Daisuke Kiyomizu knows pottery inside and out. His father was a ceramicist and his grandfather before that. He’s trained to know how long, exactly, to turn a lump of ordinary clay on the wheel in order to transform it into a perfectly shaped plate or bowl; he can glaze said plate or bowl into a glossy dish worthy of a Michelin star restaurant. But while Kiyomizu’s well-honed experience and eagle-eye attention to detail certainly serve him well, one could argue it’s his passion and out-of-the-box thinking that’s brought his Kyoto-based brand, Tokinoha Ceramic Studio, international success. Since launching in 2009 with his wife, Tomoe Kiyomizu, the company has grown from a tiny two-person operation mainly working with wholesale clients, to a beloved part of a city’s culture, with a full-time staff and clients around the world.
I first met Kiyomizu and his team one rainy October afternoon at his studio in Kyoto’s Yamashina Ward. The space is serene and airy, with meticulously displayed pottery for sale in the front and several working areas in back. His wife, also a professionally taught potter, takes me and the rest of my group down to a spacious white work room where we learn the art of kintsugi, which involves repairing cracked dishes with powdered gold—thus turning imperfections into the most beautiful part. Afterward, we are ushered upstairs to a “library” of cups, mugs, plates, and bowls representing the many custom dish patterns Kiyomizu has created for a who’s-who of top restaurants around the world—Quince in San Francisco, Jōji in New York City, Kuro Bar in Sydney—through his customized “Siro” program for culinary professionals. There is floor-to-ceiling shelving completely filled with color-coded place settings, and we spend a good 20 minutes marveling over the intricacies of each one. The whole establishment seems like a bustling, happy, well-oiled machine—it’s a well-calibrated medium between having a successful company and artistic fulfillment.
This was not always the case. At the start of his career, Kiyomizu tells me later via a Japanese translator on a video call, he struggled to make ends meet by following the traditional wholesale model of retail: artist makes a piece, artist sells a piece to a distributor, artist receives a meager fraction of the profits. So while demand for his work was increasing, he couldn’t keep up with the costs of production while also giving up a major cut of his sales. Breaking out on his own to sell direct-to-consumer, he says, was a big risk and terrifying proposition—but one that more than paid off in the long run, especially after landing his first big order for the opening of the buzzy Kyoto-based restaurant Obase, which was helmed by his wife’s former classmate Hideyuki Obase.
Collaborating with one famous chef led to collaborations with other famous chefs, Kiyomizu explains—and suddenly he had a lucrative enterprise on his hands to manage. But this, as many creative professionals will attest, brings about an age-old problem for artists: How does one stay true to their craft and vision and still bring in enough money to comfortably live? It’s a conundrum that hits close to home for ceramicists especially, as their field is famously unprofitable despite its enduring appeal over multiple centuries.
Kiyomizu becomes contemplative when I ask him about this and tells me that there’s an unmatchable warmth to dishes that have been made from clay. The beauty of the work enhances the experience of eating and, in turn, makes food taste more delicious. This truth, of course, is fully realized when enjoying a multicourse meal at a high end restaurant (a truffle-coated amuse bouche, no matter how decadent, simply would not be as appealing on a paper plate), but also in the simple moments of eating at home. It’s a lovely thought: Want to take your apple and peanut butter habit to a divine level? Consider placing the fruit on a lovingly wrought ceramic dish and mindfully cutting it into thin slices.
Indeed, says Kiyomizu, the pottery industry certainly isn’t going anywhere, but it does need to evolve with modern times. For one, he notes, ceramists should be thinking more about the well-being of their suppliers; super inexpensive clay belies that the people gathering it from the mountains aren’t being paid a livable wage. This means accepting that there’s room for both mass-produced pottery and special, custom-order establishments such as his. This ecosystem of diversity means that there are more jobs (and money) to spread around. It also reflects a need for everyone to pay a bit more along every step of the production chain: Much like anything in our temperamental economy (clothing, food, etc), goods that are too-cheap-too-be-true likely means a real person has suffered in the process of making them.
Of course, it also helps if you’re selling something that people feel good about shelling out for—and Kiyomizu is quite skilled at this. Besides simply creating items that are a pleasure to look at and a joy to use (think delightful little plates emblazoned with zodiac signs, colorful cups with thoughtful dents on each side to fit one’s hands, and shapely vases with a subtle ombré of glaze), he has turned Tokinoha into a luxurious product in and of itself. He offers exclusive experiences through hotel partnerships (my kintsugi experience was booked through a stay at Hotel the Mitsui), as well as a selection of private pottery lessons. The studio also boasts a playful café menu for special guests featuring a sort of gustatory trompe-l’œil offering. There are beverages, including a refreshing smoothie made to look like raw, mushy clay, plus a fizzy black soda served in a rock-like receptacle—both of which, I can report, were delicious despite my initial skepticism.
Meanwhile, the Tokinoha universe is rapidly growing. This January, Kiyomizu is releasing a book with photographer Masako Nakagawa, which will debut at the FOG Design+Art event in San Francisco. There’s plenty to be excited about—but when I ask what gets him out of bed and to work in the morning, he turns the conversation to my five-year-old daughter, who had wandered out of her bed and into our call. Maybe the cup I repaired in his studio via kintsugi might become my favorite, he muses. Then, in turn, it might become the favorite of my children. That, he says, is his eternal motivation: To create a product that will be passed down between generations and cherished forever—even if you have to fill in a few errant cracks with gold along the way.
