Meet the maker: Marugama Seitōjo (Katō Shōhei, art name Yōkun)
Marugama Seitōjo is a Seto ceramics workshop active since the late Edo period, now in its sixth generation. The fourth generation head, Katō Shōhei, worked under the personal art name Yōkun (窯薫) and produced ceremonial pieces connected to the Japanese imperial family around 1940, alongside signed individual works marked with his tomobako inscription and Shōhei seal.
Shino yunomi meoto pair, tomobako inscribed 窯薫作, Marugama kiln, Seto
Who was Katō Shōhei?
Marugama Seitōjo (丸窯製陶所) is a Seto ceramics workshop with roots stretching back to the end of the Edo period, when it was founded by the first generation to carry the name Shōhei (庄平). In the early Meiji period the workshop produced vases, garden pots, ceramic pillows and jūbako storage boxes.
The name Shōhei has been passed down through the generations of kiln masters since, in the tradition of many Seto workshops where a workshop name carries forward rather than staying tied to one individual. The fourth generation to hold the name led the workshop through its most historically significant period, from the early Shōwa years through the postwar era, working under his own personal art name, Yōkun (窯薫), for individual pieces alongside the workshop's larger commissioned work.
In 1937 he made and presented a large round table decorated with a sometsuke blue and white bird and flower design to the former imperial house of Nashimoto no miya. The workshop's own printed history describes further ceremonial and decorative commissions from this period, including offerings connected to the 2600th anniversary of the Japanese imperial era in 1940 and pieces made for temples including Kashihara Jingū, Atsuta Jingū and Zenkō ji.
Katō Shōhei also held public office in Seto, serving four terms on the city council from 1947 and later three terms on the Aichi prefectural assembly, alongside leadership roles in the local ceramics industry cooperative.
On 5 June 1942, the workshop was formally established as a private limited company, Yūgen gaisha Marugama Seitōjo. From that point the workshop increasingly focused on large scale ceramic pieces and expanded into technical and scientific ceramic products such as pot mills, alongside its ongoing decorative and tableware production. Marugama Seitōjo is still active today, now led by the sixth generation to carry the name Shōhei, at the same address in Seto.
What sets his work apart
Yōkun's personal pieces favour Shino-yaki, a thick white feldspar glaze that pools unevenly and lets the reddish clay body show through where it thins, scattered with dark iron spots that surface during firing. The look is deliberately rough and organic rather than smooth or symmetrical, often marked by visible finger ridges near the rim from hand-forming. Yet his overall output was much more diverse than these tea wares alone suggest.
Beyond this rustic aesthetic, Yōkun and the Marugama Seitōjo workshop were deeply rooted in Seto sometsuke, the refined tradition of classic blue and white porcelain with intricate underglaze brushwork. The workshop's craftsmanship spanned everyday functional ceramics such as vases and stacked food boxes to grand, custom commissions for temples and the imperial family. Today, the historic Seto workshop continues its lineage, balancing traditional pottery with technical porcelain production.
How to recognise a genuine piece
Personal pieces by the fourth generation Katō Shōhei are rarely signed on the ceramic body itself. Attribution relies primarily on the accompanying tomobako, which is inscribed with the object's name, signed 窯薫作 (Yōkun saku), and marked with his red 庄平 (Shōhei) seal.
Beyond the box, the physical characteristics of his Shino work are worth knowing when assessing a piece: a thick, milky glaze with visible iron spots, uneven pooling that reveals the reddish clay beneath, and distinct finger marks near the rim or foot from hand-forming and dipping. These are hallmarks of Shino-yaki generally, so they support an attribution rather than confirm one on their own.
Some pieces are also accompanied by a printed workshop certificate. A certificate referencing Katō's ongoing term on the Aichi prefectural assembly since 1947, together with its present-tense reference to the imperial branch titles, dates that certificate specifically to between 1947 and 1950, since those titles were abolished in October 1947. The certificate confirms the date of the paperwork; the ceramic piece itself may be from the same time or slightly earlier.
As with many Japanese tea ceramics, individual boxes can also carry a separate, more personal inscription in flowing cursive script, sometimes a poetic name (mei) given to that specific piece.
Signatures and shiori of Katō Shōhei in our archive
Meet the Katō Shōhei pieces in collection
About Shino ware
Shino-yaki originated in the Mino region during the Momoyama period, the first white glaze ever developed in Japan, born from potters trying to recreate the porcelain then arriving from China. It never left, and the town of Seto, one of Japan's Six Ancient Kilns, carried the tradition forward for generations after. The glaze is thick feldspar, applied heavily and left to move on its own during firing, pooling in some places and pulling thin in others until the reddish clay beneath shows through. Dark iron spots surface where the clay and glaze meet the heat unevenly, and the result is never quite the same twice, even from the same hands. Where Hagi ware changes slowly over years of use, Shino wears its transformation on the surface from the moment it leaves the kiln.
→ Want to know more about how to care for Shino ware? Read the care guide for chawan and yunomi here.
Sources
Physical examination of the tomobako inscription, seal, and certificate
Information shared by dealers and specialists in Japan at the time of purchase
Official workshop website: Marugama Seitōjo company history
Browse all tea ceremony items
Notice: This chawan has found a new home. If you are looking for something similar, scroll down.
Held at an angle, this chawan catches the light differently every time. The pale, crackled glaze runs from a soft off-white into a warm, almost blush pink where it thins over the clay, a color Hagi potters call karahai, and it only appears where the firing has gone exactly right. The rim tilts and dips ever so slightly, a wall that never quite settles into a perfect circle, and that small imperfection is what makes it sit so naturally in the hand. It is a bowl built to be picked up, turned, and looked at again.
This bowl carries the tomobako signature of Matsuura Mugen, founder of the Shōunzan-gama kiln in Hagi, built on the very ground where Hagi-yaki itself began centuries ago. Mugen's work grew out of the tradition of Miwa Kyūwa, one of the defining masters of Hagi ware and a holder of Japan's Living National Treasure designation, and that lineage shows in the quiet, unforced warmth of this glaze. Its wide, shallow shape is a natsu-jawan, a summer bowl, made so the tea cools a little faster in the warmer months, which makes this the moment to bring it into use rather than let it wait. A signed, boxed chawan from this kiln is not something that turns up often outside Japan.
Hagi ware isn't meant to stay the same. Read how it grows with you, in my journal.
The glaze moves across this bowl like weather crossing a landscape, white where it lies thick, sliding into a soft blue grey where it thins, with a line of warm rust colored fire blush running unevenly along the rim where the clay broke through during firing. A carved geometric pattern circles the exterior, cut through the dark iron ground before the glaze was applied, so the pale clay shows through in a repeating motif that catches the light differently depending on where you stand. Small dark specks surface throughout the glaze, scattered without any pattern, the kind of detail that only shows itself once you start looking closely.
This bowl comes from the Han'emon-gama, a kiln in the Mino region of Gifu Prefecture whose own written history traces its family back through generations of potters working in the Shino tradition, one of the oldest white glaze traditions in Japanese ceramics and still closely tied to the tea ceremony today. The piece is signed with the kiln's stamp on the foot, and it comes with its original tomobako and an accompanying document that lays out the family's own account of its lineage. Owning it means owning a small, physical piece of that continuity.
New to chawan and wondering what to look for? Read about why size and weight change everything in my journal.
There is a quiet violence to how this tokkuri came out of the kiln. No glaze was ever applied, everything you see, the deep olive shoulder, the passages of smoky grey, the flush of aubergine low on the body, happened because ash and flame found this exact spot in the kiln and nowhere else. The form is rounded and a little heavy in the middle, the neck flares just enough to pour cleanly, and it sits with the kind of quiet confidence that unglazed stoneware only earns after firing for days.
This comes from Isezaki Sō, born into one of the defining pottery families of Bizen and a full member of the Nihon Kōgeikai, the Japan Craft Association, since 2004. He trained under Yamashita Jōji from 1987 and has spent the decades since collecting awards at the Nihon Dentō Kōgei-ten and the regional Chūgoku exhibitions that matter most within the tradition. Owning this is owning a piece from someone who has spent a working lifetime answering to that lineage, not performing it.
No glaze, no paint, just fire. I wrote about how Bizen gets its color, in my journal.
Notice: This chawan has found a new home. If you are looking for something similar, scroll down.
Nearly the entire surface disappears into black, a glaze so deep it seems to swallow the light around it. Then, sweeping across one side, a pale arc of ash white clay breaks through, and from that ground three cherry blossom branches rise. The blossoms are carved into the clay itself, the branches traced in warm gold. The bowl is compact, a little heavier than it looks, and it settles into two cupped hands as though it were made for exactly this grip.
Okugawa Katsuomi built his reputation the hard way, striking out on his own rather than working under an established kiln name, and the confidence in this piece shows why that risk paid off. A potter working independently answers to no house style, only to his own hand, and a cherry blossom cut this precisely into a glaze this dark is the kind of detail that gets noticed. This bowl comes with its full history attached, both in the tomobako it still carries and in a maker whose name is now well documented.
Intro paragraphs
The first thing you notice is the collision of opposites. On one face, bold dark figures stride across a cream ground in a repeating procession, painted with the kind of confidence that does not hesitate. Turn the bowl and the motif shifts entirely: a scrolling vine arabesque in the same iron brushwork, curling and looping across the surface. Then the green glaze interrupts everything. It tips over the rim from both sides, drips down the wall, and floods the interior with a deep copper-green that shifts toward teal where it pools thickest. The form does not behave either: the rim is uneven, the walls slightly irregular, the whole shape carrying a deliberate looseness that makes it feel alive in the hand.
This is a chawan in the Ao-Oribe tradition, one of the most irreverent ceramic styles Japan produced. From the Mino region of Gifu Prefecture, Ao-Oribe takes its name from tea master Furuta Oribe (古田 織部), whose aesthetic philosophy embraced asymmetry, bold brushwork, and what he called hyōge: a spirit of wit and ease. A bowl made in this tradition was never meant to be precious. It was made to be picked up without ceremony, to improve with handling, and to grow more interesting the longer it is used.
This is not a commercial production but a purpose-made ceremonial gift from the heart of the Japanese tea world.
The gift itself is an e-Karatsu kōgō, an incense container for use in the tea ceremony, made specifically for this occasion by Inoue Koji of the Kyōzan-gama in Karatsu.
This kōgō was never for sale. It was made to be given: a ceremonial gift commissioned by the headquarters of the Urasenke Tankōkai in Kyoto to mark a recipient's 88th birthday, the milestone the Japanese call beiju. The letter that accompanies it states that the gift comes from Zabōsai, the 16th generation iemoto of Urasenke, the living guardian of one of the three great tea lineages descending directly from Sen no Rikyū.
What you are looking at is not a commercial production. It is a document of the tea world in use.
This bowl has a way of looking complete from any angle. The form is low and wide, the rim gently uneven in the way of something made by hand rather than adjusted toward perfection.
The glaze is a full, dense shining white over most of the body, with orange pushing through directly where the clay asserts itself. It stops you before you know why.
This chawan comes from an earlier generation of Taizan-gama, one of the kilns that has worked in the Tsubaki district of Hagi within a tradition tea masters have placed second only to Raku for four centuries.
The tomobako is inscribed 白萩 茶碗 and the bowl carries the full rectangular 泰山 seal, the older mark of the kiln used before the oven was incorporated as a company.
The first time I held this bowl, I turned it slowly in both hands and tried to work out what I was looking at. Purple, deep crimson, ashy grey, a band of pale white on the inside where the heat had settled differently. None of it looked applied. It looked like something that had happened to the clay rather than something done to it.
That is, more or less, exactly what yakishime is.
Yakishime is the practice of placing unglazed clay in a wood-fired kiln and letting the fire decide the rest. In the Bizen tradition this has been practiced for over a thousand years, and the surfaces it produces, rough clay, fire-born colour, marks that record the firing like a landscape, became one of the foundations of Japanese tea ceremony aesthetics. A bowl made this way was not decorated. It was shaped, placed in a kiln, and submitted to fire.
Read more about Bizen yaki here.
This is a hand-formed chawan, it is made without a wheel. It is wide and low, the kind of form that spreads across your palms when you hold it. The glaze runs from deep coral at the base up through raspberry to a pale rose-cream at the rim, and against this a wash of dark grey pools on the exterior, unplanned, the mark of fire rather than hand. No two aka-raku bowls come out of the kiln with the same surface. This one carries its firing like a weather event.
Raku-yaki (楽焼) is the oldest ceramic tradition in Japan made entirely for the tea ceremony. Each bowl is built by hand without a wheel, fired alone at low temperature, and pulled from the kiln while still glowing. The result is a clay that carries the fingerprints of its making in every surface. Ōno Kyūkō (大野九行) is a studio potter working in this tradition, with the personal seal 九行 pressed into the clay near the foot.
Five cups, same hand, same kiln firing. The glaze is a warm, speckled off-white with just enough green in it to feel alive, and each cup carries a loose, confident brushwork motif: a few strokes of dark iron-brown placed freely around the body, reading as bamboo in wind.
No two are quite identical. The brushwork is not precise. It is not trying to be.
In the world of the tea ceremony, there is a saying: first Raku, second Hagi, third Karatsu. Karatsu-yaki has held that position for four hundred years, and the style of these cups, e-Karatsu, iron-painted Karatsu ware, is one of its oldest and most recognisable forms.
The combination of coarse clay, ash glaze, and brushwork drawn from the natural world has been the defining character of e-Karatsu since the sixteenth century. These yunomi sit directly in that lineage: unpretentious, made to be used daily, and better for it.
Deep, dark glaze pools thick around the base of this bowl, catching amber and rust where the light hits it at an angle. The drip is heavy and slightly uneven, the kind of effect that only comes from letting the glaze run right to the edge of what the kiln can hold before it sticks. In the hand it has real presence, a weight that settles rather than balances.
The maker Katsukazu is particularly admired for the thick application of glaze. In the world of Tenmoku, getting that heavy, "frozen-in-motion" drip without it sticking to the kiln floor is a sign of a true expert who knows exactly when to cut the heat.
The deep, chocolate-brown tones of the glaze provide a rich, lustrous backdrop that contrasts beautifully with the vibrant green of freshly whisked matcha. It comes with its original wooden tomobako box, carefully signed by the maker, adding provenance and ceremony to the piece.
Curious what to look for beyond the glaze? I wrote about why a chawan's weight and shape matter more than people expect. Read it here in my journal.
Some objects are immediately recognizable for what they are. This one is. The moment you lift the lid, you know exactly who is sitting in your hands: Hotei, the laughing god of contentment, belly forward, expression completely at ease.
Produced at the Seiun-zan kiln in Hagi, Yamaguchi Prefecture, by Okada Yutaka: eighth-generation master of a kiln that has been firing continuously since the Edo period, and holder of the Yamaguchi Prefecture designation for Intangible Cultural Property in Hagi-yaki.
This is not a decorative object made for the tourist market. It is a serious tea ceremony piece with full provenance.
There's a whole philosophy behind why a kogo is left open after use. Read it in my journal.
Plus, I spent a morning at this specific Hagi kiln, read about it here.
A fine karakusa motif winds across the surface, deep red carved into jet black lacquer. The pattern is continuous, one vine curling into the next without a clear start or end, which is exactly the point. Karakusa has stood for eternity and prosperity in Japanese decorative art for centuries, and here it wraps the natsume completely, catching the light differently depending on the angle you hold it at.
This piece was made by Sakamoto Sessai, who trained under Kurosai, the younger brother of Tamakaji Zōkoku, the founder of the Sanuki kinma tradition in Takamatsu on the island of Shikoku.
What makes this specific case special is that the set is still completely intact. The original wooden box with the signature of the master is included, as is the description from the antique shop in Matsuyama where I found this natsume. It is a real find for anyone who appreciates genuine Japanese tea ceremony craftsmanship.
Five cups that move together without being identical. The glaze is the color of old paper washed with rust, white pooling in clouds where it thickens, warm terracotta clay pushing through where it thins. Each cup carries this differently. Set them on a table and the effect is immediate: a family of objects made from the same impulse, none of them the same.
These cups are wide and generous, substantial enough to hold with both hands and feel warmth come through the clay. Hagi-yaki has been placed second only to Raku by tea masters for four centuries. The shira-hagi glaze, made from rice straw ash fired until the carbon burns away, is among the most refined expressions of that tradition.
The set comes with its original signed and stamped tomobako and the kiln's own shiori, giving it a provenance completeness that is unusual for Shōwa-period teaware.
Hagi ware isn't meant to stay the same. Read how it grows with you, in my journal.
Six yunomi and a kyusu, all thrown and fired together in the soft, porous clay that makes Hagi-yaki so distinct, in a glaze that shifts between pearl white and a soft, bruised lavender depending on the light. The cups curve gently inward, sized to sit naturally in both hands. The kyusu is low and full, compact but generous, built for loose leaf tea, with a side handle and a ceramic strainer fitted right into the spout. Nothing about the set feels overworked, and the seven pieces read unmistakably as one gesture.
Most vintage Hagi-yaki arrives with a kiln stamp and nothing else, no way to trace who shaped it or when. This set comes with more: an original tomobako signed and sealed by Kondō Mamoru himself, and his own shiori documenting the piece. Paper trails like that rarely survive on tea ware that has changed hands as often as this has. It turns six cups and a teapot into something you can actually place, not just admire.
Read more about the beauty of Hagi-Yaki that will grow with you in my journal.
I work through my finds in small batches as each piece takes time to research, photograph and write properly. But some items are too good to sit invisible in the backlog, and if you have been looking for a vintage black silk formal haori, I want you to know this one exists.
This is a formal Shōwa-era kuro haori in black rinzu silk with a tone-on-tone hexagonal kikko pattern woven into the fabric, visible only when the light moves across the surface. Scattered across the body and sleeves are hand-embroidered peacock feathers in copper, green, and white, each with the iridescent eye worked in multiple thread tones. A single embroidered kamon sits at the center back seam. The basting stitches are still in place. This haori has never been worn.
The full listing, photographs and price will follow. Want to know the moment it goes live? Scroll down.
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I work through my finds in small batches as each piece takes time to research, photograph and write properly. But some items are too good to sit invisible in the backlog, and if you have been looking for a vintage shibori silk haori kimono jacket with maple leafs, I want you to know this one exists.
This is a Shōwa-era haori in mint celadon green silk with a woven maple leaf pattern running through the fabric itself, visible as shadow and light rather than color. Large clusters of gold kanoko shibori sit against the green ground in rounded shapes, with vertical lines of the same gold running between them. The lining is cream silk with a subtle woven pattern. The original white himo ties are still attached and looped as stored. The condition is exceptional.
The full listing, photographs and price will follow. Want to know the moment it goes live? Scroll down.
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I work through my finds in small batches as each piece takes time to research, photograph and write properly. But some items are too good to sit invisible in the backlog, and if you have been looking for a Taizan klin Hagi-yaki yunomi meteo pair with their original box and documentation, I want you to know this one exists.
This is a meoto set, made for two, named 花容 on the tomobako. One cup runs warm with orange and rust, the other cooler with fine crazing across a celadon-grey glaze. Both from Taizan-gama in Tsubaki, Hagi, with the original signed tomobako and kiln documentation.
A meoto set, made for two, the slight difference in size a deliberate choice: the larger cup for him, the smaller for her. In Japan these sets are a traditional wedding gift, a pair of objects meant to be used together for a lifetime.
The full listing, photographs and price will follow. Want to know the moment it goes live? Scroll down.
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Notice: This set has found a new home. If you are looking for something similar, scroll down.
Item details
A yunomi meteo pair by Mukuhara Yoshitoshi (椋原佳俊), Furuhata-gama kiln, Hagi, Yamaguchi Prefecture. Thrown in the soft, porous clay characteristic of Hagi-yaki, with an ash glaze in pale blue-white that breaks to warm iron-brown at the foot. The surface shows the deliberate finger-pressed facets typical of Mukuhara's hand. One cup is slightly larger than the other: the traditional meoto pairing, one for each member of a household. The original shiori is included, with care instructions and the maker's exhibition history. According to the documentation, Mukuhara exhibited at department stores in Tokyo including Tobu from Shōwa
The glaze on this chawan is the quiet kind. Soft white shifting into blue-grey and pale lilac depending on the light, a surface that looks different in morning sun than in lamplight. The form is generous and low, the kind of bowl that settles into both hands rather than sitting in them.
Hagi ware asks to be held. In the tea ceremony it is the object that passes through the most hands, that is turned and considered from every angle, that is meant to reward this kind of attention over years and decades of use.
The porous clay body gradually absorbs tea, shifting slowly in color, deepening where the glaze cracks finest.
Moriwaki Fumitada made this bowl at his Chigiri-gama kiln in Seto, where a decades-long practice in the technical traditions of Japanese ceramics underlies work that carries Hagi-yaki's quieter, more intuitive qualities.
A grey-green cylinder with a white camellia near the base of the body. The white camellia flower sits brightly against dark brushwork. A branch with leaves painted in loose gestural strokes that look effortless and are not.
Above it, the glaze shifts and pools in variations of green, grey and near-black. The narrow neck rises straight from the shoulder. The whole piece has the quality of something made by someone who no longer needed to think about what they were doing.
The vase is covered in a sophisticated grey-green glaze that shows a fine, well-developed kanyuu crackle pattern. Adding a sense of depth and history to the stoneware. The way the crackle interacts with the speckled underglaze creates a subtle, organic texture that is highly valued in Japanese ceramics.
Kiyomizu Rokubei VI (六代清水六兵衞, 1901 to 1980) was the sixth generation of one of the most significant kiln lineages in the history of Kyo-yaki, a family with nearly 250 years of history in the Gojōzaka district of Kyoto. His work is in the collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.
This piece comes with its original signed tomobako inscribed 白椿, shirotsubaki, white camellia, and the original printed shiori documentation tracing the Kiyomizu Rokubei lineage across every generation.
Notice: This chawan has found a new home. If you are looking for something similar, scroll down.
Item details
A hand-formed Kyo-yaki matcha bowl by Uno Tōru (宇野徹), Kyoto, ca. 1980. The form is wide and low with angled, faceted walls cut from the clay by hand, sitting on a tall exposed foot ring in warm red-orange. The glaze runs from a dusty blue-lavender at the rim into deeper violet and brown tones toward the base, pooling slightly where it met the foot. The outer surface is rough and textured; the interior is smoother, with a fine craquelé that catches the light.
Uno Tōru was a recognised figure in Kyoto's mid-century craft world. His work was purchased by the Japanese Ministry of Foreign Affairs for the official state gift collection, he received the Minister of International Trade and Industry Prize, and he was consecutively selected for the Nitten, Japan's most prestigious annual fine arts exhibition. He trained under Kanō Mitsuo, a former Nitten councilor, and under a member of the Japan Art Academy.
Signed with maker's seal on the base. Sold with original wooden tomobako and shiori documenting his full credentials. Late Shōwa period, Kyo-yaki (京焼), yōhen (窯変) glaze technique.
The glaze is what stops you. A pale blue-green celadon broken across the entire surface by an ice crackle pattern, large irregular segments divided by dark lines that shift from grey to brown depending on where the light falls. From one angle the turquoise comes forward. From another, the piece reads almost stone. It does not look the same twice.
The form underneath is an organic egg, slightly flattened on the sides, and the indentations there catch the light further still. At 17 centimetres it is a quiet presence: not a statement piece, but the kind of object that earns its place slowly.
Tachikichi has been operating in Kyoto since 1752, founded originally as Tachibana-ya Kichibee in the Shijō Tominokōji district. They design pieces to their own specifications and have them produced at selected kilns across Japan, each one made specifically to carry their name.
Their name on the base of a piece is a signal about standard and curation, the result of nearly three centuries of working only with what meets their criteria.
The glaze moves from deep purple at the base to bright turquoise at the neck, and stops cleanly where it meets the unglazed foot. It is how Ōtani-yaki shows its material honestly, iron-rich clay from Tokushima, fired at high temperature. The glaze applied once and left to do what it does.
This vase comes from the Mori Toki kiln in Naruto, one of the oldest and most documented kilns in the Ōtani-yaki tradition. The Mori family has run this kiln since 1912, and the climbing kiln on their grounds is 28 metres long with eight separate furnaces. It is registered as a national cultural property. Ōtani-yaki itself was designated a national traditional craft in 2003, recognition of a tradition that began in 1784 when an artisan from Kyushu first demonstrated lathe-turned pottery in the village of Ōtani.
The form is that of a tokkuri, a sake flask, with the narrow neck and rounded body designed to be held at the table and poured from. Used as a vase it works just as well: the narrow opening holds a single stem cleanly, and the weight of the clay keeps it stable.
Notice: This chawan has found a new home. If you are looking for something similar, scroll down.
This matcha bowl was made by Matsubara Yasuhiro (松原保宏), a Seto ceramicist whose work was selected five times for the Nitten, Japan's most prestigious national art exhibition. The surface carries madara-yu glaze, fired in a traditional noborigama climbing kiln on pine wood in the 1970s. What you see on the surface is a direct record of that process: warm copper-brown spotting against a grey-blue ground, not decoration but the fire itself made permanent. The original signed tomobako and maker's shiori are included.
The clay here is warm and gritty in a way that reads almost geological. The glaze deepens to amber-brown at the base and fades toward a pale sandy beige at the rim, and the transition between the two is not a line but a gradual dissolve. The form is slightly irregular, soft-shouldered, made without any ambition to be symmetrical.
This bowl comes from the founding generation of one of Hagi's most recognised kilns. The tomobako carries the hanko of Hirose Nanshū (南州), the man who established the Tsubaki-gama Tenpōzan in Hagi. The telephone notation on the shiori dates the documentation to before direct-dial lines existed in the city. Somewhere in the 1960s or earlier.
The shiori itself was signed by his son Hirose Tanga, who took over the kiln and continued his father's practice. That combination (the father's box and seal, the son's documentation) is a quiet record of how Japanese family kilns pass from one generation to the next. Hagi-yaki has held the second rank in the traditional tea master's hierarchy for centuries, behind only Raku. A bowl from the founding generation of a kiln in that tradition is not a common thing to find.
The glaze on this bowl sits differently from most Hagi ware you will encounter. It is pale, almost creamy, with a softness that makes the surface look slightly matte until the light catches it and you see the depth underneath. The craquelé is fine and even. The form is quieter and more settled than early Hagi ware. It is less raw, more considered.
By the time Hirose Tanga made this bowl, he had been working in Hagi for decades. His name had appeared in exhibitions across Kyūshū and Yamaguchi since the 1960s, he had received a national fine arts prize, and his kiln held an official government designation as a traditional craft. The tomobako for this bowl carries his personal signature alongside the kiln name, and the shiori inside contains his full printed biography. That combination of the signed box, named maker and documented career is what the Japanese tea world calls full provenance, and it is genuinely uncommon to find outside Japan.
Three cups, no two exactly alike in shape. Look closely and you'll see it: a slightly different curve here, a different scoring there, the way light catches each glaze a little differently from cup to cup. That's what handmade looks like when nobody's trying to hide it. The clay carries small flecks of stone straight from where it was dug, and the glaze sits warm and understated, never showy. Set out on a shelf or used daily, they hold their own without asking for attention.
These cups come from Shigaraki, one of Japan's six ancient kiln towns, the Nihon Rokkoyo, with pottery traditions reaching back centuries. The original studio sticker still intact, reading Shigaraki-yaki, tezukuri (handmade), Royal Yamamoto.
Shigaraki stoneware has been prized by tea practitioners for generations for exactly this quality: unpretentious, tactile, made to be used rather than admired from behind glass.
Two cups with the same form and entirely different ideas about what a glaze should do. The dark one is covered in silver-white speckle over near-black, dense and even, the kind of surface that looks like it is lit from within. The reddish-brown one is rough and unassuming from the outside. They read as a pair without asking to match.
In Japanese ceramics, pairing one assertive piece with one quiet one follows a long-established logic. The concept runs through tableware, tea ceremony objects and lacquerware across centuries, one surface doing the drama, the other providing ground.
They read as a pair without asking to match, and they work equally well for a cup of sencha, a pour of sake or a small bite alongside.
Three cups that look different every time the light shifts. The copper-green glaze sits somewhere between moss and bottle glass, darker where it pools, lighter where the clay body pushes through at the faceted edges. Stacked, they are almost architectural. In use, each one is its own thing. They work equally well for a bowl of sencha, a pour of sake or a small bite alongside.
The Oribe tradition gave Japanese ceramics its first bold use of colour: a copper-green that runs, pools and breaks against the clay in ways no potter fully controls. Kyoto potters have drawn on that vocabulary for centuries alongside their own refined sensibility, and these cups sit squarely in that line. Made for the table, used and enjoyed.
Two cups, two sizes, one shared ritual. The glaze is what stops you first: thick, white feldspar that has pulled itself into small rough patches over the surface, almost volcanic in places, then thins out just enough at the shoulder to let warm reddish brown break through from the clay beneath. Small dark iron spots scatter across both cups, no two placed the same way. This is Shino at its most unpolished and most honest, the kind of glaze that looks different every time the light shifts across it.
These yunomi carry the tomobako of Katō Shōhei (加藤庄平), fourth generation head of the Marugama kiln in Seto, one of Japan's Six Ancient Kiln towns, working under his personal art name Yōkun (窯薫). The box is inscribed with the piece's name, Shino yunomi, signed Yōkun saku, and stamped with his Shōhei seal. Packed alongside it is the kiln's own printed history, describing ceremonial and decorative work made for temples and for several branches of the Japanese imperial family around 1940. A cup with this much of its own paper trail is not something you find often outside Japan.
Curious what fire alone can do to a glaze? I wrote about Bizen's flame effects, a different technique but the same idea: the kiln, not just the potter, decides the final look. Read more here.