A Bowl from Yamanaka
I finished a lacquer bowl in Yamanaka.
It began with a choice, three forms, each still raw, turned from zelkova wood. One more traditional, another more contemporary. I chose something in between: simple, balanced, resolved.
Then the lacquer. I chose the natural amber finish and was handed two pairs of gloves, layered one over the other, a reminder that urushi can irritate the skin, not unlike poison ivy. The process was direct: brush it on, then polish it back with cloth, until the surface began to emerge.
A week later, the bowl arrived by post, after further layers of lacquer, polishing, and drying. I’ve been enchanted by it ever since.
The bowl I helped finish in Yamanaka, now waiting to be used.
It fits the palm of my hand with a kind of inevitability. More curiously, it seems to fit the hands of everyone I show it to. The surface has a warm softness I still can’t quite explain, and a luster that gathers and holds the light. The grain appears in two tones, subtly shifting across the form.
And yet, for all its refinement, it still feels like something from the forest.
I find myself wondering about the long arc behind it. How did people millennia ago first learn to work with something so reactive? When did they realize that, once cured, it could withstand heat and moisture and protect against bacteria, making daily objects more durable?
What guided someone to shape it so thin, while keeping it strong? Who decided to reveal, rather than conceal, the grain even in the translucent red and black finishes I passed over?
I have many dishes, but few made of wood. I’ve always been slightly hesitant about lacquerware. I haven’t used this one yet.
But I will. For soup, of course. Maybe rice as well. Perhaps a rustic aemono, when shared with others.
The bowl feels timeless. I know, however, that through use it will change, acquiring a different kind of beauty.