Takuro Kuwata’s practice is rooted in deep knowledge of ceramic tradition, but it resists staying still. In recent years, his work has traced a cyclical path—moving from the handheld tea bowl to monumental forms and back again—questioning repetition, scale, and what it means for an object to remain alive once its function disappears. Working across ceramics and bronze, Kuwata is less interested in formal contrast than in what each material allows: What clay can do that bronze cannot, and what new expressions emerge when that relationship is reversed.
Based in Gifu’s Mino region, an area shaped for centuries by tea culture and ceramic production, Kuwata approaches tradition not as something to preserve intact, but as a mindset—one shaped by responsiveness to materials, time, and context. In this conversation, he discusses negotiating control and unpredictability, why he rarely discards work, and how observation, patience, and material dialogue guide both his studio rhythm and his evolving forms.
Takuro Kuwata Reimagines the Limits of Ceramics
Photo by Genevieve Hanson, courtesy of the artist and Salon 94 ©Takuro Kuwata. 1
Photo by Genevieve Hanson, courtesy of the artist and Salon 94 ©Takuro Kuwata.
WHITEWALL: Your recent works continue to push scale, surface, and color in new directions. What has been driving your latest body of work, and what questions are you trying to answer right now?
TAKURO KUWATA: Recently, I’ve been tracing the evolution of my approach. In traditional craft-based ceramics, being a craftsman means making many vessels—that’s the starting point. For me, it began with exploring in depth the shape of the tea bowls. At some point, I questioned this idea of repetitive production, and the tea bowl became increasingly abstract and lost its functionality or grew so large that it was not usable. It became a portrait of a tea bowl. And then I would return to the handheld tea bowl, finding new ways of expression within its shape. That’s been a consistent thread in my practice.
I also became interested in translating expressions from very small objects into something monumental, but in a different way. That’s when I turned to bronze. Working in both ceramics and bronze, I kept searching for forms and expressions: What could exist in bronze that cannot in clay, and vice versa.
The chawan grew into such a monumental bronze shape that it became a tree-like form, and led me to create peaches. The resulting work is now permanently installed outside a concert hall in Okayama. And after this big project, I went back to the shape of the handheld chawan, which also grew branches and now exists in bronze as well.
WW: Many people encounter your work first through its visual intensity. At this stage in your career, what do you want viewers to notice beyond the initial impact?
TK: Yes, the bright colors and unexpected combinations are deliberate—I want people to stop and look. I don’t want the work to be passed by. But beyond that initial impact, I’m exploring something deeper. Functional ceramics have a particular kind of aliveness—they’re meant to be used, handled, to serve the social rituals of feeding and gathering. There’s a spirit in that. What interests me now is whether that spirit can translate into sculpture. Can an object that has no function still carry that same sense of vitality? Does the viewer feel it, even when they can’t use it? That’s what I’m trying to understand through the work.
“I’m trying to understand the mindset: What were they attempting to do within their own time?”
-Takuro Kuwata.
WW: You work within a long history of Japanese ceramics, particularly tea culture. How do you decide which traditions to engage with and which to push against?
TK: I’m drawn to objects made in specific historical periods within tea culture—I really love looking at them. But I don’t want to simply replicate what was made in the past. What interests me is understanding the context: Why did people make objects this way at that particular moment? I study the techniques and observe historical works, and those inform my practice. But more than the forms themselves, I’m trying to understand the mindset: What were they attempting to do within their own time?
I believe artists in the past were finding expressions within the materials and possibilities available to them—responding to their own version of modernity. That’s what I’m doing now: working with the materials and context of today, from my own perspective, while being influenced by the people and ideas around me. So for me, the past and present aren’t separate. I’m translating that same investigative attitude into contemporary terms.
What Clay Can Do
Photo by Genevieve Hanson, courtesy of the artist and Salon 94 ©Takuro Kuwata. 2
WW: Your surfaces often appear unpredictable—cracked, ruptured, layered, or seemingly unstable. How much of that outcome is planned before firing, and how much is discovered in the kiln?
TK: It’s not accidental. I’m working from experience—I know what materials can do. But if I control everything too tightly and it all turns out exactly as expected, it’s not interesting. So I leave room for the material to express itself. I’m not guessing blindly, but I’m also not locking everything down. It’s like a conversation, or a relationship with people—nobody likes being forced into something. You negotiate with the material and find a path together.
When you understand a material’s nature, you can anticipate how it might react. Then something slightly unexpected happens—or sometimes something even more surprising. That’s the exciting part. Through that exchange, something appears that I couldn’t have imagined on my own. You can’t force that kind of discovery. It takes time.
WW: When something goes wrong in the process, how do you decide whether it’s a failure or a direction worth following?
TK: I try not to decide too quickly. Even if I don’t understand something in the moment, I don’t label it as a failure right away. It might just mean I don’t yet have the ability to see what’s valuable about it. For that reason, I almost never discard fired pieces. My understanding changes over time—what I couldn’t recognize before might reveal itself later. I want to leave that possibility open.
WW: Can you walk us through how a piece typically begins for you—does it start with a drawing, a form, a material test, or something else?
TK: It depends on the piece. Sometimes, if I can already imagine the outcome, I’ll make drawings or notes beforehand. But when I’m starting something new, I take more time. I touch the materials, spend time with them, and let the form emerge through that process. That’s usually how it begins.
“Real tradition is a process where something new is born in response to the needs of each era.”
-Takuro Kuwata.
WW: You’ve spoken about learning deeply from traditional techniques before moving beyond them. How has technical mastery changed the way you experiment today?
TK: I think you have to go through traditional training—you can’t skip it. But tradition isn’t about repeating the same thing forever without deviation. Real tradition is a process where something new is born in response to the needs of each era. There’s an old saying: “There’s no hesitation in the brush.” When you paint or write calligraphy, normally you hesitate—but at a certain point, people say the material itself is telling you where to paint.
That only happens when you truly understand the material. If you don’t know its nature, you end up working against it. But once you understand a material’s characteristics—how to bring them out, what it wants to do—the choices start to become obvious on their own. That’s where I am now. The work itself shows me the next path. I often end up making things I never imagined, and those results become the next question.
Inside the Studio
Photo of Takuro Kuwata, photo by Kazuya Sudo
Photo by Genevieve Hanson, courtesy of the artist and Salon 94 ©Takuro Kuwata. 2
WW: Your studio is in Gifu, a region known for ceramic production. How does working in that environment shape your daily practice and access to materials?
TK: Gifu, particularly the Mino region, has been a major center of ceramic production since the medieval period—it’s where styles like Oribe and Shino ware developed during the Momoyama period in the 16th century. The area became deeply connected to tea culture, and that legacy continues today. Even though times have changed, ceramic production is still very active here. Mass production existed back then, too, just in different forms. The systems have evolved, but sometimes the atmosphere of the town itself feels unchanged.
What’s important to me is feeling that historical continuity. In the past, there probably wasn’t even a term like “ceramic artist” as we use it now—people were simply making things for their time. That connection matters to me. On a practical level, there’s an abundance of materials, and I can sense new technologies emerging nearby. Being able to feel those developments up close, knowing that various things are constantly happening around you, that has a huge impact on my work.
WW: What does a typical day in the studio look like for you, from the moment you arrive to when you stop working?
TK: It changes constantly. Sometimes I arrive knowing exactly what I’m doing and start working with clay right away. Other times, if I fired work the day before, I begin by checking the kiln.
If there’s nothing specific planned, I walk around the studio and observe. While doing that, ideas come up—I notice things I hadn’t seen before. My thinking shifts day by day. A piece might sit for months with only its form decided, no color. Then, suddenly, one day I know: “This is the color.”
That’s why I keep everything visible—unfinished works, tests, everything. When something clicks, I respond to it.
WW: How do you balance repetition and routine with the need to keep your practice evolving and surprising yourself?
TK: I don’t really have much routine. Once I commit to something, that becomes the routine temporarily. But if nothing’s pressing, I’ll do something else—meet people, walk around the studio, and observe. I’m usually just trying to find the next thing.
