Ken & Kan Matsuzaki: An Interview at Yushin-gama
by 森一馬Over the past year or so, I have occasionally heard people say, “There’s a ceramic artist who would really like to meet you, Mori.”
In this line of work, I am fortunate to receive DMs and emails from all kinds of artists. But somehow, hearing that someone “wants to meet me” makes it sound—as my imagination gets the better of me—as though I am being courted. It is a little embarrassing, and at the same time, rather flattering.
Then, on the opening day of Roots at Nihombashi Mitsukoshi, he appeared, accompanied by Mr. Goseki.
His name was Kan Matsuzaki, a ceramic artist from Mashiko and the son of an almost impossibly great father.
“Someday, I would really like you to see my work.”
Tempted by this invitation—this courtship, if you will—I made my way to Mashiko.
It is an extraordinary environment.
Mashiko is famous for mingei and craft pottery, yet what Kan creates in this beautiful setting are ash-covered works inspired by the traditions of Mino and Shigaraki.
“I grew up looking at my father’s work, so I think it was only natural that I eventually wanted to make things in that kind of style,” he says.
Kan originally aspired to become a photographer and spent his student years in the United States, including time in Ohio and Boston. After returning to Japan, he began photographing the landscapes of Mashiko, his father’s work, and eventually the works of many other ceramic artists. In doing so, he gradually came to recognize the particular power that vessels possess.
A photographic work by Kan capturing the natural landscape of Mashiko.
“When I photographed a piece, I would look at it objectively and ask myself how I could photograph it in the best possible way. Through that process, I began to realize for the first time that an artist is actually using the vessel as a means of expressing something.
“At home, my father’s work had always simply been there. It was completely normal to me, so perhaps for that very reason I had never really noticed it. Once I became conscious of that, I started thinking, ‘Ceramics are actually fascinating.’
“Then I began asking my father little questions: ‘What are you firing next?’ ‘What kind of clay are you using?’ Things like that. At first it was really just an extension of playing with clay, but the more I did it, the more I enjoyed making things. Around 2018, I began working seriously as a ceramic artist.”
Having spent many years overseas and having pursued photography—a field entirely separate from ceramics—Kan speaks about the importance of drawing inspiration from outside the ceramic world.
“I have studied the tea ceremony and learned at least the basic conventions. But once you understand those conventions, I try not to think in terms of emulating a particular ceramic artist or reproducing the work of a certain historical period.
“Instead, I would like to take inspiration from photography, painting, woodworking, and other disciplines, and find ways of expressing those influences through ceramics.
“Among ceramic artists, I especially like Keiseki Yoshimi. Because he came to ceramics through calligraphy, I feel something in his work that is quite different from other ceramic artists.”
I wondered whether Kan received advice about his work from his celebrated father.
“No, my father never really comments on my work. In fact, he never once told me that I should become a ceramic artist in the first place. Of course, he teaches me technical things, and sometimes we fire the kiln together, but as for what he thinks of my own work… I wonder myself,” he says with a laugh.
A great father and a son who began as a photographer: the parallel with Toshisada Wakao and his son Kei is striking. Kei once described his father as a “comrade,” and I sense a similar distance—or perhaps closeness—between Kan and his father.
The one major difference is their environment.
The Wakaos work in Mino itself, while the Matsuzakis are based in Mashiko, where they pursue ceramics inspired by Mino and other traditions. I asked whether that had ever caused difficulties.
“At exhibitions, people sometimes ask me, ‘Why are you making Mino- or Shigaraki-style work in Mashiko?’ But nowadays there are many artists working outside the traditional production regions, so the reaction is not particularly negative.
“In my father’s generation, though, I think it was much more difficult. He has never really spoken to me directly about that.”
As we were talking, his father suddenly appeared.
The unexpected arrival of the internationally renowned Ken Matsuzaki took me completely by surprise, yet he immediately began speaking to us with remarkable openness.
“Oh, I was completely ostracized,” he said.
“After finishing my apprenticeship under Master Shimaoka, I spent about fifteen years making what you might call conventional Mashiko ware. But I realized that if I continued doing that, I would never surpass my teacher.
“So I thought, if that is the case, I should make what I truly want to make.
“I admired Master Toyozo Arakawa and especially Rosanjin and Kato Tokuro, and began creating my own interpretations of Oribe and Shino. After that, Shimaoka-sensei did not speak to me for three years. And the people of Mashiko essentially ignored me.
“But I still wanted to make what I loved. Without that kind of conviction, I don’t think I could have continued.”
I was astonished to learn that an artist as accomplished as Ken Matsuzaki had endured such hardship.
For years, he quietly continued confronting the flames of the kiln while effectively being shunned by the community. Then came a turning point. Exhibitions in London, Boston, and elsewhere overseas sold out, and his work received extraordinary acclaim. Even today, he continues to hold workshops and exhibitions abroad every year.
Among Ken Matsuzaki’s many works, one in particular immediately seized my attention:
Kin Shino — “Golden Shino.”
The body glows like gold, while the surface is covered in an extraordinary luster. Depending on the angle from which it is viewed, the bowl flashes with different colors—a seven-hued golden tea bowl.
Seeing my excitement, Ken explained how it came into being.
“I wanted to recreate Master Tokuro’s Murasaki Shino—Purple Shino. To obtain that color, you need to fire and cool the kiln under strong reduction. Doing that with firewood alone is extremely difficult, so I decided to experiment with charcoal.
“I gradually increased the amount of charcoal, and eventually I began to get the purple color I was looking for. Then I started wondering what would happen if I kept adding more and more.
“One time, under the extremely high-temperature conditions, the surface became metallic and developed this luster.
“That discovery eventually became what I call Kin Shino.”
I have often felt that contemporary artists working in Shino are caught between two impulses: whether to return to the Momoyama period, or whether to move beyond what Tokuro achieved.
I never imagined that here in Mashiko I might encounter a glimpse of what lies beyond.
“Shino developed through Iron Shino and then, with Master Tokuro, into Purple Shino,” Ken said. “But what came after that had never really been seen.
“If you feel that Kin Shino represents one possible answer to what comes next, then that makes me very happy.”
Let me change the subject for a moment.
We live our lives wearing Western-style clothing. In Japanese, we literally call it yōfuku—“Western clothes.” Today this is so completely ordinary that we barely think about it.
Yet when Western clothing first began to spread through Japan during the Meiji period, some people rejected it as something worn by “demons” or “devils.”
Times changed.
Today, countless Japanese fashion brands enjoy enormous popularity overseas, and there are stores in London and Paris produced and directed by Japanese designers.
My point is this: a culture may be born in one place, travel somewhere else, and undergo an unexpected evolution there. And often, without even thinking about it, we end up wearing, using, and enjoying the results of that evolution.
Ceramics are no different.
Today we see all kinds of reversals that would once have seemed improbable: Tenmoku and celadon made in Japan becoming popular among Chinese collectors, or European ceramic artists producing genuinely outstanding Raku tea bowls.
Of course, in ceramics there remain real geographical advantages in terms of raw materials, accumulated techniques, and the transmission of knowledge.
But those advantages can also become restraints—the idea that “this is how it must be done.”
When it comes to evolution and innovation, I no longer believe that traditional production regions possess the overwhelming advantage they once did.
The name of the Matsuzaki kiln, Yushin-gama, was given by Ken himself. The name suggests a spirit of play—a heart free to wander.
Here in Mashiko, without the restraints of convention, father and son freely play with the traditions of Mino, Shigaraki, and beyond, creating work that could perhaps only have emerged from this particular distance from those traditions.
With Kin Shino as one extraordinary masterpiece, I hope they will continue to surprise us with works we have never seen before.
The challenge of Ken and Kan Matsuzaki continues.