Art Creation Theory 13 "Bowl Matcha as Contemporary Art"

(Finished product) Since it is difficult to create a high base, I decided to try using Setoguro, which makes it easier to hide the bottom.

(Before completion) The patterns unique to 3D printers are beautiful.

(Finished product) The plump glazed sake cup is interesting.

(In progress) Stacking the clay like making string.

I once saw a video on the news of a giant 3D printer "spitting out" a house in just a few hours. The sight of everything from the exterior walls to the gaps between the pipes being formed as a single unit, simply by stacking layers of concrete, is a revolution in civil engineering for our time. However, even when using the same "printer" device, finishing a single teacup just the way you want it is many times more nerve-wracking and delicate work. Clay is a living thing.

The moment it is pushed out of the nozzle, it starts to dry, sagging under its own weight, trapping a small amount of air between the layers. Even if the shape appears to be perfect immediately after printing, distortions and cracks will mercilessly appear as it withstands the high temperatures of drying, bisque firing, and final firing. Whether it is on a potter's wheel or by hand, it is not easy to replace the process of a human fingertip feeling the clay on the spot and adjusting the moisture and pressure slightly with software and sensors. I gave in to the temptation to try making a tea bowl with a 3D printer and wondered if there was a good way to do it. I was originally interested in designing spaces in the world of CG. I was told that a 3DCG software called Houdini was the best. It allows you to experience "a parametrically generated form fitting right in your hand."

First, I introduced a printer with a clay extruder (paste extruder) and used Houdini to mathematically express the curves of the tea bowl. I smoothly connected the radius and height from the foot to the body, and from the body to the rim with splines, and then added gentle undulations to the outer surface of the body. In the context of the tea ceremony, the intention was to maintain a soft volume that sinks into the palm of the hand, like the so-called "Raku tea bowl," while retaining a rhythm that is unique to digital. However, the curved surface that looked beautiful on the rendering screen became slightly stepped when actually printed. I lowered the layer height by 1 mm, adjusted the nozzle temperature and the moisture content of the clay, and loosened the feeder gear so as not to put too much pressure on the filament. If you stand one side up, another will be dented, and if you fix one side, another will pull strings. In the end, I ended up staring at the printer for half a day to print in 30 minutes. Through technology, I was reminded once again why pottery is called "the art of the four elements that deal with earth, fire, water, and air."

However, the moment I picked up the completed prototype tea bowl, I made a discovery. Although it looks voluminous, it is surprisingly light when I picked it up. Since a 3D printer can easily incorporate a hollow structure, I made the inside honeycomb-shaped and reduced the outer wall to 3 mm. It is lighter than the thin bowls made on a potter's wheel or the porcelain made with a plaster mold. In the world of tea utensils, it is often said that "a bowl that feels lighter than it looks is a good product," and the bowl made by the printer is exactly as light as it looks. Some people may be surprised, but this "uncomfortable lightness" is the message of contemporary art. When I hold it in my hand and place the rim on my lips, the printed layer touches my tongue slightly. It can be said that the flavor of the potter's wheel marks is artificially reproduced, or that the layering marks are simply left behind. Contemporary art is interesting because it can be interpreted either way. I deliberately kept the glaze thin and intentionally left traces of the layering. It is possible to completely polish the image and remove all traces of layers, but I felt that in that moment, the "accumulated time" that is unique to digital would disappear.

The tea ceremony is a mysterious culture. Since matcha was introduced to Zen temples at the end of the Kamakura period, the act of "pouring hot water into powdered tea, whisking it with a tea whisk, and drinking it" has remained almost unchanged. Yet, countless fields, from teahouse architecture, flowers, incense, sweets, hanging scrolls, and tea bowls, are integrated and continue to be renewed with each era, making it the pinnacle of Japanese culture. In this modern age where technological progress is accelerating and changing our daily lives, the tea ceremony deliberately slows down and minimizes movements, reversing the quality of time. When an "accelerator" such as a 3D printer is brought into the mix, the time of culture and the time of technology intertwine, creating a mysterious layer. However, no matter how interesting a form is created, it cannot be evaluated as a tea bowl until hot water is poured into it and matcha is made. I tried having morning tea with a printed tea bowl I made myself. When I poured hot water into it, the heat was immediately transferred to my fingers due to the thin outer wall, and combined with its lightness, it was unsteady in my hand. However, as I wield the tea whisk, my fingertips gradually become accustomed to the heat of the bowl, and I begin to grasp the location of the center of gravity. The rim is rounded but has sharp edges, and it feels smooth on the lips. There are surprisingly few functional flaws, and I felt the freedom of the tea ceremony in "accepting the feeling of a foreign object." Just as the traditional Raku tea bowl visualizes the process of "kneading by hand," the printed tea bowl visualizes "digital layering."

This makes me want to do something else. Now that I've made a tea bowl, I want to build a teahouse with a 3D printer. There are already many cases overseas where small houses and pavilions with curved walls are made by concrete printing. What if a two-tatami room with a nijiriguchi (a small entrance to a teahouse) could be molded as a single unit with a printer? The low nijiriguchi (a small entrance to a teahouse) is a symbol of equality, as both samurai and townspeople bow their heads to enter, but the opening can be parametrically deformed to control the way light enters, and insulation can be sandwiched between the thickness of the walls. The position of the hearth, the height of the ceiling, and even the diagonal lattice of the nijiriguchi (a small entrance to a teahouse) can be mathematically calculated, and the printer can spit out a "future wabi teahouse" overnight. Of course, there is criticism. Can a cold-hearted machine reproduce the "wabi" that resides in the slight distortions, dents, and fluctuations of handprints? There is a view that individuality is exuded in the mold, but when every curvature is quantified, isn't individuality actually hidden? However, I believe that if we reinterpret wabi-sabi not as "imperfection" but as "inevitable change with time and materials," even a printer can contain wabi. The traces of the layers change shade subtly when exposed to light, and the shrinkage of the glaze that occurs during firing creates a fortuitous scene. Even if the design is done digitally, the pottery is ultimately left to the chaos of fire. There, changes beyond human intervention lurk, and the seeds of wabi dwell.

And above all, the essence of the tea ceremony is "here and now, people facing each other." Whether it is a tea bowl made with a 3D printer or a Karatsu tea bowl with a century of handprints, the series of actions of facing the other person in the tea room, making tea, turning the bowl, and exchanging greetings is the same. Through these actions, the bowl comes to life for the first time, and the differences in materials and techniques acquire meaning. I put the prototype printed tea bowl back on the shelf and look at it again. Because of its lightweight hollow structure, when I tap the wall with my fingers, it makes a dry sound that is more like a shell-structured instrument than pottery. When I drop the deep green of matcha into it and white bubbles rise, the artificial layered pattern and the natural liquid resonate with each other, creating an unexpected harmony. By not hiding the intervention of technology, but rather bringing it to the foreground, the tea ceremony is revived as a "vessel that embraces change."

3D printers shake up the common sense that pottery is delicate handwork, but they cannot completely replace it. In front of the nozzle, one must have "physical imagination" to read the drying of the clay, calculate the shrinkage after firing, and imagine the final feel. As long as one has that imagination, the printer and the potter's wheel are merely tools, and the main role remains the human being. It is ironic that the more technology advances, the more the value of the memory of the hand and the physical senses becomes prominent, but it is this duality that makes tea bowls interesting as contemporary art.

The next goal is the first tea ceremony in the printed tea room. With a wall surface resembling tree rings made of layers of concrete as a backdrop, I will combine printed tea bowls and use hand-split black charcoal. It is in this place where digital and analogue collide that the future of tea ceremony will surely emerge.