
Set of tea utensils by Sokei Aoyama
Moreover, there was an educational ceramics research centre in the neighbouring city of Toki. The students there were all very talented, accomplished guys. Some of them had graduated from art college, some had a similar background to me. Some were sons of national-level top-class academics in the field of ceramics. There were a variety of people, and it was an excellent environment to be in. They took note of me and would call me sometimes: 'Hey, Aoyama, come over here, I'll show you something neat!' they would say. And they would share research notes and all sorts of things, and I copied them eagerly. After graduating the vocational school, I built our kiln with my father, and I have never looked back. From that moment, pottery has been my life. From the very beginning, those urges I had as a boy was my driving force."
A frog - detail from a ceramic painting by Reizo Aoyama
What role did his father play? "Well, he was not a man interested in other's opinions. He had his own philosophy. One day he decided to focus on painting pottery only." Buddhism seemed to have been a significant influence on Master Aoyama's fathers work. "Back in the Edo era," he continues, "temples played the role the educational system plays today. My father was a diligent student of their teachings. He liked drinking, but he had this rigorous attitude to life as well. He changed that way after he began working with the temple."
When prime minister Kakuei Tanaka was caught in the Lockheed bribery scandal, [Reizo] made a satirical painting about it...
Reizo didn't care much about what people would think of his work. When prime minister Kakuei Tanaka was caught in the Lockheed bribery scandal, he made a satirical painting about it. That's not what your average Japanese artisan would do, but he was different!" the Master chuckles. "My father studied Buddhist kōan hard and made sure to find an answer to each of everyone." A kōan is a story, dialogue, question, or statement which is used in Zen practice to provoke the "great doubt" and to practice or test a student's progress in Zen.
"You see this motif in his paintings," the sensei recounted, "as the one of a rabbit throwing a cat. Don't ask me what it means! I'm not Reizo and not in a position to interpret his work. He never spoke about those things for that matter. After all, Zen is not supposed to be analyzed or explained. He only taught me one thing: 'When you don't know how to fire your wares,' he told me, 'take them all out of the kiln and line them up in front of you. Look at them hard one by one, and think about how to go about it.' That was the only thing he ever taught me!" the Master chuckles. "Not even once did he advised me on what to make or how. After all, I was a potter, and he a painter. Sure, I sometimes think that maybe I should try painting too. But after fifty years of throwing bowls, it feels like a mirage. So I decided never to pick up the brush."
Shiro tenmoku by Sokei Aoyama
Aoyama-sensei feels there is more to pottery than merely giving it a shape. "What really feels essential to me is the thoughts and dreams that go into your piece. For example, say that one hundred cups are lined up in a row. Someone picks up one of them - the one made by me. It may not stand out as strikingly different, but the difference is there. To make things people pick up your piece in that row, that is the real art of pottery or any craft! This is an essential element of my Shiro tenmoku. They are simple shapes, but incredibly hard to make. It's not apparent to a layman. Yet some people pick one up and immediately notice the work that went into the piece. One man took a look at a Shiro tenmoku I brought and pointed at the edge. 'Why did you hesitate when you had done so well all the way from the bottom?' he asked. 'You made it all the way up here so beautifully.' I knew then I was on the right track because he could see the potter in that bowl, and he had taken an interest. Every Shiro tenmoku has it's own individual soul. You can't see it just by looking at the shape, but it's still there. It's the thoughts and dreams that went inside."
The dream of reproducing the Shiro tenmoku may seem like a crazy one. Nobody had succeeded in five centuries. "I tried and tried, and nothing worked," the Master says. I tried everything I had learned during fifty years of throwing bowls. I thought the problem must be my skill - that it just wasn't good enough. But in the end, I came to the conclusion that there must be a completely different forgotten technique. It happened when a specialist told me, jokingly, that 'I have heard the potters of those days used coiling.' That was my satori moment - my moment of enlightenment. That is true satori - something unrelated suddenly connects you to the truth. I went home and tried to use coiling to make a Yamajawan [Mountain tea bowl]. I succeeded on my first try."
[He] is like the koi fish swimming with slow movements in those temple ponds...
I can't help but think that Master Aoyama has more than that in mind. Spending decades to re-engineer forgotten techniques to produce a forgotten type of pottery doesn't seem to be a straightforward path to financial success. It makes me think about the koi fish swimming in the ponds at the Eihoji temple. The more I got to know Aoyama-sensei, the more I felt his passion for a goal, somewhere underneath his mild manners. It's like the koi fish swimming with slow movements in those temple ponds, under the quite surface. There is such strength in those fish. The moment you feed them, the water starts boiling from fish trying to gobble up every bit of food landing on the water. Master Aoyama's pursuit of the recreation of Shiro tenmoku has been equally patient under a calm surface of mild manners and a friendly smile. Then one-day news broke that fragments of what must be fragments of the legendary white pottery had been found in Onada. The mirage turned into a lifelong stubborn pursuit of its recreation.
Aoyama-sensei may be a hardcore potter, but there is still room for a pastime in his life. One day he invited us to a country music jam party at a ceramic studio in Tajimi. Everybody brought their own food and drink and shared with everybody. The players took turns too, and the Master jammed away hard with his base on the stage.
We didn't manage to catch the potter on stage but here he is, mixed into his country jamming friends
"I tried various hobbies, fishing and other things, but I got bored with them all. Music is different," he says. "It's a hobby I never tire of - it has even improved my hearing. I can't speak English, for example. Still, I can get the gist of what English speakers say to me thanks to the sensitivity music has given to my ears." He reflects a bit more and smiles: "Well, I must admit I liked girls too. The other guys used to say that I always had female company when I walked the streets downtown. But the greatest happiness is to have a path to walk even when you grow old, and a goal to chase. Take this little bowl," he says and picks one up from the table.
It took the Master three years to re-engineer the technique to produce these cracks
He points to the side of the bowl. "Look at this crack. It took me three years to figure out how to make this. The crack adds to the beauty of the bowl, but only if it looks natural, not like something you put there. That's the kind of challenges I am talking about."
So what is the Master's final goal? "My wife may get angry with me for saying this," he smiles, "but I think it is to take my skill to its limit. My father told me before his passing that 'to reach my age, you still have 27 years to go. Think about how to use your remaining time well!' He passed away three years later, so if I stay around as long as him, I now have 24 years left. I want to spend them to exhaust all my remaining physical and mental power in a relentless pursuit of perfection in pottery. That is the theme of my life."
Nietzsche would probably have agreed it's not a bad one.