Be authentic ― Raizan Yasunaga

What Do We Seek in Ceramics?

What do we seek in ceramic works, and why are we drawn to them in the first place?
The answer naturally varies depending on one’s lifestyle and environment, so it cannot be reduced to a single definition. Yet for those of us who live in cities, one of the things we often seek in ceramics may well be a quiet connection to nature, or a fleeting sense of calm that momentarily loosens the tension of daily life.

When I first held a tea bowl by Raizan Yasunaga in my hands at his solo exhibition, I felt precisely that kind of desire being gently, almost silently, fulfilled. It was not excitement, but rather a deep, steady sense of reassurance. While that sensation still lingered, I traveled to Karatsu, and soon after invited him to present works at Kanwan and Chōwan. The pieces sold out almost immediately.

All the while, I felt that I ought to write properly about Yasunaga at some point. At the same time, I hesitated—wondering whether it might be better to leave his solitary image and enigmatic presence untouched, preserved in silence. Yet as we continued to talk over time and I came to understand the depth of his thinking and the intensity of his passion, it began to feel wasteful to confine such substance to mere image alone. That is why I have decided, here and now, to acknowledge his work and his presence directly, and to set these thoughts down in words.

Life, Landscape, and Making

“I spent time living in the city, but now I live here in Karatsu, within its nature and its rhythms. For me, making ceramics is a way of conveying that life and environment themselves. Nature is, of course, beautiful as it is, but there are landscapes—like satoyama—that become even more beautiful through the subtle presence of human hands. My approach to making work may be close to that feeling. I try to use the materials of this land, adding only what is necessary.”

One striking aspect of Yasunaga’s solo exhibition was the limited range of styles on display. Unglazed Karatsu, painted Karatsu, and Ido-style bowls—nothing more. Within the Karatsu tradition, these are subdued, austere styles, often favored by seasoned eyes rather than casual viewers. The focus was unmistakably narrow.

“In my early years, I also made Korean Karatsu and other colorful works. But when firing a climbing kiln, I noticed that placing unglazed or painted Karatsu in the first chamber and colored pieces in the second or third affected how the flames moved, preventing either from firing as I intended. That may be specific to my kiln, but I decided it would be better to stop making those styles and instead devote myself fully to Karatsu works using sandstone.”

Sandstone and the Question of Origins

At this point, it is worth touching on the subject of sandstone and ancient Karatsu ware.
The theory that old Karatsu was made using sandstone began circulating about twenty-five years ago, when Yasunaga was still an apprentice, after a local materials supplier proposed the idea. The late Kai Yoshino of Hazenotani Kiln pursued research and reconstruction based on this theory, and it was later developed further by the Ancient Karatsu Research Group, led by ceramic artist Yasumoto Kajiwara. Today, the idea that old Karatsu was made with sandstone has become almost conventional wisdom among Karatsu potters.

“I think potters active since the Showa period always sensed that something was different. But back then, anything you made would sell, so there was little room to question what that difference really was. When I first heard a materials dealer claim that old Karatsu was sandstone, I was skeptical. Until a few years ago, I continued making what we might call modern Karatsu without touching sandstone. But as the sandstone theory gradually became established, I began to feel—as someone who entered this world because of a love for old Karatsu—that I had no choice but to confront it. That feeling grew stronger around 2023, and I decided to commit fully to sandstone. Since then, it has become the core of my work.”

It is said that Yi Sam-pyeong discovered porcelain stone at Izumiyama in 1616, after Korean potters were brought to Japan during Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s invasions of Korea. Old Karatsu was produced only briefly before disappearing with the spread of porcelain. Viewed in this context, the idea that old Karatsu—likely made under the guidance of porcelain-centric Korean potters—was produced not from clay but from sandstone feels entirely natural.

“Once I began working with sandstone, many things started to make sense. For example, firing times became dramatically shorter. Considering that firewood was strictly controlled and limited, and that there were no modern tools like log splitters, shorter firings would have been far more rational. Karatsu also has abundant sandstone, with little risk of depletion. When you consider the economic conditions and constraints of the time, unnecessary elements would naturally be stripped away. Returning to sandstone helped me understand, on a visceral level, how technique emerges from such practical logic.”

Constraint as the Source of Sharpness

I felt something similar years ago when I worked in fashion. Clothing shaped by political and economic constraints often proves sharper and more radical than the work of any avant-garde designer. It is therefore hardly surprising that masterpieces like Oku-Korai and old Karatsu emerged from potters working under strict domain control. Yasunaga’s words, grounded in a tactile understanding of historical conditions gained through sandstone, carry real conviction.

The Vitality of the Surface

Another essential aspect of Yasunaga’s work is the beauty of the surface. Karatsu is often too easily reduced to the idea of wabi-sabi, but while his pieces certainly embody that sensibility, their surfaces are astonishingly lively—healthy, even fresh.

“I often describe it as ‘baby-like skin.’ Without a sense of vitality, wabi-sabi doesn’t exist. If Karatsu were a season, it would be autumn or winter—but autumn and winter only make sense because spring exists. Even when trees appear bare, water still flows within them as they prepare for the next cycle. Without that underlying life, decay is merely death. Creating that kind of surface is incredibly difficult, but it is the most important thing.”

I often liken that surface to the skin of a person who has been sweating—not cheap gloss, not dead matte, but a viscous glow that seems to seep from within. That subtle radiance is, to me, the core of a tea bowl’s beauty and sensuality. When we look at old works from Momoyama or Karatsu and try to recreate them as they are today, the result often becomes dry and matte. But the surfaces we see now are the product of more than four centuries of use. When they were first made, they must have possessed a moist, lustrous vitality.

For that reason, unglazed and painted Karatsu may be among the most difficult styles to convey. The Karatsu we encounter in museums is “grown” Karatsu—objects shaped by time and use. Newly made Karatsu, without the ability to imagine that future, can appear austere or even plain. In a world where names and value can change through use—as with Oku-Korai—Karatsu is a style that leaves maximum room for growth. Yasunaga’s refusal to aim for superficial antiquity, instead focusing squarely on the newborn surface and preserving that potential, is an act of remarkable honesty and restraint.

Authenticity

“As a human being, I sometimes want to make myself look bigger, to appear impressive. But what ultimately matters is how honestly you can present yourself. That is the most difficult and most important thing. I know my work can be hard to understand, but I believe this is the essence, and I intend to continue.”

During Kanwan last year, Yasunaga also said to me:

“Seeing good work stimulates my desire to create. That’s positive, but it also brings a feeling that I cannot lose. That tension can give a work a certain strength, but it can also lead to something strained and self-conscious. I think the best outcome is when good work emerges naturally from steady, everyday practice.”

Listening to him, I felt deeply that while he struggles with flame and clay, his final opponent is always the self. He neither chases trends nor settles for mere reconstruction. By returning to sandstone as an origin, stripping away excess, and allowing life itself to be reflected in his vessels, he continues his work with unwavering clarity.

Raizan Yasunaga’s tea bowls cannot be compared to anything else.
They are simply—and uncompromisingly—the embodiment of a single stance:

Be authentic.

They are the physical form of a commitment to sincerity.