There are certain words, in Japanese, that contain whole philosophies. They tend to be untranslatable. One such is Yō, or Haramu (the former is the Chinese-derived on-reading of the word, the latter the native Japanese kun-reading). It can mean “conception” – as of a baby in its mother’s belly - but can also signify other types of swelling, as when a ship’s sails fill with wind, or a plant takes on moisture. More abstractly, the word can refer to the idea of consequence or implication: some new reality taking shape, right before our eyes.
This single word, then, contains so much that it is difficult to fully understand. At the same time, it is easy to see why Kōichiro Isezaki would have chosen it as the title for his most distinctive series of vessels. These are asymmetric sculptural forms which fold in on themselves, sometimes gently, almost to the point of inward collapse. They twist and sway in a slow dance, somewhat calling to mind the elegant tomb figures of the T’ang Dynasty, but with a more primordial sense of embodiment. They are as varied as people are. Some are squat, others elongated. Some he encloses in saggars during the firing, leaving them pale-skinned with just a flashing of red. Others, especially those positioned near the kiln’s firebox, are completely saturated in dark ashfall glaze.
From a technical point of view, the Yō series showcases Isezaki’s complete mastery of the Bizen ceramic tradition. He works in a studio in Imbe, Okayama Prefecture, which was also used by his father Jun (designated a Preserver of Important Intangible Cultural Property, or “Living National Treasure”). The workshop has three anagama kilns of different lengths – five, ten, and fifteen meters – and different slopes, each of which produces its own particular effects due to its unique shape and the speed of heat’s passage. The largest of these kilns requires twelve days and some 7500 pieces of akamatsu (red pine) wood to fire. This duration and intensity seems to infuse the objects with a lasting sense of heat and energy; of all ceramic types, none embody the raw force of transmutation more than Bizen yaki.
Additional marking is achieved using the hidasuki technique, in which pounded rice straw (using a varietal grown for sake, not for eating) is wrapped or placed against the pot. As it burns away in the kiln, it produces a vivid red scorch on the clay surface. Isezaki is especially skilled with this technique, using it to wonderfully painterly effect. He often sets a pot on a cushion of straw to give it a fiery base, sometimes stretching the coloration further up the vessel’s side. In other pieces he employs the traditional Bizen technique of wrapping the object in a crisscross pattern of straw, setting up a dynamic counterpoint to the rhythms of the pot itself.
And what rhythms they are. Isezaki has a broad range of typologies – chawan (teabowls) of angular, chamfered or rounded shape; stately ridged hanaire (flower vases); torqued mizusashi (water jars) – and he infuses each of them with unique character in every piece. The present exhibition at Ippodo Gallery features a new idea: closed-off hemispherical bowls and taller globular vases, corrugated with thick ribs across their tops.
Each of these pieces has a pronounced rift in it, a motif more geological than artisanal, which admits a partial view into its dark interior. One of the great pleasures of the show is its elastic treatment of the established Bizen repertoire. In some pieces he stays close to his roots, while in others he plows new ground. He has not always stayed close to home – he spent two influential years in the Hudson Valley studio of Jeff Shapiro, a former apprentice of Jun Isezaki and one of America’s great exponents of woodfired ceramics, who encouraged Kōichiro to find his own individual voice. Today, he clearly regards tradition and innovation as completely compatible: not an opposition, but a spectrum to be explored.
All this makes for an extremely rich backdrop, but there is no doubt that the Yō series takes center stage. To make these pieces, Isezaki uses a sticky clay sourced from rice paddies – a material with a strong personality, as he says, “easy-going and carefree” – which allows him to realize soft, voluminous contours. It is worth noting that he once studied wood carving, a subtractive technique that lends itself well to shaping irregular volumes. The influence of that other medium may possibly be felt in the taut yet unpredictable contours of these vessels. They combine the subtle contrapposto of classical sculpture with the imaginative abstraction of a Brancusi or a Henry Moore. Unquestionably, however, these forms evolve from Isezaki’s profound understanding of ceramics, a medium in which the conversation between interior and exterior is always vital. “Which decides the form, the inside or outside?,” Isezaki is sometimes asked, to which he responds: “well, both come simultaneously.” As he twists and folds the pliant clay, it seems to quicken into something like sentience; the vessel is like an infant in the first moment of consciousness, drawing in a first breath.
The title of the series, then, is well chosen. These works do materialize the idea of “conception,” both in the sense of a new idea and a newborn life. Like other phenomena associated with the word Yō – those billowing sails and unfurling leaves – these objects pulse with the generative energies of nature. The elements of earth, water, and fire course through his creations: forms of potency so vast, so ancient, that they dwarf our humble human actions. The greatest ceramic artists – and Isezaki is certainly one of them – find new ways to channel these forces while also remaining respectful of them. It is a fine balance, as rigorously demanding as a ballet, as exploratory as avant garde choreography. Take up one of his vessels in your hands, and feel its surprising lightness. Feel yourself becoming its dance partner, as he has been. For poise, for strength, for sheer creativity, you will never find a more consummate performer than Kōichiro Isezaki.
– Glenn Adamson, 2025
