Ceramic studios are arranged side by side in old wooden buildings with a subtle clay and wood smoke odor in the small passageways beneath the Kiyomizudera temple in eastern Kyoto. Delicate celadon teacups and white porcelain with blue underglaze, the kind of modest dinnerware Kyoto has made for ages, are among the typical items sold in the stores. However, something unexpected has been occurring in a handful of these courses. Alongside the conventional Japanese forms on the workbench are pieces glazed in emerald green and deep indigo with designs that resemble those found on a woven songket sash or a Malaysian batik cloth. It’s the same clay. The hands are identical. However, the dialogue taking place within the glazing is novel.
One of Japan’s most sophisticated ceramic traditions, kyo-yaki (also called Kiyomizu-yaki after the district) has been continually practiced for over 400 years. It is characterized by careful hand painting, delicate glazes, and a surface sensitivity that requires years to completely develop. Another Kyoto heritage is raku ceramics, which adds a distinct dimension with its earthy, uneven nature of pieces that are fired swiftly and cooled outdoors, each slightly different from the last. These methods do not involve mass production. They are methodical, slow, and firmly rooted in the Japanese concept of wabi-sabi, which holds that flaws have inherent worth.
Wabi-sabi and Malaysian ornamental traditions are not as contradictory as they initially seem, which is what makes the fusion work with Malay aesthetics, at least in the works that pull it off. Deep golds, rich reds, and precisely repeated geometric shapes are among the many patterns and colors seen in Malaysian batik and songket weaving. Unlike traditional Japanese ceramics, they are daring. However, surface is regarded as significant in both religions. Both are aware that an object’s decoration conveys information about the creators and the society they inhabit. The bond is based on that same seriousness for craft.
The hibiscus, the national flower of Malaysia, is depicted in a number of pieces using the Kyo-yaki technique of fine-line hand painting. Although it’s a minor feature, it has a different effect than a generic flower motif. There’s something thoughtful about incorporating a Malaysian emblem into a Japanese method. It’s not travel. It’s more akin to a question being posed in clay: what happens when one culture actually makes an effort to comprehend another instead of just copying it?
Over the past ten years, there has been a noticeable increase in artistic contact between Japan and Southeast Asia in a number of fields. Cross-pollination has been occurring in fields including architecture, textiles, and graphic design in ways that aren’t often well-known outside of specialized groups. Ceramics tends to lag behind speedier art genres because it is slow, tangible, and grounded. This may be the reason why this specific combination seems more significant than trendy. Instead of focusing on market placement, it seems as though the potters engaged are producing out of real interest.
In the simplest sense, the finished teacups and vases are exquisite items. Beyond that, though, they have some weight. They are the kind of thing that makes you wonder about what gets maintained when two cultures decide to pay attention to each other — not through diplomacy, not through commerce, but through the specific, patient act of sitting down at a wheel and attempting to build something true.
