Chanoyu began as an interest for me while in high school, partly due to the agency of a certain young
lady of exotic parentage. We visited an antique store owned by a Japanese woman who had married
an american soldier and repatriated to the US. She had some rough-looking, rather heavy volcanic
black bowls that I was sure I did not like. But I kept looking at them. Noricko explained that they were
considered very aesthetically pleasing to serious students of Chanoyu. The young lady and I bought an
Edo period teabowl that I still keep on a shelf. Still long after that relationship was ended, I continued to
study the related arts of the "wabi" school of aesthetics, and Buddhism as well. I read Lafcadio Hearn,
every bit of what he wrote, and wanted very much to be a writer. I had been majoring in English, a
particularly impractical area- unless I wanted to be a teacher. On a deep level I knew all I really wanted
was to "make _things_" , if it meant to make _written_ things, so be it. To me, in those days, books
were at first encounter, _things_, much more then than it is now, with electronic media as it is.
Yet, I refocused my college major to Art, and particularly Ceramics once I had a flirting conversation with
an attractive co-ed one afternoon. She replied that she had to leave our coffee conversation to "trim
some plates," an idea of a morning's effort after breakfast that intrigued me, not to mention her alluring
form as she retreated down the path into the woodsy Art Department set beneath the oaks and
mesquite of the lower campus. I followed her a ways down that path, just to get a sense of where she
strayed. It was sometime later that I visited the Art Department, never to catch up with her. But once I
got a little of the slippery clay on my jeans I was a permanent resident of that sylvan enclosure and the
little building designed by O'Neil Ford, which I came to feel was the true center of the campus. Later I
received a work-study grant to help with maintaining the garden, an interest I have maintained since
then. One of the first jobs I set out to do was to sort out the tiny pieces of white plaster from the stones
surrounding the plantings. I felt that this made it more possible to enjoy the true sense of the garden and
the more "natural" qualities of the stones, the white plaster appearing so much more "unnatural" to me. I
had so much time in those days! I think I wanted to demonstrate that I could be that "focused."
Everything I produced in clay had behind it in some sense the Wabi black teabowls from Noricko's little
shop on Fairmount St., in Dallas I also saw in every jar a "mizusashi" or "chaire" or some other forms
of "tea paraphenalia" which was forever foreign to my contemporaries. I was then as I feel often now, a
"stranger in a strange land" though perhaps less now in my middle age. There was a real hero of
"Studio Potters" who had been a student of Kenzan, the descendant of an influential potter from before
the Edo period. He also produced Raku pottery, and taught Bernard Leach, both survivors of WW II.
(Note: Shoji Hamada was also a student of this "Kenzan", and shared the designation "Kenzan" with
Bernard Leach when they "came of age") Bernard Leach wrote a seminal book about his adventure in
becoming a potter, _A Potter's Book_ , which had in its preface a tributory mention of Lafcadio Hearn.
Perhaps I took this as a "sign." I always have since looked to the sense of Wabi, and Sabi (another
Japanese tea-word) for my personal aesthetics, always back to the practical, but neatly resplendent and
self-contained sense of Shibui, but for one interesting encounter in 1979 with true students of Tea-
which I do not think now that I will ever be.
I had a show in a little craft gallery at the time while I was still a graduate student at SMU, and I am
certain that it was the kites that I had been making that drew into the Frontroom Craft Gallery the "Tea
Masters" from the Urasenke School. The Urasenke School is the more public wing of Chanoyu, the
school that teaches the daughters and wives of Japanese Business Executives the protocols and
aesthetics of the practice. I believe it is the Omotesenke, "back-door" school that trains young rather
monkish Samurai the correct behavior and appreciation of Zen-inspired Arts, and eventually if they
shine, to be real Tea-masters, but no matter. At that time the young Canadian and Japanese
"tea-masters" as I received the call from the gallery, "were in the shop and would like very much to meet
me." Excited, but still somewhat dubious I made the drive from across town (where I had been doing
some metalwork, and still in stained jeans) to find two proper-looking guys (very nattily dressed)
examining and discussing the pottery in Japanese ("hm," pointing "mizushashi," a little grin, the other,
"Kuro, yes,..and") some of what I was understanding that they were not really so interested in my kites,
but that I had some black burnished and smoked, somewhat like Southwestern "Indian", pottery to
accompany them. My idea was to pair off the light, open and airy, mostly white paper kites, with folds
and cutouts the primary decoration, against the simple black burnished pottery with its earthy weight
and sense of enclosure. Rather, it turns out, they wanted me to solve a debate they had about the origin
of a certain Chaire (tea-caddy.)
It was well known to me that in Korea the potter's wheel typically spun clockwise. This was the crux of
the dispute, it seemed, between the young tea-afficinados , the young "masters" but it was not entirely
clear to me at the time. They invited me, however, to attend their tea demonstration at the Kimbell
Museum in Fort Worth, which was their mission in this country. Their job, it seems to me now, was to
accompany the travelling museum display as living parts of it. They were really part of the display itself,
probably duties that they did not so much relish as they were appointed to for unknown reasons. It was
an opportunity I couldn't pass up, to go and be a guest, though it had been some years since I had
encountered anyone with the least interest in Chanoyu. It was always, however, up on a shelf in my
mind. Up on a shelf, too, was a round cheese-box with a dozen teabowls I had kept back from the many
hundreds I had sold in craft fairs. Most likely the ones I had sold were used to keep pins and loose
change on the dressers in thousands of homes across the south, but I had kept the best examples, and
used them frequently enough for my own purpose (to brew tea) that hey all had a rich patina and were
not entirely dry and lifeless. So I tossed the cheese-box into my VW van with the star-spangled sunroof
and headed to Ft. Worth the next day.
The Kimbell Museum is a monumental vault-like structure with grassy vistas and a parking lot hidden in
what might be more likely considered the "front," but is in truth a back-door- if one considers the view
from the real "front" which is not concealed below street level as the entrance most people experience
when they visit. All that is to say a reflection of our time, which considers the automobile the set and
setting of our true lives- not, to be honest, the picturesque photo-view of the entrance most people exit
for a temporary retreat from the exhibits. When they re-enter, presumably from a cigarette break, they
truly enter the front of the building. I entered like everyone through the underground, below street-level
entrance empty-handed and open hearted, receptive and ready to experience the presentation of what
was to be a show-case demonstration of the Urasenke chanoyu demonstration. Little mass-produced
bowls were circulated through the audience to give us a taste of the Koicha, thick green frothy tea, bitter
and glorious jade green tea. I accepted the cup gratefully, and then to my surprise I was invited
"backstage." This was a temporary screen enclosure with quite a few shelves of tea implements in neat
kiri wood boxes tied with ribbons. Norio Kurakazu, as he presented himself with a card, as I presented
him with mine, with "RAKU" in big letters embarrassingly emblazoned. I was not a Raku family member,
but in this country and in North Texas this matters not a jot. To someone familiar with the history and
prestige of th true Raku family lineage it might be rather presumptuous of me. I felt awkward already.
Kurakazu was reassuringly informal, and to my surprise, immediately presented me with the object in
question. He smiled and I did not understand exactly what he was saying, but I suddenly understood
what the real question was about. He took the lid off the tea-caddy, and turned it over revealing the
cord-impressions made by the potter as he removed it from the potter's wheel, carefully retained
through the entire process of drying, glazing and firing. These marks have a distinct "clamshell" sort of
pattern with the smaller loops made in the last pass of the turning wheel, the larger ones clearly on the
entrance of the cord as the wheel begins to slow through several turns, leaving the last ones a tight little
circle as the pot is removed with four fingers supporting it. This was entirely familiar to me as I had
been doing this for years. One has to see the pattern in reverse when the object is presented
upside-down, and in the case of Korean traditional ceramics this will be the reverse, of the reverse. Do
you imagine what kind of presence of mind under the circumstances I might be able to render
judgement? When the Canadian fellow appeared to translate my findings, I must admit to this day I am
uncertain as to whether my judgement was entirely correct. Let it stand, however, the they both were
satisfied with what I said, smiled that kind of smirking smile I noticed at the Frontroom Gallery. I was
invited to lunch with them. "Very informal," the young Kurakazu added.
We sat and ate baloney sandwiches on white bread! I was beginning to relax, and thought of the
cheese-box full of chawan. We did not talk very much, but I just mentioned that in addition to kites I had
also made teabowls for some time, and intrigued them I suppose, because the next thing I was doing
was getting th cheese-box and checking through Security. The guards were pretty attentive to the fact
that what I was carrying in looked a lot like what they had in the exhibit, and I was just beginning to
realize how unusual the whole affair was to them. This was not an easy situation, but like I had done
enough times to have a smooth presentation, behaved very innocently, a little like a simpleton, which
was not untrue, looking back upon the situation. Sometimes looking stupid appears "safe."
I brought the box to the ground floor and then to the cafe' where Norio Kurakazu and the Canadian were
just finishing their iced tea and little sandwiches. With them were a pair of japanese girls who had just
arrived and giggled that small bell-like laugh that was meant to relax the situation and was their
contribution to the conversation. I took one kuro black bowl out and handed it to the Canadian. He
examined it at length, more scrutiny than I was used to. It felt rather like a medical examination, only I
was realizing how much it was an examination of myself as much as the clay object. He handed it
carefully to Kurakazu who repeated the same measured examination. It was somewhat affirming that
the single piece I had presented got the attention it had, and then it was passed to the girls as well, who
handed it eventually back to me. That settled, I unwrapped a bowl modelled after Kenzan, bent roughly
squarish with a chrome green brushstroke and a bare patch where the glaze revealed the clay beneath
orangely. Immediately was the recognition "Ah,.. Kenzan!" a statement that made me feel quite good
about it, so I removed another with a thick frothy white glaze and a darkly stained interior. Before I
realized it, I had several bowls in circulation, but quickly realized they were all feeling overwhelmed by
the over-presentaion and a sense of fatigue appeared as I realized that just one bowl would have been
plenty to present under the circumstances. It was at that moment I realized an important lesson.
It is not always the impression of "more" but the sense of mystery about what "could be" that draws
people in. But one bowl caught the attention of the young Kurakazu suddenly as I gathered the rest and
wrapped them and replaced them in the box. It was a small burnished bowl of the sort of pottery I had
presented in my Frontroom show. He was feeling it and stroking the smooth burnished black clay,
turning over the foot, pinching the base of the bowl and testing the thickness. I had made a lot of these
and sold them in the Kerrville Craft Fair in previous years, but on those the emphasis was on the
patterns of white that appeared where the carbon burned out again and left sparkling "shadows in
reverse." This bowl was entirely black and in some sense featureless and stark, but it was clearly his
favorite as he did not immediately pass it on, but offered it toward the Canadian and then drew it back.
The Canadian remarked that the only problem with my bowls, truly, was that they were somewhat too
narrow in the bottom, in many cases, to accommodate the chasen, or tea-wisk. This would be
considered a strong detriment to their usage in formal Chanoyu, but they would be fine for Usu-cha or
thin-tea, informal presentations. I replied with intended humility that bamboo tea-whisks were not often
found in Dallas, but that if they were I would certainly consider this an important consideration. Quickly,
the Canadian disappeared and reappeared with a boxed chasen, autographed it, handed it to Norio,
who applied his own calligraphy. It was not until later that I realized this was the common gift to guests
of the exhibition, but I was honored. I felt I was able to offer my own gift right then, very honored to give
Kurakazu the bowl he seemed to like, so I presented it to him several times and he flatly refused. It was,
again, not until later that I realized why he did this, in spite of the fact that he seemed interested to
receive it. By accepting it, it would give me an unfair "bragging right" concerning my status as a potter,
upset the balance among traditional potters who supplied their wares to this thin atmosphere of
Chanoyu masters. By the presentation of objects in the Tea-ceremony, Tea-masters give them a value
far beyond the "marketplace" of crafted objects in the capitalist tradition. That is to say, this turns such
objects magically from such things as are "found" to be of merit, to things suddenly valuable because
they are recognised. It is a very difficult, razor-edge of balance that turns from one to the other. It makes
my box of tea-bowls extremely valuable "white elephants." My last question sitting over the remains of
our baloney-sanwiches and the sense of something, but nothing, happening during our afternoon, was
whether their master would think my tea-bowls had any merit at all. The reply was "He would say, 'very
interesting'," both of the young "tea-masters" with that small smile I had seen in the Frontroom. "He
would say 'very _good_ chawan, tea bowls- for someone from _Texas_!"
I think it was that moment when I realized that no matter what quality of work I had presented, the
suitability, the Wabi and Sabi, the Shibui it represented would always be that of a Texas potter. I could
even emigrate and immerse myself in Japanese society, return to a previous life I always imagined as a
tiny element in a Hokusai landscape, but I would still not be a suitable element or provider of teabowls,
or anything else, for Chanoyu. I would forever remain outside the possibility of being correct or "proper"
in that context. Yet it was not because of unworthiness in any real sense, but just merely the incorrect fit
of traditions. The elemental qualities of Wabi, and Sabi still remain as a true basis of my aesthetic. Is it
mostly due to so much time spent in admiration of the virtues of Chanoyu, a previous life, a lost love? Or
is it something quite outside the ordinary, just out of reach, forever?
lady of exotic parentage. We visited an antique store owned by a Japanese woman who had married
an american soldier and repatriated to the US. She had some rough-looking, rather heavy volcanic
black bowls that I was sure I did not like. But I kept looking at them. Noricko explained that they were
considered very aesthetically pleasing to serious students of Chanoyu. The young lady and I bought an
Edo period teabowl that I still keep on a shelf. Still long after that relationship was ended, I continued to
study the related arts of the "wabi" school of aesthetics, and Buddhism as well. I read Lafcadio Hearn,
every bit of what he wrote, and wanted very much to be a writer. I had been majoring in English, a
particularly impractical area- unless I wanted to be a teacher. On a deep level I knew all I really wanted
was to "make _things_" , if it meant to make _written_ things, so be it. To me, in those days, books
were at first encounter, _things_, much more then than it is now, with electronic media as it is.
Yet, I refocused my college major to Art, and particularly Ceramics once I had a flirting conversation with
an attractive co-ed one afternoon. She replied that she had to leave our coffee conversation to "trim
some plates," an idea of a morning's effort after breakfast that intrigued me, not to mention her alluring
form as she retreated down the path into the woodsy Art Department set beneath the oaks and
mesquite of the lower campus. I followed her a ways down that path, just to get a sense of where she
strayed. It was sometime later that I visited the Art Department, never to catch up with her. But once I
got a little of the slippery clay on my jeans I was a permanent resident of that sylvan enclosure and the
little building designed by O'Neil Ford, which I came to feel was the true center of the campus. Later I
received a work-study grant to help with maintaining the garden, an interest I have maintained since
then. One of the first jobs I set out to do was to sort out the tiny pieces of white plaster from the stones
surrounding the plantings. I felt that this made it more possible to enjoy the true sense of the garden and
the more "natural" qualities of the stones, the white plaster appearing so much more "unnatural" to me. I
had so much time in those days! I think I wanted to demonstrate that I could be that "focused."
Everything I produced in clay had behind it in some sense the Wabi black teabowls from Noricko's little
shop on Fairmount St., in Dallas I also saw in every jar a "mizusashi" or "chaire" or some other forms
of "tea paraphenalia" which was forever foreign to my contemporaries. I was then as I feel often now, a
"stranger in a strange land" though perhaps less now in my middle age. There was a real hero of
"Studio Potters" who had been a student of Kenzan, the descendant of an influential potter from before
the Edo period. He also produced Raku pottery, and taught Bernard Leach, both survivors of WW II.
(Note: Shoji Hamada was also a student of this "Kenzan", and shared the designation "Kenzan" with
Bernard Leach when they "came of age") Bernard Leach wrote a seminal book about his adventure in
becoming a potter, _A Potter's Book_ , which had in its preface a tributory mention of Lafcadio Hearn.
Perhaps I took this as a "sign." I always have since looked to the sense of Wabi, and Sabi (another
Japanese tea-word) for my personal aesthetics, always back to the practical, but neatly resplendent and
self-contained sense of Shibui, but for one interesting encounter in 1979 with true students of Tea-
which I do not think now that I will ever be.
I had a show in a little craft gallery at the time while I was still a graduate student at SMU, and I am
certain that it was the kites that I had been making that drew into the Frontroom Craft Gallery the "Tea
Masters" from the Urasenke School. The Urasenke School is the more public wing of Chanoyu, the
school that teaches the daughters and wives of Japanese Business Executives the protocols and
aesthetics of the practice. I believe it is the Omotesenke, "back-door" school that trains young rather
monkish Samurai the correct behavior and appreciation of Zen-inspired Arts, and eventually if they
shine, to be real Tea-masters, but no matter. At that time the young Canadian and Japanese
"tea-masters" as I received the call from the gallery, "were in the shop and would like very much to meet
me." Excited, but still somewhat dubious I made the drive from across town (where I had been doing
some metalwork, and still in stained jeans) to find two proper-looking guys (very nattily dressed)
examining and discussing the pottery in Japanese ("hm," pointing "mizushashi," a little grin, the other,
"Kuro, yes,..and") some of what I was understanding that they were not really so interested in my kites,
but that I had some black burnished and smoked, somewhat like Southwestern "Indian", pottery to
accompany them. My idea was to pair off the light, open and airy, mostly white paper kites, with folds
and cutouts the primary decoration, against the simple black burnished pottery with its earthy weight
and sense of enclosure. Rather, it turns out, they wanted me to solve a debate they had about the origin
of a certain Chaire (tea-caddy.)
It was well known to me that in Korea the potter's wheel typically spun clockwise. This was the crux of
the dispute, it seemed, between the young tea-afficinados , the young "masters" but it was not entirely
clear to me at the time. They invited me, however, to attend their tea demonstration at the Kimbell
Museum in Fort Worth, which was their mission in this country. Their job, it seems to me now, was to
accompany the travelling museum display as living parts of it. They were really part of the display itself,
probably duties that they did not so much relish as they were appointed to for unknown reasons. It was
an opportunity I couldn't pass up, to go and be a guest, though it had been some years since I had
encountered anyone with the least interest in Chanoyu. It was always, however, up on a shelf in my
mind. Up on a shelf, too, was a round cheese-box with a dozen teabowls I had kept back from the many
hundreds I had sold in craft fairs. Most likely the ones I had sold were used to keep pins and loose
change on the dressers in thousands of homes across the south, but I had kept the best examples, and
used them frequently enough for my own purpose (to brew tea) that hey all had a rich patina and were
not entirely dry and lifeless. So I tossed the cheese-box into my VW van with the star-spangled sunroof
and headed to Ft. Worth the next day.
The Kimbell Museum is a monumental vault-like structure with grassy vistas and a parking lot hidden in
what might be more likely considered the "front," but is in truth a back-door- if one considers the view
from the real "front" which is not concealed below street level as the entrance most people experience
when they visit. All that is to say a reflection of our time, which considers the automobile the set and
setting of our true lives- not, to be honest, the picturesque photo-view of the entrance most people exit
for a temporary retreat from the exhibits. When they re-enter, presumably from a cigarette break, they
truly enter the front of the building. I entered like everyone through the underground, below street-level
entrance empty-handed and open hearted, receptive and ready to experience the presentation of what
was to be a show-case demonstration of the Urasenke chanoyu demonstration. Little mass-produced
bowls were circulated through the audience to give us a taste of the Koicha, thick green frothy tea, bitter
and glorious jade green tea. I accepted the cup gratefully, and then to my surprise I was invited
"backstage." This was a temporary screen enclosure with quite a few shelves of tea implements in neat
kiri wood boxes tied with ribbons. Norio Kurakazu, as he presented himself with a card, as I presented
him with mine, with "RAKU" in big letters embarrassingly emblazoned. I was not a Raku family member,
but in this country and in North Texas this matters not a jot. To someone familiar with the history and
prestige of th true Raku family lineage it might be rather presumptuous of me. I felt awkward already.
Kurakazu was reassuringly informal, and to my surprise, immediately presented me with the object in
question. He smiled and I did not understand exactly what he was saying, but I suddenly understood
what the real question was about. He took the lid off the tea-caddy, and turned it over revealing the
cord-impressions made by the potter as he removed it from the potter's wheel, carefully retained
through the entire process of drying, glazing and firing. These marks have a distinct "clamshell" sort of
pattern with the smaller loops made in the last pass of the turning wheel, the larger ones clearly on the
entrance of the cord as the wheel begins to slow through several turns, leaving the last ones a tight little
circle as the pot is removed with four fingers supporting it. This was entirely familiar to me as I had
been doing this for years. One has to see the pattern in reverse when the object is presented
upside-down, and in the case of Korean traditional ceramics this will be the reverse, of the reverse. Do
you imagine what kind of presence of mind under the circumstances I might be able to render
judgement? When the Canadian fellow appeared to translate my findings, I must admit to this day I am
uncertain as to whether my judgement was entirely correct. Let it stand, however, the they both were
satisfied with what I said, smiled that kind of smirking smile I noticed at the Frontroom Gallery. I was
invited to lunch with them. "Very informal," the young Kurakazu added.
We sat and ate baloney sandwiches on white bread! I was beginning to relax, and thought of the
cheese-box full of chawan. We did not talk very much, but I just mentioned that in addition to kites I had
also made teabowls for some time, and intrigued them I suppose, because the next thing I was doing
was getting th cheese-box and checking through Security. The guards were pretty attentive to the fact
that what I was carrying in looked a lot like what they had in the exhibit, and I was just beginning to
realize how unusual the whole affair was to them. This was not an easy situation, but like I had done
enough times to have a smooth presentation, behaved very innocently, a little like a simpleton, which
was not untrue, looking back upon the situation. Sometimes looking stupid appears "safe."
I brought the box to the ground floor and then to the cafe' where Norio Kurakazu and the Canadian were
just finishing their iced tea and little sandwiches. With them were a pair of japanese girls who had just
arrived and giggled that small bell-like laugh that was meant to relax the situation and was their
contribution to the conversation. I took one kuro black bowl out and handed it to the Canadian. He
examined it at length, more scrutiny than I was used to. It felt rather like a medical examination, only I
was realizing how much it was an examination of myself as much as the clay object. He handed it
carefully to Kurakazu who repeated the same measured examination. It was somewhat affirming that
the single piece I had presented got the attention it had, and then it was passed to the girls as well, who
handed it eventually back to me. That settled, I unwrapped a bowl modelled after Kenzan, bent roughly
squarish with a chrome green brushstroke and a bare patch where the glaze revealed the clay beneath
orangely. Immediately was the recognition "Ah,.. Kenzan!" a statement that made me feel quite good
about it, so I removed another with a thick frothy white glaze and a darkly stained interior. Before I
realized it, I had several bowls in circulation, but quickly realized they were all feeling overwhelmed by
the over-presentaion and a sense of fatigue appeared as I realized that just one bowl would have been
plenty to present under the circumstances. It was at that moment I realized an important lesson.
It is not always the impression of "more" but the sense of mystery about what "could be" that draws
people in. But one bowl caught the attention of the young Kurakazu suddenly as I gathered the rest and
wrapped them and replaced them in the box. It was a small burnished bowl of the sort of pottery I had
presented in my Frontroom show. He was feeling it and stroking the smooth burnished black clay,
turning over the foot, pinching the base of the bowl and testing the thickness. I had made a lot of these
and sold them in the Kerrville Craft Fair in previous years, but on those the emphasis was on the
patterns of white that appeared where the carbon burned out again and left sparkling "shadows in
reverse." This bowl was entirely black and in some sense featureless and stark, but it was clearly his
favorite as he did not immediately pass it on, but offered it toward the Canadian and then drew it back.
The Canadian remarked that the only problem with my bowls, truly, was that they were somewhat too
narrow in the bottom, in many cases, to accommodate the chasen, or tea-wisk. This would be
considered a strong detriment to their usage in formal Chanoyu, but they would be fine for Usu-cha or
thin-tea, informal presentations. I replied with intended humility that bamboo tea-whisks were not often
found in Dallas, but that if they were I would certainly consider this an important consideration. Quickly,
the Canadian disappeared and reappeared with a boxed chasen, autographed it, handed it to Norio,
who applied his own calligraphy. It was not until later that I realized this was the common gift to guests
of the exhibition, but I was honored. I felt I was able to offer my own gift right then, very honored to give
Kurakazu the bowl he seemed to like, so I presented it to him several times and he flatly refused. It was,
again, not until later that I realized why he did this, in spite of the fact that he seemed interested to
receive it. By accepting it, it would give me an unfair "bragging right" concerning my status as a potter,
upset the balance among traditional potters who supplied their wares to this thin atmosphere of
Chanoyu masters. By the presentation of objects in the Tea-ceremony, Tea-masters give them a value
far beyond the "marketplace" of crafted objects in the capitalist tradition. That is to say, this turns such
objects magically from such things as are "found" to be of merit, to things suddenly valuable because
they are recognised. It is a very difficult, razor-edge of balance that turns from one to the other. It makes
my box of tea-bowls extremely valuable "white elephants." My last question sitting over the remains of
our baloney-sanwiches and the sense of something, but nothing, happening during our afternoon, was
whether their master would think my tea-bowls had any merit at all. The reply was "He would say, 'very
interesting'," both of the young "tea-masters" with that small smile I had seen in the Frontroom. "He
would say 'very _good_ chawan, tea bowls- for someone from _Texas_!"
I think it was that moment when I realized that no matter what quality of work I had presented, the
suitability, the Wabi and Sabi, the Shibui it represented would always be that of a Texas potter. I could
even emigrate and immerse myself in Japanese society, return to a previous life I always imagined as a
tiny element in a Hokusai landscape, but I would still not be a suitable element or provider of teabowls,
or anything else, for Chanoyu. I would forever remain outside the possibility of being correct or "proper"
in that context. Yet it was not because of unworthiness in any real sense, but just merely the incorrect fit
of traditions. The elemental qualities of Wabi, and Sabi still remain as a true basis of my aesthetic. Is it
mostly due to so much time spent in admiration of the virtues of Chanoyu, a previous life, a lost love? Or
is it something quite outside the ordinary, just out of reach, forever?
A Texas "Tea Ceremony"
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