The potter from Tokoname

Jill Fanshawe-Kato recalls her first meeting with ceramist Ryoji Koie

From 1973-77, my husband Setsuo Kato and I lived in Tokyo. Teaching English for a living, I also studied Japanese language and pottery, the latter in a fairly traditional sense. I had heard of Ryoji Koie, the potter from Tokoname, but it wasn’t until after we returned to London, in 1977, that the name came into focus. Leafing through a Swiss ceramics magazine, I saw a series of fierce artefacts by Koie, titled Spark Spark Arm, razor-sharp shards of glazed, smashed porcelain embedded in grainy soft earthy clay and refired. Far from the gentle world of traditional usable Japanese ceramics, it seemed to question the very nature of the art. I decided to visit him on my next trip to Japan.

On a hot, humid August day in 1984, I went to his home town Tokoname, one of the six rokkoyo or ancient kiln towns of Japan. With me was a Mr Saito, a pleasant Hokkaido gallery owner. The kiln chimneys and industrial backdrop of the old town faded in the heat, as cicadas poured out their song.

Koie’s studio was in a ramshackle old wooden house on a sleepy grey street. We looked into the dusty window at wobbly white porcelain yunomi cups, assorted dead insects lying in them, legs akimbo. Despite the dust, these were covetable objects, inviting to the hand. At ¥8,000 I decided to buy one, and Mr Saito thought he would like several for his gallery.

We found Koie cross-legged within, in front of a bottle of Polish cherry vodka, half empty. He motioned us to join him and fetched thick hand-made glass sake cups, frosted from the freezer. We joined him in a toast. Even without the effects of the vodka, Koie emanated personality. Mr Saito tentatively mentioned the pottery for his gallery. Apparently taking a swift dislike to him, Koie said that under no circumstances could he have any pottery. In those days he was not wealthy, and bringing up a large family, so this was hard to understand.

I decided not to mention buying a yunomi, but nervously showed him a small photograph album of my own pottery. He glanced swiftly at a 1.5 metre high sculpture of which I was rather proud – recently commissioned by a Japanese bank in London, with relief decoration of birds and leaves – and exploded: ‘I can’t stand this type of pottery. But next time you are in Japan, come and visit me and I will teach you about clay!’ After a time Mr Saito and I stumbled out into the sunshine feeling somewhat singed by our encounter. Shocked, I knew too that there was an element of truth in the abrupt dismissal of my work. Koie was at that time firing metal sewing machines and alarm clocks to melting point in the Testimonies series, his response to the atomic bombing of Japanese cities in World War Two, and expressing emotional depths not previously seen in clay art.

Up to then, the potters I had met and admired had been proudly continuing long family traditions, often with 400 unbroken years of making by 16 or more generations, the work of first and sixteenth generations remarkably similar, with individual development subsumed into the historical flow of kiln style. Few born into the noble inheritance of an old kiln would consider disrupting the system. Acquiring high levels of skill and artistry by following precedent assured a smooth transition.

This meeting tossed a firework into this circle. A sequence of family and national difficulties had formed his rebellious and abrasive character, the mountainous nature of Japan seeming to permeate his art. I had grown up in the gentle landscape of Devonshire – but decided to accept his generous offer. There was much to learn and this was my opportunity. I had heard much about the apprentice who beats a path to the master’s door only to be sent away again and again.