Destined for the Craft

Konishi is a born artisan. Born in Tokoname in 1941, even now at the age of 84, his mind is constantly occupied with pottery.

"Ever since I can remember, I was right there beside my old man, helping out. I just loved it. These ten tools (my fingers) that my parents gave me—I can still use them. For as long as I'm around, anyway," he says.

Speaking in a pleasant Tokoname dialect with a gentle smile, the *kyusu* teapots Konishi crafts possess a distinctive aura. His father was the renowned potter Yusen Konishi, one of Tokoname's leading *kyusu* artisans. As the eldest son, Yohei was already taking on the family's teapot-making duties by the time he was in junior high.

"It's just so much fun to be making things," he reflects.

By the time he enrolled in the ceramics department at his local Tokoname High School, he was already teaching his own classmates how to make *kyusu*. Day in and day out, he was kneading clay and firing it in the kiln. Yet, he chose not to inherit his father's artist name, "Yusen," passing it to his younger brother and continuing to work under his given name, Yohei.

"I may be a *kyusu* artisan, but I've always liked to venture into other arenas. My attitude has always been to try and make something interesting. Of course, it's fine to imitate what our predecessors did. That's important in its own right. But I wanted to do something that was uniquely my own. So I'd try submitting pieces to public exhibitions for contemporary crafts, creating what you might call *objets d'art*. Because kiln space is limited, when I had to decide what to fire, the *kyusu* often got left behind. That happened quite a lot," he admits.

He chose to follow his own creativity, refusing to be confined to the traditional role of a *kyusu* artisan. More than just a craftsman backed by immense experience and skill, his unique works are infused with a personal sensibility that makes them stand out in Tokoname—a town historically known for producing functional, everyday pottery.

Teapots Born from a Dialogue with the Clay

Making a *kyusu* is a painstaking process. The body, spout, handle, tea strainer, and lid must all be crafted and assembled with flawless precision to complete the form. While teapot production often involves mass-producing identical items, every piece Konishi creates is a one-of-a-kind design. "I have no desire to make the same thing over and over. My predecessor was a respectable, by-the-book craftsman. I'm sure my father, Yusen, hoped I'd turn out the same way," he says with a laugh.

When people think of Tokoname *kyusu*, many imagine the iconic *shudei* (red clay). In reality, however, several other techniques define the craft. There's *nerikomi*, for example, a method of kneading together clays of different colors to create marbled patterns. Then there's *yohen*, the celebrated 'kiln transformations'—unpredictable and beautiful effects on the ceramic surface that result from the firing process. While his father, Yusen, pioneered the use of *nerikomi* in Tokoname *kyusu*, Yohei is known for embracing *yohen*.

"It's about making each piece with sincerity, carefully and steadily. It's about creating a form that I personally find satisfying. I don't really think about whether it will sell. Although, my wife would tell you that a good piece is one that sells," he chuckles. "But I'm going to do what I love, so that makes me a bit of an oddball. But the reason I've been able to keep going is that, fundamentally, I'm always making things I love."

Konishi began incorporating yōhen (kiln effects) into his teapots when he was in his 30s. When firing pieces made by students in his pottery class in a wood-fired kiln, he decided to include his own teapots and discovered an interesting transformation in the finished work. He fires his anagama (cave kiln) once a year during Japan's Golden Week holiday. The firing process takes three full days and nights. He chose this time because the weather is typically stable, and the long holiday allows his entire family, from children to grandchildren, to get involved.

"You're having a conversation with nature—the weather, the season, whether it's a rainy day, the moisture in the firewood, the cosmic conditions, the smoke from the chimney. It might sound like I'm trying to be cool, but it's the truth. I just want to make really good pottery."

Lately, he has also taken a liking to a small electric kiln. While a large kiln requires a large number of pieces to justify a firing, a smaller one allows for a much quicker turnaround, letting him experiment with new ideas one after another.

"I feel like I could fire it every day."

A Teapot's Journey: From the Artist's Hands to a Life of Its Own

Like many traditional crafts, Tokoname ware faces the pressing issues of remaining a viable industry and nurturing the next generation of artisans.

"This is what everyone in my generation is concerned about. There's no one to carry it on. Who would do something that doesn't add up financially? I'm happy to teach the techniques, but people worry, 'Can I really make a living doing this?' or 'Is it really worth dedicating my entire life to making teapots?'"

For now, the demand for Tokoname ware is largely supported by the purchasing power of the Chinese market. However, every potter feels a sense of uncertainty, wondering when this trend might slow down. Artisan-made pieces, in particular, command high prices and face limited demand within Japan, making it crucial to appeal to international customers.

"Ideally, someone dedicated to preserving tradition shouldn't be talking about business or the market. I know I shouldn't, but the work has to be supported by someone, somewhere. I was once told that if you create solid work infused with soul, people will desire it, even if they're from a completely different culture. They might have never seen anything like a teapot in their country and have no idea how to use it."

Konishi's own experiences have taught him the power of communication through his painstakingly crafted teapots. In 1978, he won a silver award at the Vallauris International Ceramic Biennial in France, where he exhibited as a representative of Tokoname City. Later, in 1992, he led a delegation to Malaysia for a ceramics exchange program organized by the city.

"Even if you can't communicate with words, if you try to convey your heart, your ideas, and your dreams—even just by speaking in your own language—sometimes it connects. Then, the teapot starts to travel on its own. If someone, somewhere, desires it, the teapot itself, without me saying a word, might be communicating, 'Look what they're making over in Japan.'"

In his workshop, a tatami-matted space by the window, his hands envelop the clay on the spinning potter's wheel, and one after another, smooth teapots emerge.

"It may be 'just a teapot,' but it is so much more. To get to that level of 'so much more,' you have to pour your soul and your absolute dedication into your work. A beautiful thing is, in itself, beautiful."

Tokoname ware was once transported by sea to every corner of Japan. Today, infused with the spirit of its creators, it journeys across the globe.