A different understanding of pace
In Tokyo, where everything moves so fast, there's an art to moving at the right pace.
Slow enough not to miss the ceramics store that would otherwise appear to be someone's front room.
We’d wake up with the sun. Despite this happening at 4:30 or 5am, I never minded. Waking with the sun as it filtered softly through the shoji screens became one of my favourite parts of the day. Paper screens and lanterns are everywhere, and I found myself noticing their different shapes and intricate designs - capturing and casting light and shadow according to the time of day, or the occasion they have been called upon to acknowledge. The idea that a relatively simple object can be so beautiful and so functional reinforced my belief that art can be both aestetically impressive and designed for use. I spend a lot of time thinking about how everyday objects shape the way we live. Those mornings reminded me that even something as ordinary as a paper screen can quietly influence the rhythm of a day.
We spent a couple of days in Mashiko during our trip. The journey felt like somewhat of a pilgrimage as we joined the commuter trains in Tokyo, tightly packed and full of business suits, thinning to personal space and personal style by the third or fourth train. While we were there, I felt fortunate to step inside the Hamada Studio. Now run by Tomoo Hamada, the grandson of Shoji Hamada, this studio has been passed from generation to generation, along with the responsibility for its craft.
Pottery wheels lined one side of the studio and, again, the sun streamed in through paper screens, providing a soft, natural light across the work stations. Pots covered the floor and filled the wareboards. Rows of pots waited to be glazed and fired on tables outside. Despite this, I was struck by how relaxed and calm the studio felt. There was a gentle rhythm without the “hurry”, productivity without the panic. Watching them work made me question my own relationship with making. I often focus on the next piece, the next collection, the next milestone. There was none of that urgency here. Just the quiet confidence that comes from returning to the wheel, day after day, year after year.
Our trip would have been much shorter if it weren’t for the coffee stops we lingered over. Each coffee was crafted with the same quiet attention to detail I'd begun noticing everywhere. Ordering a coffee became a sensory ritual… opening canisters one by one, letting the nuanced aromas waft past before choosing the one that suited your mood. It reminded me of opening our mug drawer at home and selecting the ‘correct’ vessel for that particular morning coffee. Stepping into Weekenders in Kyoto felt like passing into a moment of quiet. Moving through to their courtyard garden is like a sigh of relief from the hustle and bustle of the street. There are no tables, just a few wooden benches to perch on, or a mossy rock under the shade of a tree. It’s not a big space, but there’s a stillness and sense of space here. I realised not only was I enjoying the coffee, but I was enjoying the permission to slow down. To sit. To notice. It made me wonder how often I miss moments simply because I'm already thinking about the next one.
I returned home from Japan with a notebook of ideas, but the most valuable thing I brought back wasn't the notebook of ideas and sketches; it was a different understanding of pace. A quiet confidence in the process. That's the feeling I hope to carry into my new studio, and into every piece I make from here.