A MEDITATION IN CLAY

Excerpt from 'Miyazaki: Between Shrine and Sea'

Miyazaki, Japan · 2026

From an ongoing manuscript exploring landscape, ritual, memory and the spaces between things in Miyazaki, Japan.

‘You can see the way the bowl is fired, how much oxygen is in the air’, Yuji mutters, gesturing carefully towards the middle shelf. A dappled ceramic plate is glazed russet red. Its surface is cracked, like cooled magma, holding minuscule fractures of time. ‘The less oxygen there is in the air, the deeper the colour’, he continues, ‘a plate like this is fired at 1250 degrees Celsius for over 24 hours.’

He uses the phrase kangen shōsei. I tilt my head in confusion, exposing my broken Japanese. Yuji’s English, also limited, means he is unable to translate kangen shōsei. After a brief internet search, we find that it means reduction. In the kiln, iron is denied a surplus of oxygen. It shifts to a decadent coppery red, the colour of falling autumn leaves. After the iron-rich earthenware is initially fired, a second firing reveals a molten sanguine patina, previously obscured by time and heat.

On a tranquil Tuesday in January, all was silent in Aya town. The journey from Miyazaki City was brief, taking only 40 minutes by car. On the hillside, Aya-jo loomed imposingly, haunted by the ghost of the former yamajiro mountain fortress built over 400 years ago. Originally, it was controlled by the Aya clan, a local samurai family originating from Hyuga province. The ruler of this clan was Koshiro Yoshito ‘Aya', who oversaw the construction of Aya Castle in the 14th century. His family occupied the fortress for several generations. Built on Shiroyama Mountain, it provided a low vantage point over the Aya River valley, a strategic advantage for a medieval castle. During the Sengoku, ‘warring states’ period in the 15th and 16th centuries, it was lost to the Shimizu clan. They were from Kagoshima, 90 kilometres to the south. A century later, the original castle was demolished by the Tokugawa shogunate to satisfy the desires of the regional warlords. In the late Kamakura period, it was faithfully reconstructed, and now stands as one of the oldest typological examples of yamajiro in Japan.

Today, Aya-jo overlooks the intricate patchwork of houses nestled in the heart of the town. It is enclosed by one of the largest remaining shoyo jurin in Japan. These ancient forests are full of lucidophyllous trees, occupying tropical stretches of land across western Japan, southern China and the Himalayas. Evergreen forests here are saturated with viridescent broad-leaved woodlands that cradle swathes of dark, glossy leaves. Opalescent streams emerge tentatively from the trees. On the mountainside, azaleas bloom. In summertime, thousands of glowing fireflies dance along the banks of Otani stream. Aya’s distinct natural charm is stitched into the fabric of the town, founded upon the symbiotic coexistence of humans with nature. Here, people and the environment are one. The Ayakita River and the Aya Minami River intersect in the town centre, seeping through fertile valleys and irrigating rice fields, a main source of income for the residents. Since its conception, local people have integrated natural resources into the rhythm of their everyday lives. This has shaped artistic practice in the region, with Aya being locally renowned for woodworking, pottery, weaving, and indigo dyeing. These handicrafts flourished during the medieval period, when the creative use of natural resources became an integral part of everyday life.

Silence ricocheted across the valley. Its resonance lingered, like the sepulchral whisper of a temple bell. When repeatedly struck from the outside, a lonely sound resonates from the emptiness within. The hushed atmosphere of the hilltop caught me off guard, coaxing my attention inwards. The disquietude, combined with an acute awareness of my foreign self in this tiny rural town, slowly crept to the forefront of my mind. Yuki, oribu, tetsuyū, ao. Yuji motions towards the porcelain set on the wooden tabletop. The aroma of antiquated timber hangs loosely in the air, fragrant as the inner sanctuary of a woodland shrine. As I glance around the studio, I see row upon row of ceramics, reverently crammed into timber racks like bones in an ossuary of glazed earth. Shelves of cerulean blue, dappled snow-white, and oxide red earthenware are piled high. Some are waiting patiently to be collected, and others are eager to be fired. They cradle the memories of intention and accident, a chipped rim, a cracked finish, an imperfectly formed handle. Each relic, a container of a consecrated ancestral knowledge system, is buried in the logic of the landscape. The clay existed before the hands that shaped it. The bowl still remembers the mountain.

Snow white, olive, iron-black, ocean blue. 16 thousand years ago, the infamous hunter-gatherer Jōmon people forged one of the earliest pottery and lacquerware cultures on earth. It was also at this time that Japan’s terrestrial characteristics were gradually transforming, with conifer forests being replaced by deciduous broad-leaf trees. Distant Neolithic ancestors of the Japanese, their native crafts embodied a sacrosanct appreciation for the gifts bestowed on the land by the natural world. They believed that kami resided in tools, food and living things. Each vessel is a sacred talisman. The root of the word Jōmon originates from a particular type of pottery excavated by Edward S. Morse, an American zoologist who was uncovering shell mounds in 1877. The Omori shell mound in the Kanto region was the first to be studied of the 25,000 shell mounds found in Japan. The fragments of found pottery were described as ‘cord-marked’, referring explicitly to the tactile irregularity of the earthenware surface. From this, the Jomon period acquired its name, an amalgamation of the kanji characters meaning ‘cord’ and ‘pattern’.

Ao, onegaishimasu. ‘Blue, please.’ I mutter softly, gesturing towards a collection of cerulean blue pottery at the far end of the table. Hesitating, I nearly change my mind and select tetsuyū instead. He taps the rim of the cup, and he asks me in Japanese whether I want to make a cup, a bowl, or a plate. I point, decisively this time, towards the plate. It will be challenging, muzukashii, he warns me. What is the worst that can happen? He leaves his chair and returns with a clay-streaked apron. I place it over my head, taking care not to clip the haphazardly arranged clay mugs on the adjacent shelf. He glides monastically across the room, pausing reverently to switch on the potter’s wheel, which begins humming softly. The dulcet footsteps of his return are barely audible above the purring of the machine. Bending down, he retrieves the clay, and a lock of his coal-black, glossy hair falls across his forehead. He is a slight man, no older than 30, betrayed by the brightness of his youthful gaze and cherubic overalls, the colour of sun-baked terracotta. They hang loosely from his dainty frame. On his front, a pair of aureate buckles gleam like the sun. A dusty surgical mask obscures the lower half of his face, smudged by the faint traces of his morning’s work.

With his gentle eyes resting upon the clay, he perches on a wooden stool behind the wheel. With the focus of an ascetic, he begins to manipulate a modest lump of clay, which rises assuredly between his steady hands. He moves with the instinctive grace of muscle memory, and he only breaks focus to motion me towards the seat opposite him. I sit down. When he finishes perfecting the basic shape, he encourages me to submerge my hands in a bowl of warm water. Fingertips dripping, I cautiously move them towards the font. His gaze lowers as he timidly asks if he can guide my hands. They are smooth as wet porcelain, rendered supple from the years of handling clay. The nascent sculpture would not yield easily to my touch, yet a gradual rhythm of its own steadily began to emerge. The boundary between hands and clay dissolves as my nervous system becomes calm, absorbed in the act of making. The water bowl christens my hands with renewed moisture. Acquiescing under the guidance of Yuji, my hands follow his movements, fingertips periodically resisting the tug of the spinning wheel.

Emptiness gives rise to form.

More pressure, he patiently encourages. I listen obediently, taking care not to apply too much force and risk collapsing the form of the slowly emerging plate. My hands relent to the rhythm of making, and I let the clay guide my thumbs, descending into its hollow belly. Yuji slowly releases his grip, assessing my technique and correcting me when necessary. As he releases his grip, I further release mine, my hyper-vigilance of the world around me gradually softening. The clay rises and falls hesitantly, continuing to ripple beneath the pressure. It begins to yield more easily to the warmth of my hands, and for a brief moment in time, the stream of my bodily awareness steadily drains away.