Hiro Matsusaki on thu 19 jun 97
This is the first of brief report on a recent trip to Japan, which I dab as
my "labor of love" or "soul searching" experience. More precisely, it was a
way to work out the "personal passions, obsessions, and possessions", and pay
off past debts and incur new ones. I was a clayarter disguised as a budget
traveler on a short sojourn.
The big picture first. The situation over there has been stagnant, despite
denials to the opposite effect. It is hard to discern what actually goes on
from the shiny, smooth and mirror-like look of the cement pavements from
Narita to Tokyo. So tidy, neat and clean. But the looks are deceiving. In
sharp contrasts to the U.S. where we have seen unchecked economic growth, the
lowest level of unemployment, and general prosperity overall for seven years
in a row, the economic outlook there is nothing but a slow and steady decline
for that long. In short, just awful.
The clay scene? Not immune to the bigger picture. Some research institutes
may boast the latest American-made high-tech gadgets which no public clay
institutions could possibly afford to have over here, but the supporting info
network is inadequate, and the old ways of doing things still seem to
persist. The hardware may be OK, but the social software has not caught up.
This largely negates the effectiveness of such investments. Grossly
underutilized. The politics of clay at the top level seem to remain the same.
The bureaucrats may be hard pressed, but are not directly affected by the
recent downturn. Many privileged are still there, largely intact. The talks
of reform started to sound familiar, more or less American-style, rather than
uniquely Japanese and more historically or culturally rooted. In that sense,
the bureaucrats are alike. The whole nation is getting Americanized. We know
that throwing money at problems does not solve them.
In the Mino region, the self declared ceramics center where about two-thirds
of the country's clayworks are produced, an older, credible and knowledgeable
taxi driver told me that the profits from clay have dwindled due to the
fierce, stupid competition. He gave me groomy rundowns. The traditional
clayshops are getting squeezed. The competitive pressures are generated
within the region, and from other competing clay centers of the nation. No
profits, but they must keep on producing to survive. Sounds familiar? Rather
depressing.
I had the privilege of visiting an engineer who chucked a white-collar job to
start a pottery career in the boondocks of the same region before the
economic doldrums started to hit. Of the one hundred graduates of a local
clay school, with whom he had been trained, only a handful (10 or so) still
pursue things related to clay, like having an employment with a local clay
factory or pursuing a semblance of career as a clay artist. This potter,
obviously, have been under tremendous economic pressure, as well as the RMSS
(repetitive muscle stress syndrome), since he had two large, beautiful
woodfire kilns (anagama and noborigama), plus an oil burning homemade kiln. I
think he is good enough to survive. He is a good thrower, but will have a
tough time to adjust his labor intensive operations to the bad economic
trend. He is ambitious and young enough to go through the ordeal with the
help of his wife, three dogs, a cat, and occasional visitors (aspiring
pottery students). It looked like the middlemen force them work like dogs
with tight deadlines while older technologies to which he had committed
himself require constant attention to details. No time to enjoy the country
scenery.
In the same region, some established clay artists have called it quits. This
sort of thing has not happened before. Many more may follow suit. The
commissions charged by galleries and showrooms have mushroomed to way past
the 50% mark (read 65 to 70%), when they were only 35% last time I checked
rather recently. A reversal of fortune is in the offing. The shortage of such
exhibition space and the competition among potters have contributed to the
current situation, that's what they say. Things are that tough.
But those who wish to learn about pottery abound. Hence, many potters do
teach and make up for the lost revenue, since the law of supply and demand
dictates that a potter can still command a reasonable fee for the services,
like $50 for a half day individual lesson. Typically given once a week, and
can be stretched to four to six months before the student get the basics
mastered or satisfactory hand-made (not wheel thrown) pots fired. Or, an
equivalent amount for a short lesson for a weekend visitor, including
delivery charges of fired pieces. Given the high cost of everything, that's
peanuts, and far below what one can make by teaching simple conversational
skills in English, a very popular earthy pursuit, but what the heck! It's
easy money. Both ways, I say. It's a steal.
Some potters refuse to teach throwing skills untill one could do _kikumomi_
or kneading in a chrysanthemum pattern of a large chunk of clay (by itself
harder than throwing), and can get away with it. Imagine the shenanigan that
could go on with regards to the supply of clay, forming techniques, glazes
and firing in such an environment. A lot of opportunities to make extra
bucks. I thought I had seen enough questionable things over here that
seemingly took advantage of my own ignorance and the teacher's, but these
practices in Japan by reputable potters seem to go on, if only to maximize
the return. Things are getting desperate, or did they go on for years? I
don't know and I don't care any more, I guess.
I met with a bright, attractive female highschool graduate, purely by chance.
An aspiring potter, she apprenticed for four years (her statements, not
corroborated by checking into another source--I am no reporter) with a Tanba
potter near Kyoto and showed me two bowls from that experience (one of hers,
thrown uneven in a typical novice fashion, and the other the master
teacher's, piously wrapped in an expensive looking cloth).
After some serious conversation that evening, just before calling it a quit,
she asked me half self-assertively, "then this teabowl (of her master's) is
worth something or nothing, is it not?". What answer could I have given? I
felt a little cruel to tell the truth, since I refrained from making any
direct comments on the glazes, forms or techniques on those woodfired bowls.
Mostly I talked about the tea ceremony and its relevance to teabowls and
pottery techniques in general, in addition to introducing the American scene
and training opportunities available. She was so convinced that her training
was good, and that the high school education is more than adequate to make
"sensational" artist's statements that there was not an ounce of hesitation
in expressing her abilities to convince the would-be collectors. How nice. So
young and confident.
What about her career? She recently married a Korean glass blower, and
returned to her hometown in Hokkaido, the northernmost of the major Japanese
islands. There is a glass center nearby, but her husband could not find any
related job to use his talents, so works at hard physical labor. She has a
job obtained through family connections, but no place to have her newly
acquired wheel. They live in a rented house in the coldest region of the
country, but fortunately they have an excellent landlord who demands a very
reasonable rent. But she has had no place to pot, let alone put the used
Shimpo wheel to good use. I suggested plain outdoors, partitioned by
traditional _byobu_, or standing, thick paper screens, to keep the prying
eyes of neighbors out. Her silence belied her disapproval of my suggestions.
It would be on gravel, not even on dirt, I guess. That's why.
I conclude this by pointing out some lighthearted anomalies. The value and
belief system, or the self image, of the Japanese, especially the younger
ones, are basically the same, as far as the pottery goes, but many other
social phenomena are different. An example?
A tiny cup of strong coffee (shall never qualify as an American coffee, since
the volume is so small for a big head, about a quarter of normal size
portion, with no refill privilege), the only one sold as coffee with no
choices, cost about $3 on special super-express trains. It is served by a
polite, comly young Japanese girl with a nice smile, with her bare hands,
brought to your seat, and comes with rather generous packets of chemical
whitener and refined powdered sugar, plus a tiny plastic stirring stick.
Sometimes no lid, and never with a paper napkin. Just a bare tiny cup only
two-thirds full of strong, bitter medicinal liquid. Certainly no refill
privilege, although I felt no need for it. A refill costs another bundle. But
no one asks for it. Judging from the tiny size, it's odd.
Compare this to a small can of naturally brewed beer with no additives which
tastes like Coor's. It is sold by the same lady on the same train, but
without any paper cups or napkins. Just a bare cold can at $2, with choices
for several brands or varieties, at seven or eight o'clock in the morning.
So, I developed a habit of improvising liquid breadfasts with no cholesterol
or saturated fats. I found it not only conveniently pleasant, but also
healthy for my pockets and the blood pressure. I definitely was not behaving
like a Roman in Rome. I may have started a new trend over there. Or, they may
change the beer price, soon, although this is not likely to happen. It was
basically the same four years ago. A potter knows how to adjust, anyway, no
matter what happens in an unfamiliar location. I favor use of appropriate
technologies. One of my favorite books is _The Self-Reliant Potter:
Refractories and Kilns_ by Henrik Norsker. So much for now. HM
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A self-appointed critic of ceramic arts, and a self-syled maker of craft
potteries, the author (HM) likes to talk about the strange things that have
been observed or actually taken place, both the good and the bad. All rights
reserved by Hiro Matsusaki (HM), June 18 (Wednesday), 1997.
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