I suddenly remembered seeing the phrase, "Everyone was supposed to be born loved," somewhere a long time ago. I suspect the original wording was different and that there was more to it, but it was a sentiment that somehow stayed with me. It strikes me as a poignant phrase, one where joy and sorrow coexist. I feel that completing a piece of pottery is actually quite similar to the birth of a human being. You dig the clay out with great effort and pour your heart and soul into shaping it. Then, you let the finished pieces accumulate, and spend days exhausted, firing them in the kiln. I really do think it is remarkably like childbirth. Even when they are brought into the world with such effort, some break inside the kiln. Others, even when completed, may never find their way into anyone's hands, remaining buried in a corner of an exhibition space. When I used to visit the studio of the late Master Toko Masamune, I found it enjoyable to unearth those forgotten works. At those times, the master would say, "Wait just a moment," and wash the pieces right in front of me with a splash. Even a piece covered in dust would regain a brilliance as if it had just been fired moments before. The master would hold those pieces in his hands and tell me in great detail—as if it were only yesterday—about how "this used to be made with such-and-such clay" and "the charm of this particular technique." Back then, I was simply filled with surprise and curiosity, constantly asking him questions. Looking back now, I realize that he loved every single one of those pieces. No matter how slight the kiln effect, or how distorted the shape, they were all works he had nurtured with his own hands. One cannot create work that is loved by others if one cannot love the work oneself.
