Food, Clay and Play

By Willi Singleton. From his presentation at the first European Woodfire Conference in Bröllin, Germany, 2010

“Yukkuri, tanoshiku” (slow down, enjoy it!) was my teacher’s mantra, which he would blurt out spontaneously throughout the day. Tappo Narui of Mashiko, Japan was acutely aware of the perils of trying too hard and overpowering the clay and wheel. He instilled in his students a respect for the local clay, the kickwheel and the climbing kiln as more than just materials and tools, but rather sources of creative potential. He used discussions around the fire pit with endless cups of green tea to teach us respect for art, nature and each other.

As a student of ceramics in the US during the ‘70s, my training can be boiled down to this: the job of the potter is to use clay, glaze and fire to express his/her own creativity by displaying originality and uniqueness. As a student in Japan in the ‘80s, I was taught it is the job of the potter to use his/her skills to express and bring out the character of the clay, glaze and fire. Contemplating this contrast in emphasis, I have watched the world of clay closely over the past quarter century, and there seems to be a conscious effort in many American university ceramics programs and artistic circles to distance ceramics intended as artistic expression from the utilitarian connections to food or other functional roles for clay objects in daily life. Clay can be used effectively for widely varying creative purposes, but I oppose the denial of utilitarian ceramics as a serious artistic pursuit. In opposition to this academic trend, I will first describe the overlap between food and clay, and then consider some specific examples in which ceramics for food have become respected as objects of art.

Part I: Slow Clay

I find it intriguing to compare popular topics in the realm of food and cooking with pottery making. Consider the parallels between the Slow Food movement and my favored approach to making pottery. Like Tappo Narui’s adage, “yukkuri, tanoshiku” (slow down, enjoy it!), a central pillar in the Slow Food mission is the “right to pleasure”. For those who are unfamiliar with it, the Slow Food movement opposes the fast food that permeates our society, promoting the enjoyment of traditional food and cooking over the processed homogeneity of industrialized eating. Slow Food advocates locally grown food raised with sustainable farming methods, and artisanal food using local ingredients. Slow Food encourages the preparation of ingredients and enjoyment of the cooking process in an unhurried, mindful manner. I will borrow the name and dub my ideal in pottery-making “Slow Clay” meaning using unprocessed and locally obtained materials, working with less dependence on industrially-produced chemicals and minerals, less emphasis on speed of producing, and more concern for depth and richness in the finished pots.

I have found that by describing what I do in relation to Slow Food, the uninitiated more quickly grasp of what my pottery is about. By offering the Slow Food model, which is now widely known, people are able to put my work into some kind of a framework, from which they can see connections and details that previously eluded them. The underlying connection between food and ceramics is also thereby established.

Resuscitating Antique Technologies

Slow Food advocates sustainable, environmentally friendly ways of living on earth. Traditional technologies for growing food and creating artisanal foods and beverages have been resuscitated by followers of Slow Food, and encouraged by the organization. Part of the Slow Food mission statement is to “protect the heritage of food cultures that makes… pleasure possible” (from the Slow Food website). The local chapters hold food and beverage tastings and dispense information in various ways, in their efforts to keep traditional food production alive.

My approach to pottery making, largely based on what I learned in Japan as a student, relies primarily on the ceramics technology that was most prevalent in Japan from the early 17th into the 20th centuries. Upon returning to the US in 1987, I had to find materials I could work with, substituting them for the local Japanese materials, and I have had to adapt certain processes to suit the local materials and situation, but I use mostly antique technologies to make my clays and glazes, and then form and fire them into pots. My electric kiln bisque firing and my Chainsaw and splitter for wood preparation are the major exceptions to this.

As new technologies have developed, antiquated technologies are occasionally scooped up by creative people and used for expressive purposes and kept within our realm of experience and body of societal knowledge. These antique technologies generally rely on more physical effort and greater levels of skill and understanding of unprocessed materials than the more sophisticated technologies that supplant them. The old techniques leave a “residue” showing how the processes employed have transformed the material. The beauty of this “residue” is one of the main reasons people like myself choose these ways of working. The nubby throwing lines of the slow turning wheel, the way the sandy clay crinkles when trimmed, the difference in glaze melt from front to back of a piece fired in a unidirectional flame thereby giving the pot a front and back, and the ash build up on some pieces where the flame carried ash has come to rest — these are examples of “residue” and might be considered blemishes by the uninformed.

Clay

The premixed clay bodies readily available from ceramic supply houses in the US, in their hermetically sealed plastic bags, seems to me the ceramic equivalent of store-bought white bread. Granted, it is convenient and easy to use, but it has little personality or local identity. I much prefer the “wild clays”, unprocessed and sometimes unruly clays taken directly from nature. I found a clay at the top of Hawk Mountain, three miles from my pottery, which I have been using since 1988. This clay fires to a chocolate brown color with a crinkled texture where trimmed. It lacks plasticity and often slumps at my firing temperature of cone ten, but it is my clay and I love working with it.

Since 2000, I have been adding a clay from the northern Chesapeake Bay area to my Hawk Mountain clay. It is from Stancill’s Clay and Gravel Mine, a family-run business located 74 miles due south of my studio, where the Susquehanna River flows into the Chesapeake Bay. The clay is fairly fine-grained and plastic, contains some silica rocks and is quite refractory despite its high iron content. When fired it has a rich red/brown/purple color. Alone, this clay is a challenge to work with, but mixed with the sandy Hawk Mountain clay it becomes quite pleasant to throw, and doesn’t crack as readily in drying. The clay absorbs water quickly as you throw and the high iron content means you have to be careful in the firing, but I accept its eccentricities in exchange for its rich color and interesting interaction with my glazes.

The question arises: what is a good clay? Some potters probably think about plasticity and ease of wheel-forming, or firing without warping, slumping, or bloating, while wood-firing potters may be more concerned with how the clay interacts with wood flame and ash. These are necessary considerations to a point, but some traditional potting communities have learned to deal with “problem clays” by learning what it takes to form and fire that clay successfully. Tamba clay, for example, can be very prone to bloating, which can be remedied by slowing the rate of temperature rise. Personally, I like a clay with richness in color and texture, but most of all, I want to make use of the clays from this place, to make a pottery that is physically derived from this place as much as possible.

Professor Haga Koshiro discusses the core components of wabi aesthetics, one of the foundation stones of Japanese aesthetics, as delineated in the classic text Zen-cha Roku: “Always bear in mind that wabi involves not regarding incapacities as incapacitating, not feeling that lacking something is deprivation, not thinking that what is not provided is deficiency.” (Tea In Japan, 1987, edited by Varley & Kumakura, p. 198, Haga Koshiro and Martin Collcutt) It is how a potter overcomes the deficiencies in a clay, and utilizes that clay to express simple, strong, understated forms, that shows real expression of wabi.

So being provided with a “temperamental” clay can be considered an opportunity to learn from the clay, what it will accept in forming and firing. Some difficult clays become quite usable by changing one’s forming methods, for example, throwing with slip instead of water, or using softer clay. Firing problems may require longer firing cycles or altering glazes. It comes down to how the potter collaborates with the clay, to get what the potter wants and what the clay will tolerate. The “difficult” clay may actually express much greater depth and complexity than a docile clay.

Tools

Slow Food advocates encourage people to slow down and enjoy the process of preparing meals. A good cook usually has a favorite knife which feels just right and makes the work easier and more enjoyable. The tools a potter employs should also feel just right and be a pleasure to use.

For example, I find the Japanese kickwheel quite helpful to overcome the shortcomings of my clay. Some of the clays used in Japanese pottery villages had their own quirks, and forming techniques evolved to deal with the difficulties of the local clays. The Onta clay in Kyushu is quite short, so potters there frequently utilize coil-and-throw methods on the kickwheel in their production. The slow rotation of this style of wheel and the ability to turn it quickly in either direction make it very convenient for clays that don’t stretch well. Of course, the potter has to get used to turning the wheel by foot while forming the clay. This may be seen as a drawback, but I like the motion and the rocking action. It’s just more fun for me.

The tools we choose as makers serve in the transformation of materials, but tools work both ways — shaping the material and shaping the maker. The work habits, reflexive actions, strained or strengthened muscle groups and kinesthetic perception developed while using particular tools become part of the maker. I think of it as making the maker. As physical changes take place, such as your leg strengthening to accommodate turning the wheel, changes in perception follow, and, I believe, an increased intimacy with the clay.

Glaze

Just as Slow Food encourages people to choose local, sustainably raised ingredients to cook with, I have come to rely on several materials from the valley surrounding my studio as the basis of my glazes, both because I love the depth and softness of ash glazes, and as a way of making my pottery an expression of this place.

The first of these is a mixed hardwood ash. Our house is largely heated by burning wood from the surrounding forests in a wood stove, which I think of as my glaze-making machine. The ash is put out in containers to be washed by the rain, then I wash it again to prepare it for becoming glaze.

The second material I use is corn-stalk ash, which contains some silica and functions differently than wood ash in the glazes. The farm fields around my studio are largely corn, so the material is readily available from local farmers who use it as bedding material for their animals.

The third material used in large quantities is bamboo ash. I planted five small pieces of bamboo in 1987 next to my house and kiln, which sprouted into a veritable bamboo forest, which needs to be cut back from time to time. Instead of discarding the cut bamboo, I burn it, and mill the ash, which is substantially higher in silica than corn stalk ash, and has become a cornerstone in my ash glaze recipes.

The fourth material I rely on is a clay that lines the creek running directly in front of my kiln. This clay is useful as a decorating engobe or as a glaze ingredient. I call it “creek clay”, and I calcine half of it when using it in glazes, or add twenty percent of the Hawk Mountain clay to it, when I apply it as an engobe to leather-hard ware.

The other main ingredient I use is a store-bought soda feldspar. Small additions of silica, kaolin, bentonite, iron and copper are used just as seasonings are added to a stew to enhance flavor. These help me tweak the glazes to avoid excessive running, settling and add color. I also use a white slip that is composed of non-local materials, purchased from a ceramic supply house.

I do not consider myself a purist and have no qualms about using these materials in order to get what I want in a glaze or slip. But I believe it is more interesting to start with unprocessed materials when you can, because they are a more complex mixture of minerals and chemicals than the highly refined materials. It is the same thing with food: fresh fruits and vegetables will provide better nutrition than processed ones.

Kiln

For me, firing is not something to be rushed through as quickly as possible. The Thanksgiving ritual of spending all day cooking the turkey and side dishes is more like my idea of firing: gathering with friends and spending all day (or two) enjoying the undertaking. The memorable Thanksgivings in my life have been as much about preparing the food with people you enjoy and care about as sitting at the table and partaking of the meal. My firings, which generally take place twice yearly, in Spring and Fall, have been made possible by the friends and family that gather kiln-side and work in concert. The ambiance is definitely campsite, but the warmth and camaraderie can be felt and the opportunity to interact with the powerful flame leaves an impression on participants. It may look like a party at times, but there is serious work going on, and the experienced stokers know that good timing and focusing on the flame is paramount.

Combinations of clay and glaze are enhanced by firing in a wood-burning kiln at a slow rate of heating and cooling. Just as food grilled on a barbecue will retain the smoky flavor of the fire, my pots may have subtle markings and flashing resulting from the interaction between flame and clay. Because the glazes are mostly ash, the wood ash that accumulates on a pot during the firing usually melts into the applied glazes and is not always evident, but the subtle changes are there. My clear ash glaze often becomes almost a celadon by interacting with the iron from the clay body, and my corn stalk ash glazes over an iron-rich creek clay glaze can acquire an iridescent surface due to the alternating oxidizing/reducing atmospheres. I am not firing with wood to get a “wood-fired look”, but to get the richness and subtleties of the fire embedded in the pot, not just on the surface.

I believe that using materials from a specific place allows the pots to convey the essence of that place. The pots reflect the mountains (where the clay comes from), the forests (where the wood ash and bamboo ash comes from), the fields (where the corn stalks come from), and the rivers (where the creek clay comes from). In the world of wines, I understand there is a deep respect for terroir (i.e. the local character of a wine, or “sense of place”), and that a certain region will produce a wine with specific flavors and characteristics due to the climate, soil and other geographic conditions. I believe pottery can be appreciated in the same way if the materials used are taken from a specific area.

Part II: Appreciating Ceramics with Food

Why Do Western Foodies Always Choose White Porcelain?

The most ubiquitous criticism of Slow Food is that the cost of organic and sustainably raised foods are too high for most people to afford: this is how Whole Foods stores have become known as “Whole Pay Check”. Thus Slow Food becomes an elitist indulgence for affluent professionals. But my own main criticism is that Slow Food chefs and aficionados are so negligent in their choice of serving dishes and ceramics for the dining experience. Most of the restaurants espousing Slow Food, or TV programs related to Slow Food, seem to resort to the same ubiquitous white porcelain dishes that dominate the commercial food world. Although the shapes of plates have ventured away from the old-school circular shapes, the square or even triangular white dishes seem intentionally bland, the culinary equivalent of gessoed canvas. It seems the plates are expected to be invisible, and merely frame the gastronomic masterpieces.

Micheal Pollan, the popular and outspoken Berkley professor, has become almost an unofficial spokesman for the Slow Food movement. In his book The Omnivore’s Dilemma, he castigates the styrofoam wrapper that the MacDonald’s meal is served in, but in his attempt to consider every facet of how food gets from the field to the eater’s mouth, he completely neglects to mention the role plates or dishes can play in accentuating the culinary experience. Using interesting and appealing ceramics to accentuate the pleasures of food is simply not something he considers, it seems.

There have been some localized endeavors such as the “Down To Earth” series of events in southeast Pennsylvania, organized by Lyla Kaplan and a consortium of farmers, brewers, vintners and artists, which incorporated local and “slow” food, with artisanal beverages, served on and in handmade and wood-fired ceramics. This series of eating and gathering events is one of the few times I have seen Slow Food served in or on fine wood-fired pots, in a gallery or restaurant setting.

In contrast to the popular chefs and cooking shows on television, which use bland plates and dishes like a blank canvas to paint on, expert Japanese chefs choose ceramics, lacquer or glass, and respond to the colors, textures and shapes of the utensils as they plan and carry out their culinary masterpieces. The first approach sees the dish as a nearly invisible frame. The second approach sees the vessel as a springboard and source of inspiration, a participant in a collaborative process.

Kaiseki Cuisine and Ceramics

The relationship of Japanese cuisine to Japanese ceramics is unusually rich, especially with the evolution of chanoyu (tea ceremony) culture, in which food took on a role of great significance, and the vessels holding the food and beverages also took on added significance. As the tea master Sen no Rikkyu led the tea ceremony through some significant refinements in the later part of the 16th century, kaiseki cuisine was incorporated into the event, replacing a more opulent and elaborate style of meal. I think you could almost call kaiseki a legitimate precursor of “Slow Food”, in that the selection and preparation of fresh, local ingredients for this intentionally simple meal included elaborate steps and consideration for particular guests and seasons.

The foods themselves as well as the dishes and arrangements were selected to delight the palate, be visually appealing and communicate deeper messages. There was special attention paid to changing seasons and undulations of the natural world, and attempts to bring the beauty of the natural world into the condensed space of the tea room.

In many ways, chanoyu foreshadows performance art, in that it is a one-time-only event requiring the guests to pay attention to subtle clues and juxtapositions to read the intended communications. Tea bowls and tea caddies as well as many kinds of food-serving dishes and accessories for preparing tea, were a vital part of this assembly. This important role for ceramics led the way for ceramics in Japan through the following centuries to be considered “works of art that were intended to be complemented and completed by the addition of food.” (Louise Cort, Japanese Ceramics and Cuisine, p. 29, Asian Art, Winter 1990) Thus the stage for ceramics in Japan to be both functional and a true art form, simultaneously, in contrast to the “applied arts” or “decorative arts” label ceramics received in the West.

Rosanjin – Epicurean Potter

Inspired by kaiseki cuisine, Kitaooji Rosanjin ran his famous restaurant “Hoshigaoka” in Tokyo in the 1930’s. Well known to be a difficult man, he couldn’t find satisfactory serving dishes for his culinary creations, and felt compelled to make them himself. Because of his late start with clay, being nearly 40 when he began making pots, he jumped in with determination, and decided to hire talented potters (two of whom would later become living national treasures themselves, Arakawa Toyozo from Mino, and Kaneshige Toyo from Bizen), to produce forms he wanted. He would then transform these shapes himself by cutting, bending, painting, and glazing them.

Rosanjin never went through any ceramic apprenticeship training, but started making ceramics as an already established artist, skilled in painting, calligraphy and seal carving. This is similar to Picasso, who ventured into ceramics after receiving wide acclaim for his drawings and paintings, and hired craftsmen to produce forms which Picasso then manipulated and painted on.

Rosanjin was no “locavore”: he appropriated forms and patterns from widely divergent traditions within Japanese and Asian ceramics. He had kilns built by professionals, and brought in piles of clay and glaze materials to his Kamakura compound from all over Japan. He was not a do-it-yourselfer in his potting habits, instead relying on the skills and competence of his workers.

Rosanjin’s cantankerous and egotistical personality, and lack of traditional training have made him a subject of much debate in the ceramics world over the years, but according to Louise Cort (Asian Art, Winter 1990) “his pieces were always unmistakably his own, expressing an almost voluptuous approach to clay as though it were food itself.”

For Rosanjin, both cooking and potting were opportunities to play, to investigate interesting options, to cavort and collaborate with ideas, materials and processes. One of his most inspiring pieces of writing is this:

Playing at One’s Work (written in 1934)
When I first took up pottery there were many who doubted the wisdom of such a move, but fortunately I have been coming along steadily, without any major setbacks. If my health holds for another decade I mean to try my best to create something worthy.

By “try” I really mean “play”. I am one of those who believes everyone works too hard. Why don’t people play more? People even work at things like painting and calligraphy – things that they should relax with and enjoy. When, I wonder, will someone come along who knows how to play at his work? People who work at their work – who treat their work as an unpleasant duty, comforting themselves with thoughts of other pleasures awaiting them after it is over – are most unfortunate. (People) are successful when they have a spirit of play about what they do; it keeps them from feeling weighed down.

In this sense it is my sincere wish to stay here by my kiln and go on playing at all sorts of work.
(The Art of Rosanjin, Cardozo and Hirano, 1987, p. 110)

These are my sentiments exactly! Slow Food is based on enjoyment – enjoying good food and company – while Rosanjin emphasized the creative possibilities of a maker collaborating with materials and process, be they ceramic or gastronomic. These both mesh nicely with Tappo Narui’s admonishment of “yukkuri, tanoshiku!” (slow down, enjoy it!). The idea is that process and product are not distinctly divided, that process leads naturally to outcomes which carry indelible evidence of that process, and that rigid compartmentalization of work and play is counterproductive.

Successful potting, like great cooking, is a collaboration that starts with good ingredients. The result isn’t just a conceptual construct, but a thing to be savored and enjoyed that can nourish and satisfy on multiple levels. Thinking of the potter’s art as Slow Clay brings into focus some ideas which are certainly ancient but hardly antiquated, namely using what you have at hand to make beautiful objects which exude a sense of generosity and place.

In the end, it really doesn’t matter much whether or not a given potter’s works are popularly considered to be works of art, or simply good pots. Appreciating the value of a ceramic object, functional or not, is the job of the persons living with it. It is my great pleasure that some discerning foodies have chosen my pots to use in their daily meals and special gatherings, upon which they place their own gastronomic traditions and experiments, sandwiching my pots amidst them in affable companionship. I hope the pots I make add to the appeal of delicious food, and remind the viewers of how beautiful, precious and fragile are both our natural world and each other.

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