陶土本身就是泥土，泥土從來沒有平平順順，精緻是一種技術，但追求貼近泥土原貌的作品又可不可以呢？最近研讀李歐納．科仁著的《重返Wabi-Sabi：給日式生活愛好者的美學思考》，又再次掉進Wabi-Sabi的思緒，剛好最近重拾捏陶，正好親身領悟。
「這盤子很粗糙，邊緣摸起來粗粗的，而且這種白色很容易染上食物的顏色。」室友拿起盤子左看右看。
製作陶器的工序繁複，至少需要花上三、四天的時間，從練土、捏土、還有素燒、上釉、窯燒，每一道工序完成，都需要時間，等待、風乾，直到可以進行下一道工序，像極「呼吸」。幾年前我才知道一個呼吸的循環，是吸、止息、呼、止息，那「止息」非常重要，不管是開始或終結一個循環，都是一種連結。
「連結是內外、是循環，生生不息。唯有連結，能量才能真實地體驗到永恒。」
「永恒的現在」也是書中，讓我非常沉迷的一句話，我想「是不是只要一直活在當下，即無限？」不知道，但每個人都應該思考。在製作陶器的時候，如果不滿意，只要還沒有上釉都可以打破重來，素坯加水，加入時間、空氣，它又會變回陶泥，又可以重新塑形，那曾經存在的器物，被打破的一刻，也同時重生。「不需捨不得，打破不想要的陶，也是另一種珍惜。」
初學陶藝時，那些等待都會讓人焦慮，在持續每星期練習，一、兩年之後，等待時的呼吸也變得平穩，不只跟工具建立起伙伴的關係，在看陶土成為真正的作品時，似乎也不再執著於那些工整和技法，美學不能單靠感覺來闡述。
「確實可以加入透明釉，讓邊緣變得平順，但這白色釉本是平光，加上透明釉後會變得亮亮的，我想要自然一點、不反光的白。」為作品作解釋不是我擅長的事，但製作陶器時，一定有不少考慮：設計、上色、怎樣使用。若在製作時的想像能扼要地描述，就能透過陶器表達作者對世界的價值觀。「物品本身不可能蘊含目的， 物品是依照人的想法而造。」《重返Wabi-Sabi：給日式生活愛好者的美學思考》一書這樣寫到。我正在學習在商業計算跟創作中平衡，兩者絕非對立，只要比例不同，產生的化學作用就不一樣了。
所以，我又開始賣陶器了，就在我家的地舖。我住在二樓，台灣人習慣將地下那一層稱為一樓，「地下」對他們來說就是真真正正的「地板」，之前沒有好好使用的一樓，現在成了周末小店，契機也是因為在台南再次學習陶器，終於能跟同學合力當上店長。
在工作室製作陶器，相互交流，在單純的指導及研究環境下，我們很習慣脫去社會大眾對美學的比較，然而現在又把作品帶到商業世界裡販售，至此這個過程的流動，竟沒有一點糾結，反而心裡更踏實又自在，我喜歡經過的人們沒有把陶器看成藝術品，同時也能理解那是獨一無二的手工製作，店面沒有被限制成展覽場地，反而是新型態的閒適之所，人跟貓自由進出，想坐便坐，少了拘謹。人們當然會在心裡評頭品足我們的作品，但現在看來把陶器帶到市場上，學習和可體驗的事好像越來越多，就像陶土慢慢地教我們生活的止息及循環，生活慢慢地變得更有趣。
Ceramic clay is a natural soil that can hardly be considered fine and smooth in texture. While its refinement requires skill and technique, can we produce pieces and work that are closest to its original form? Lately, I am reading Wabi-Sabi: Further Thoughts by Leonard Koren, and once again, I am mesmerized by the aesthetics and views of wabi-sabi. As I’ve recently rekindled my interest in ceramics, it gives me the perfect opportunity to understand the true meaning of wabi-sabi.
“This plate is so rough. The edges feel so raw, and its white color makes it easily stained by food,” said my roommate as she carefully examined the plate.
Making ceramics is a complicated process; from the preparation and kneading of clay to glazing and firing, it takes at least three to four days to complete the whole process. Time is needed to complete each and every step. Waiting and drying, until the work is ready for the next step. It’s very similar to breathing—of which I only came to understand in recent years involves the cycle of breathing in, resting, breathing out, and resting. Resting is very important because, whether it starts or ends a breathing cycle, it keeps every breath connected.
“Connection is about both inside and out. It’s a cycle. And it’s perpetual. It’s only through connection that energy can truly be eternal.”
I am deeply drawn to the idea of “eternal now” that is mentioned in the book. It makes me wonder if living in the present means infinity. I don’t know the answer to my own question, but I think everyone should probably think about it. When making ceramics, if you are not happy with your work, as long as it is not glazed, you can always break it, add water, time, and air. It will turn into clay and you can start molding once again. The work that once existed is broken yet reborn at the same time. “Don’t feel sad to let go. Breaking the work you don’t want is another way of showing how much you cherish it.”
When I first started making ceramics, I got anxious easily by all the waiting. As I continued to practice every week for a year or two, my breathing became much slower and relaxed even as I was waiting. I also managed to build a connection with my tools, and no longer stress about perfection and technique when I look at the final products. Aesthetics are way more than just feeling and perception.
“Sure I can put on some transparent glaze to smooth the edges, but this white glaze is plain itself and adding a transparent glaze would make the plate shiny. I want a more natural and non-reflective white.” I am not good at talking about my work. There are so many things to consider when making ceramics—design, coloring, and usage. Being able to precisely describe the ideas and thoughts behind the creative process allows the artists to express their world views through their work. Quoted from Wabi-Sabi: Further Thoughts, “There is no purpose lying within an object itself; it’s the humans who give it meaning.” I’m learning how to strike a balance between business and creativity. The two are by no means against each other; stress on either one will bring about very different results.
So, here I am. I started selling ceramics again on the first floor of my house. I live on the second floor. Taiwanese people have the habit of calling the ground floor the “first floor”. For them, “ground floor” literally means the real ground. Anyway, the first floor, which was not often used before, has now become a shop that opens every weekend; thanks to picking up pottery once again in Tainan, I finally got the experience of being a shop manager together with my classmate.
In the studio, we make ceramics together. We also learn and research together and guide and exchange ideas with each other. It’s an environment that makes us forget about the aesthetics defined by society. Though now that I’ve brought my work into the commercial world, I feel more at ease. I like that the people who visit my shop don’t look at my work as art; though they know each item is handmade and unique. And the storefront is not set up as an exhibition venue; it’s a new form of leisure space where people, and even cats, can visit freely and sit and leave at their own pace. Bringing our work to the commercial world of course attracts comments and judgment from people, but at the same time it opens up more room for us to learn, experiment, and experience. With every pause in the perpetual cycle of life, I feel that life is getting more and more fun.
