A Bowl Named Shirakage

by Marybeth Welch

Marybeth Welch has studied tea at the Urasenke Cha no Yu center for over 40 years. She received her Chamei (tea name) in 1995. She teaches there as well.

What is a chawan? The primary purpose, of course, is its functionality. For example, is its shape conducive to easily making a good bowl of tea? Is the form pleasing to use? Is the form simple and direct? What is the surface texture? How is the foot shaped? Is the bowl easy to handle?

Aesthetically, there are many points to consider. For example, what is its form? Does it exude a sense of life or is it just a lump of clay masquerading as a chawan? Does it convey a natural sensibility as opposed to one which is overworked or contrived? Does it possess a sense of character and dignity? Is it plain and common looking but with an air that will continually draw in both host and guest? Is there a patina of age and use? Was it loved to the point that an owner gave it a name?

For a bowl used in making koi-cha (thick tea), one must consider whether or not there is a feeling of visual weight in its presence. For usu-cha (thin tea), a contrasting sense of lightness is more appropriate. Finally, beyond gaining the experience to understand all of the above, is the cultivation of personal aesthetic taste.

The following is the story of one such chawan.

When I was a young child, coal was used to heat my grandmother’s home. Men would occasionally show up at the side of the house to shovel new coal down the chute into the bin below. Once or twice I was allowed to follow my father down to the basement. He shoveled the ash out of the furnace and then, using a coal scuttle, added new coal. I would peer at the shine of those dusty lumps as if they were beautiful gems. The rule to never, ever touch them was strictly enforced by the dictates of a dour grandmother properly brought up in the Victorian period.

During yet another blizzard, the muffled sound of ash spreaders traveled the hilly streets and scattered cinders over freshly fallen snow. The next day, the streets were still mostly unscathed by passing cars; upon white snow, shadows formed by the few tire treads created beautifully patterned impressions. How those impressions combined with the many shades of grey and black cinder “freckles” scattered across its surface captured my imagination and sense of beauty.

Thirty years later, I visited a Japanese gallery just a block from where I lived in Soho, New York. I visited regularly, at least once a week, and eventually became quite close to the Japanese owner and his wife. We always had wonderful discussions about tea ceramics: history, clay, country of origin; Chinese? Korean? Japanese? Over thirty years he slowly trained my eye and aesthetic sensibilities. On this particular day, we were looking at some white chawan.

One stood out in the simplicity of its presence. It sat in front of me, elegant in its restraint, calmly existing in its own inherent birthright. It was covered in a fine white crackled glaze and had two small ashen grey drips on its front. Even though cool at first, the glaze was soft and immediately warmed to the touch, inviting itself to be picked up and held. Its gently curving form snuggled comfortably into my hands. Upon closer inspection of its surface, both inside and out, were areas that appeared to have been dusted with fine grey ash. Deep inside on the bottom was the most beautiful collection of cinders. As I held it, a wonderfully intimate conversation – visually, tactilely, and aesthetically – developed between the two of us. It became alive in my hands, and spilled stories that filled my imagination. Scenes of winter leapt to mind as long forgotten memories came flooding back. I gave it the poetic name “Shirakage” (White Shadow).

“Shirakage”

An Early Edo Period ( E. 17th century) Oku Korai Karatsu bowl. Karatsu kilns of the noborigama (climbing kiln type ) are located in the north-western area of Kyushu’s Saga Prefecture) and were most likely developed towards the end of the 16th century by Korean immigrants.

Photo @ Marybeth Welch