Katsuyoshi Tashiro works from his studio, Chachu Kobo Yogetsu, in Kagoshima. Pick up one of his teapots and it tends to leave you without much to say: the weight is startling, and the lid closes with a precision that seems to draw itself shut.
But you can't talk about these teapots without the slightly unusual twenty years behind them — a man who kept his day job in elder care and kept working with clay strictly as play. Why is he able, now, to make work that holds people like this? Here is that story.
Twenty years of teaching himself, held up by one man's generosity
It starts in Tashiro's thirties, with a single remark from a potter: ceramics is interesting — why don't you try it? At the time Tashiro was supporting a family and carrying a mortgage. Making a living from pottery wasn't a fantasy he entertained for even a moment. And yet meeting that teacher changed his course, quietly and decisively.
"He said I didn't need to pay any fees, that I should just come and play here. He was a man of real generosity. In return, I helped him with everything I was able to do."
"Living off ceramics straight away was impossible. So I went a few times a month, on days off between shifts, and kept that up for about twenty years. It was nothing at all like the standard apprenticeship at a pottery," he says, looking back.
What that "play" contained, though, was the real thing. His teacher drilled the technique into him properly, starting from fundamentals such as wedging the clay, in the order you'd use to train a professional. For more than fifteen years he wore two hats — care work, and clay before and after night shifts, a punishing arrangement. Alongside all of it, his skill was quietly and steadily sharpening.
Captivated by a Living National Treasure, and taking on the sacred ground of the kyusu alone
He had been an indoor sort of boy, absorbed in doodling in his notebooks and building plastic models. He went to art school, but never came to believe he could live off his drawing; after graduating he took a sales job and spent his days chased by numbers. Care work, with no sales targets, was what he chose as an escape from that pressure.
Ceramics could stay a hobby. That was the deal he had made with himself.
What pulled him back toward being a maker was a ceramics magazine — and in it, a teapot by the Living National Treasure Jozan Yamada III.
"The moment I saw the beauty of that form, it took my soul. To be honest, I'm more of a coffee drinker than a tea drinker. But: I want to make this shape with my own hands. That impulse alone kept burning in me through twenty dormant years."
He was drawn to an overwhelming beauty that his skills at the time couldn't come close to. There was no teapot maker in Kagoshima to aim at, either, so all he had were magazines, videos and his own instincts. Self-taught, learning by watching and imitating. That was where the endless trial and error toward one perfect piece began.
Not 0.1mm of play: what that precision in his fingertips really is
If one thing has become his signature, it is the astonishing accuracy of his lids. He reads the way clay shrinks in the kiln completely, so that when a piece comes out it settles into place with no gap at all. That belongs to a world of feel rather than of reasoning.
Extreme lightness, and stability:
Light enough to pour one-handed without strain, while keeping a little extra thickness at the base so it sits steadily when set down — a fine balance.
Function as beauty:
He takes in advice from tea professionals greedily, refining the cut-off of the spout and the accuracy of the strainer.
Commitment to yakishime:
After the shock of what he encountered in Tokoname, one of Japan's great tea regions, he insists on yakishime — unglazed, high-fired ware. The clay itself absorbs the compounds in the tea and rounds out its flavour. It is a choice made so the teapot has work to do.
The minute you spend waiting for tea makes life richer
In an age when tea comes conveniently in a plastic bottle, Tashiro makes the case for the value of the time it takes to brew with a teapot.
His teapots aren't simply tools. Letting the water cool carefully in a vessel you love, waiting for the leaves to open — what they give you is that quality of unhurried space.
The pleasure of raising it: a partner for life
The studio name Yogetsu carries a wish: teapots as beautiful and as round as the moon. Because they are made by hand, every one has a slightly different face, and the way each settles into your hand differs too.
"With something handmade, even a small chip won't make you throw it out. If it breaks you want to repair it with kintsugi and keep using it. I don't think that kind of attachment to an object arises unless it's handmade."
There is a word for it — yoko, raising a pot — and an unglazed yakishime teapot does exactly that, gaining lustre and depth of character the more you use it. Even the care you take with a spout that chips easily should, in time, become part of your fondness for it.
From muny: a note for you
Precisely because convenience and efficiency are what get asked of us now, we want to hold on to the pleasure of deliberately taking time to raise a tool. Tashiro's handmade teapots should bring a comfortable pause into busy days — something like taking one deep breath. It will fit your hand better with use, and take on a lustre that belongs to you alone. We'd be glad if you found a partner for life like this at muny.
