There is no direct way to see what happens inside a saggar.
Once sealed and placed in the kiln, the process disappears from view. Fire moves, materials react, and surfaces transform—but all of it unfolds unseen.
What emerges is not simply the result of heat, but of encounter.
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Working in Arita introduced me to a material that felt both familiar and entirely new.
Porcelain, as I had known it in Europe, carried a certain softness—subtle, forgiving in its own way. But here, the material felt different. More refined, more precise, almost resistant. It holds a clarity that demands attention.
Visiting the Izumiyama Quarry made that difference tangible.
Standing there, where the stone that shaped centuries of Arita porcelain was first extracted, I felt a quiet weight. This was not just a material. It was origin, history, lineage—compressed into something that would eventually become surface and form.
It made me reconsider how I approach making.
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The forms begin in a familiar way—thrown on the wheel or hand-built, then carefully refined. At this stage, everything is still within control.
But the shift happens when the pieces are placed into the saggar.
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Inside, I begin to build a different kind of environment.
Organic materials—dried grasses, woodchips, fragments gathered from the surroundings—are layered around the porcelain. Among them, rice straw, often used in New Year celebrations in Japan, carries its own quiet symbolism of renewal and transition. Burned within the saggar, it leaves soft, warm traces—sometimes subtle halos, sometimes more defined marks that feel almost like breath on the surface.
Alongside these are minerals and pigments.
One of them is gosu—a traditional cobalt-based pigment used in Arita for underglaze decoration. Historically, it is associated with precision, with controlled brushwork, with the iconic blue imagery of porcelain.
In this process, I use it differently.
Not to define, but to dissolve.
Applied in layers or allowed to interact with the atmosphere inside the saggar, gosu shifts. It reacts with smoke, with copper, with ash. The blue is no longer fixed—it moves, softens, sometimes disappears into the surface or re-emerges in unexpected ways.
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As the temperature rises, everything begins to change.
Organic matter burns. Oxygen levels shift. Metals vaporize. Ash settles. The enclosed space becomes a micro-atmosphere—distinct from the electric kiln surrounding it.
Within this space, I am no longer directing.
I am observing, even before seeing the result.
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The firing reaches around 950°C.
At this point, the porcelain is stable, but the surface is still open enough to receive these interactions. What happens inside cannot be fully predicted. Small variations—placement, density, proximity—create entirely different outcomes.
No surface can be repeated.
Only approached.
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Opening the saggar is always a moment of pause.
The materials have burned away or transformed. What remains are traces—sometimes delicate, sometimes abrupt. Surfaces that feel as though something has passed through them.
There is often a sense of surprise.
Not because I did not prepare, but because preparation is only part of the process.
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For functional pieces, a third firing follows.
The interior is glazed and fired at higher temperatures, stabilizing the form for use. The exterior, however, carries the memory of the first firing—untouched, uncorrected.
A contrast emerges: A controlled interior. An exterior shaped by chance.
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Working with Arita porcelain in this way has been a process of learning—not only technically, but emotionally.
To engage with a material so deeply tied to precision, and to introduce uncertainty into it, feels like a quiet negotiation. Not a rejection of tradition, but a conversation with it.
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What remains, in the end, is not just a surface. It is a record of interaction—between place, material, fire, and time. A moment where something familiar became unfamiliar again.
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Explore the collection: Echoes of Fire – Arita Series
Read the next episode: Arita: Between Perfection and Imperfection
Read the previous episode: Letting Go of Control: Fire, Chance, and the Making of Meaning