Identity of ceramics

I believe a piece of ceramic can reveal a lot about its owner. Beyond aesthetics, it can showcase one's personality, joys, and sorrows. Peering into someone else's pottery collection is like secretly reading their diary. This article is a rambling exploration of these thoughts.

Back in the day, I was captivated by the allure of old Japanese ceramics. My fascination stemmed from a desire to find a water glass that would encourage me to hydrate more effectively. While the idea might seem far-fetched, or perhaps only achievable by Xiaomi, I simply sought a visually appealing vessel for my daily consumption, driven by my penchant for aesthetically pleasing objects.

As the Vietnamese saying goes, "A clean house brings coolness, and clean bowls make food taste better." This adage resonated deeply when I stumbled upon a Kutani ceramic cup adorned with cobalt blue hues and faded gold flakes, a testament to its rich history. For some inexplicable reason, every glimpse of this cup ignited an insatiable thirst within me. A friend, grimacing in disapproval, expressed their aversion to using another person's used cup, deeming it unsanitary and even horrifying. However, I belonged to the "low-key" crowd, embracing the allure of antiquities (or more accurately, aged items), disregarding hygiene concerns and using the cup without a second thought. Moreover, if my friend had delved into Kawabata Yasunari's masterpiece "A Thousand Cranes," they would have discovered that using another person's cup is, in fact, a form of appreciation! The subtle blue hues emanating from the glaze infused the water with an enhanced flavor, leading me to indulge in self-deception, convinced of its exceptional taste.

This is Kutani Japanese pottery, characterized by its lustrous, porcelain-like glaze and intricate designs. Image borrowed from the internet. My cup bore a similar resemblance.

As fate would have it, this beloved cup vanished amidst the chaos of my frequent relocations. Coincidentally, these relocations extended to my workplace as well. Believe it or not, I moved my job to accommodate my living arrangements, not the other way around. At my new workplace, I found myself seated beside a kindred spirit, another enthusiast of old Japanese ceramics. Her preference leaned towards rustic green pottery mugs, devoid of excessive ornamentation, yet slightly larger to accommodate iced coffee. My taste, on the other hand, gravitated towards deformed pottery, the more distorted the better; however, this distortion had to adhere to a certain balance and composition. Please distinguish between "rustic beauty" and grotesque deformities.

This exemplifies rustic beauty. The rusticity manifests through a meticulously crafted form, ensuring it doesn't exceed the boundaries of proportion and composition, resulting in a unique aesthetic.

In stark contrast, this represents grotesque deformity. While I received it as a gift and appreciate its value, I cannot deny its lack of appeal.

Years passed, and after shattering countless cups and mugs, I became increasingly captivated by the Japanese glaze, a harmonious blend of unrestrained freedom and meticulous precision. Imagine someone with an intriguing personality, whose unkempt hair and unkempt attire seem chaotic yet somehow blend together harmoniously. The wrinkles in their clothing mirror the exuberance of their character, while their unkempt hair reflects the confidence of embracing their true self. This harmonious balance lies within their very essence, revealing itself only when forced conformity sets in. Japanese pottery resonates with this sentiment. Handcrafted through a process of molding, this pottery seamlessly complements the muted, dark-hued glaze with its natural, flowing streaks. I suspected that all the rustic pottery I had acquired from secondhand Japanese goods stores were the creations of amateurs, yet their approach to crafting exuded an undeniable artistic flair. In contrast, more industrialized products from pottery kilns bore a distinct Japanese touch, their perfectly rounded cup rims reminiscent of a compass's precise rotation, their smooth ceramic surfaces, and their porcelain-like glazes. These artisans possess an uncanny ability to seamlessly integrate their technical expertise into the design, avoiding the creation of uniform cups marred by uneven glaze distribution.

I christened this distinct quality the "identity" of pottery. Just as humans possess an identity, so too do the creations they bring forth. However, certain occupations demand the suppression of one's individuality, inadvertently obscuring one's true identity.

Amidst the chaos of my daily grind, I embarked on a quest to find something that reflected my true identity. The work I was doing, which was often praised for its excellence, felt increasingly at odds with my inner self. I had pursued a degree in fine arts, drawn to the worlds of painting, poetry, and writing. These were pursuits that thrived in the sanctity of a private space, behind closed doors. However, the demands of my career propelled me into the public eye, exposing my vulnerabilities, forcing me into confrontations with clients, vying for recognition among colleagues, and fervently advocating for my professional ideals. The air between me and those around me grew thick with the aroma of individualism, emanating from my very core. I would unabashedly express my opinions, openly declare my displeasure, and refrain from feigning joy, often to the dismay of others. Perhaps I belonged to an asocial society within the realm of social media, but I embraced this identity.

Seeking a sanctuary where I could stand alone, I resolved to establish a small business, a haven where I could freely pursue my passions. And, just as importantly, generate an income from it. For me, the true measure of one's identity lies in the ability to monetize one's passion. I vividly recall the day I could introduce myself as an illustrator, the moment I sold a painting depicting a drowning child to an Austrian author for her book's illustration. Following this concept, Van Gogh, in my eyes, could not be considered an artist during his lifetime, for he only sold one painting. Yet, upon further reflection, perhaps he still qualifies as an artist since he dedicated his life solely to painting. This leads us to an expanded definition: artists are either those who make a living through painting or are utterly destitute due to their exclusive focus on painting. There is no middle ground.

Illustration by me for writer Ute Mayrhofer' s book, 2020

I am drawn to extremes, incapable of occupying the middle ground. Thus, I made the resolute decision to abandon my corporate position as an art director to pursue something genuinely aligned with my aesthetic sensibilities. While the field of art direction or creative direction is undergoing a transformation in Vietnam, I shall not delve into that discussion. Instead, I simply declare that I have shed the burden of titles to embrace the hands-on approach of a potter, shaping clay and infusing it with life, like a graphic artist, to establish my own identity.

And to ensure that my creations forever embody that identity.