One.
The Art of Letting Clay Speak.
Kokoro-Kurinuki, for me, is the attempt to grasp the material before my mind can name it. It is not about using clay as a means to an end but about encountering it as a living counterpart. The first incision, the initial hollowing—these are not choices but occurrences. They happen because they must. And as my hands move, as my thumb explores and my gaze appraises, the essential unfolds: a cup, a bowl, a vessel emerging from the formless into the visible. Without negotiation. Simply because its time has come.
Philosophically, the Kokoro-Kurinuki style is an exercise in surrender. Those unburdened by rigid technique, those who carry no preordained forms in mind, approach this craft as it is—open, inquisitive. Like a conversation without a beginning, yet already in full flow. There are no certainties, no repetitions. Every cut is final. Every stroke of the blade carves a path anew. Each touch alters the form irrevocably.
Traditional techniques have their elegance, their logic, their rightful place in history. Yet in this raw act of allowing things to become, another kind of truth reveals itself—one that cannot be imitated or preserved. It lives in the moment, in the meeting of hand and clay, in the breath that lingers in the air. The cup that takes shape is not merely a vessel; it is a trace of an instant, an imprint of time and intuition.
Thus, my workshop becomes a place of wonder, not of planning. A space where not knowledge, but occurrence, holds sway. Sometimes, the forms grow willful—rough, uneven. They speak of movement, of hesitation, of sudden resolve. They breathe. There are no mistakes. There is only what emerges—and what might have been.
Perhaps this is the deepest lesson of this way of working: that we do not create, but accompany. That we do not invent, but discover.
Two.
Three.
